A LONELY IMPULSE By Richard L. De Shon

“Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds; ...”
William Butler Yeats,
“An Irish Airman Foresees His Death”

To all the unpublished,
who also indulge in this,
a lonely impulse.

CHAPTER ONE
Gallup, New Mexico can best be described, I think, as the insult added to the injury done by
the White Man to the Indian. When I drove into town, it was about eight o'clock in the evening.
What I saw as I left Interstate 40 and turned onto old Route 66 did nothing to change my opinion of
the place.
Painfully bright neon signs touted the benefits of scores of cheap motels and fast food
franchises, luring travelers with promises never kept.
I was tired. Twelve hours on the road will do that to you. So will the exasperating legal
experience known as divorce. I was still bearing the ill effects from both as, alone, I pulled the
Toyota 4-Runner into the entryway of the Traveler's-Ease Motor Lodge. It seemed as though I'd
been alone all my life. Linda and I were married for thirteen years, but the over-riding sense of
alone-ness never left me. I guess that, in the truest sense, the two of us were never really together.
Everything I owned was in the car with me. In addition to my clothes, I had about seven
hundred dollars in cash. I also had a certified check for sixty-eight thousand dollars in an envelope
in my upper right-hand coat pocket. The check was the remainder of my share of the proceeds from
the sale of the house that my ex-wife and I had lived in for six years before we split up. The fourwheeler
I was driving, and a small amount of money that I'd left in my bank account until I got
settled, accounted for the rest of my total financial worth. It didn't seem like much to show for
twenty years of work and thirteen years of marriage, but I'd known a number of divorced men who
were in a lot worse shape. Oh, yeah. I also had my collection of David Sanborn cassette tapes.
After the divorce was final, I had decided that Los Angeles and I had had enough of each
other. I quit my job, packed my bags, and left to try starting a new life elsewhere. Elsewhere, in this

case, happens to be Colorado Springs, Colorado. Why there? Why not? It was new, fresh, and I
didn't know anyone who lived there. It was just what I was looking for.
What was going to happen once I got there, I didn't know, but the rest of my life had been
so stable, so predictable, so boring, that I felt it was time to take a chance.
Risky? Absolutely. Impetuous? No way! I'd had an idea in the back of my mind for years
and if I didn't do it now, I had the feeling that I never would. When better to realize your dreams
than when you're forty and you've got a big check in your pocket?
After finding a parking place, I got my overnight bag out of the back of the car, and went to
check on a room for the night.
The Indian girl behind the counter looked up when the bell on the door tinkled. She smiled,
revealing a cute pair of dimples in a round face. What I could see of her, that the counter didn't
hide, looked delightfully round as well.
“May I help you?” she asked.
Avoiding the obvious remark, I responded, “I need a single room for the night, preferably
upstairs on the side away from the highway. It's been a long day, and I'd like to avoid as much
noise as possible.”
“Certainly, sir. Smoking, or non-smoking?”
“Non-, please.”
“If you'll fill out this form, I'll get your key.”
When I handed back the form to her, she looked at it and frowned.
“What's wrong?” I asked.
“You didn't write in your complete name.” She pointed to the registration card. “Here. It
just says, ‘Ryan James’. ‘Ryan James...,’ what?”

I smiled, patiently. “That's it. Just Ryan James.”
“Don't you like your last name?”
“No, you don't understand,” I explained. “My name is Ryan James. Well, actually it's Ryan
Andrew James. See?” I showed her my driver's license.
She took my money, issued me a key, and then favored me with another of those adorable,
dimply smiles.
“That’s Room 275. You go up the outside staircase and turn left at the top. It’s about a
third of the way down the hall, on the right.”
As I picked up my bag and turned to go, she said, “Oh, Mr. James?”
“Yes?”
“If you need anything, my name is Tina. I'm here all night.”
I picked up my heart, where it had melted down into my shoes, and walked out,
entertaining fantasies of young Indian women that were probably best left to young Indian men.
I found my room easily. A brief examination confirmed my suspicions. Hard bed. Harder
water. Just another restful night.
When I pulled into the parking lot earlier, I had noticed a hamburger joint next door. Operating on
the theory that one fast food place is as bad as another, I went out to eat. Half an hour later, I
decided not to test that particular theory again. I wondered how that hard bed upstairs was going to
interact with the gas and acid my system was already busily creating.
As I walked back to the motel in the cool air of a late spring evening, I decided to doublecheck
as to whether I had locked all the doors on my car. After all, I'd heard that all Indians were
absolutely ‘nutso’ about David Sanborn.
I had parked the 4-Runner in a spot where the streetlights didn't completely penetrate the
surrounding darkness. As I approached the car, a movement to my right caught my attention. The
door to a large, white, late model sedan opened, and a man got out. I couldn't see his face in the
dark. I just got an impression that his attention was focused on me.
I had just noticed that the white car had California plates when I felt the blow land behind
my left ear. As I started to fall, someone hit me another blow in the ribs on the same side. It felt like
a baseball bat or a tire iron.
As the pounding in my head was increasing, and the lights were going out, I heard a voice
say, “That was fun, but we might as well make some money while we’re at it. Check his pockets.”
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CHAPTER TWO
I opened my eyes to a blinding light. The trouble was, the light wasn’t coming from a
street-lamp. It was coming from inside my head. Slowly, the light dimmed, and the world as I
knew it stopped orbiting crazily around me. Eventually, my vision returned to semi-normal.
I was laying on my back, looking up someone's dress. I guess it was a sign of how
confused I was that it took me several seconds to realize that, whoever it was, she wasn’t wearing
underwear. I guess it was also a sign of how rotten I felt, that realizing that fact didn’t make me
feel any better.
“Mr. James, are you alright?” Ah,... Tina ( I wasn’t that bad off!).
“Just peachy,” I groaned.
Tina knelt down beside me and placed the palm of her left hand on my forehead, saying,
“What happened to you?”
I looked at her through one eye and answered, “The geometric patterns in the asphalt
were so intriguing, I just had to get a closer look”.
Her expression may have signaled disbelief. I’m not certain.
“No, really. Who did this to you?”
“I didn’t get a very good look at them,” I sighed. “Can you help me back to my room? I
think I might like to stay there for an eon or so.”
“Of course, Mr. James, but...”
“At this point, I think you’re entitled to call me by my first name. It’s Ryan, remember?”
“Okay, uh..., Ryan. As I was going to say, don’t you think we should get you a doctor
and call the Sheriff?”
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“First things first. Let’s get me to my room and then we can decide what else needs to be
done.”
She got her arms under mine and helped me to sit up. After a couple of minutes spent
just sitting there, I allowed her to help me to stand up. I promptly threw up all my hamburger and
french fries. Probably just as well. That stuff can kill you.
Upstairs, I gave Tina my key and she opened the door and helped me in. I went straight
to the bathroom to splash some water on my face.
Tina said, “I’m going to call you a doctor, right now.”
“No. No doctors!”
“Why not?"
“I don’t like doctors; or dentists, for that matter. I’ve still got some loose bone fragments
rattling around in my knee, all because I let some damn doctor talk me into something.”
“Well then, at least let me try to help you.” Tina wet a washcloth and dabbed at the back of
my head.”
“Ow! Goddammit, that hurts!” I glared at her.
“I’m sorry.” She looked like she was going to cry.
I sighed, then patted her on the cheek. “It’s okay, kiddo. I'm not mad at you. I’ve just
got a monster headache and I’m feeling grumpy.” I felt guilty, like I’d just shot Smokey the Bear.
“Some big, macho man, eh? Yelling at a little girl. I’m sorry. It wasn’t your fault,” I said.
“I’m not a little girl! I’m nineteen!” She threw the wet washcloth into the sink and
glared at me.
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I sighed, put my hands on her shoulders and said, “That wasn’t an insult, Tina.” I cupped
my hand under her chin, forcing her to look at me. “The fact of the matter is that you’re a very
beautiful young lady, and I’m more than twice your age.”
“Don’t you like me?” she asked, coyly.
“I like you very much.” The truth was that I was having a hard time not embarrassing
myself, as close as we were to each other.
“You know, Ryan, nobody much ever comes in here this time of night. I could stay here with you
for a while.”
I tried not to gulp. “No, Tina. I think you were right a few minutes ago.”
She gave me the dimples again, leaned against me and asked, “How’s that?”
“Um..., I mean about calling the Sheriff.” Thinking quickly, “I didn’t pay for the use of the
telephone, so I can’t call from here. Do you think you could go downstairs and call them for me?
Yes, I think I need a cop right now.”
She leaned back and looked up at me again, saying, “I sure hope you’re not trying to get
rid of me. I’ll go and make that call, but I’ll be back again, later.”
Tina pulled my head down to her level and kissed me in a most unsisterly fashion. At least,
my sister never slipped me her tongue. Then she walked out the door in a way that reminded me
of what I’d seen earlier, looking up from the pavement. I locked the door.
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CHAPTER THREE
I looked in the mirror. The face staring back at me was ghastly. Pale face, eyes squinting in
the glare of the overhead light fixture, and my teeth locked in a grimace, the overall picture
wasn’t too pretty.
I hadn’t really bled all that much because I’d been wrong about what they hit me with.
Whoever ‘they’ were, they had hard hands and feet.
I had an egg-sized lump behind my ear, but what really hurt was where I’d been kicked in
the ribs. I’d probably been falling away from the blow, or it would have been worse. As it was, if I
didn’t inhale very slowly and carefully, the pain was bad enough to make me start to ‘gray out’.
In a few minutes, Tina came back to tell me that someone from the Sheriff’s Department
was on the way over to take a report. After she helped me out of my jacket and tried to coax me
into calling a doctor one more time, I managed to persuade her that she could help me more by
waiting at the front desk for the deputy, than by showering me with her affections. One hour
with that hot-blooded little teenage Pocahontas would have been more hazardous to my health
than five thugs with tire irons.
Suddenly, I had a horrible thought and grabbed for my back pocket where I kept my wallet.
It was gone. Well, that was no great surprise. When an even worse idea came to mind, I
checked my coat, and was relieved to find that the cashier’s check was still there. My
attackers had probably been in too great a hurry to get away, or had heard Tina come out of the
door of the motel. I found out later that what had happened was that Tina had come outside just in
time to see several men get into the white car I had seen, and drive away at a high rate of speed.
It was a good thing that they hadn’t realized who was coming out to check out a suspicious
noise, or Tina could have been in even worse shape than I was.
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There was a knock on the door. Tina came in, followed by a County Deputy Sheriff. He
was a young Latino, about twenty-five years old, with a Pancho Villa style mustache. His
uniform fit his short, trim frame as if it had been tailored. When he spoke, he sounded more
‘gringo’ than I do.
“Mr. James? Miss Greyfox states that you were attacked outside, in the parking lot, earlier
this evening.”
“That’s right.”
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think so.”
He pulled a small notepad out of his shirt pocket. “I need to get some information for my
report. What do you do, Mr. James?”
“I’m a writer. Or, trying to be,” I said.
“So, are you employed at this time?” he asked, while writing on his notepad.
“No,” I answered. “I’m on my way to Colorado to do some research for a book I hope to
write.”
“Will you be coming back this way?”
“No. I’m planning to remain in Colorado Springs.”
“Uh-huh,” he responded. “What’s the book about?”
“Just a history of the area, especially some of the old mining towns,” I answered. “Why? Is
it important?”
“No. Just curious.” He smiled benignly. “We don’t see all that many writers out here.”
“Oh.”
“Okay,” he said. “Now, tell me. What do you remember about this incident?”
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I started to scratch my head, then winced, having forgotten the drubbing it had taken. “Not
much, I’m afraid. I just caught a glimpse of a white car, and then the shadow of a man stepping
out of it. The next thing I remember, Deputy...?”
“Please, forgive my lack of manners. I’m Sheriff’s Deputy Manuel Fuentes.”
“That’s okay, officer. I’m not at my best right now either. As I was saying, the next thing I
remember, I was spitting asphalt out from between my teeth.”
Fuentes grinned. “Well, to tell you the truth, those guys are probably out of the state by
now. Gallup is only about twenty miles from the Arizona border, and Miss Greyfox says they were
headed west when they left. Even if we had a better description, we’d probably never catch
them.”
I realized that he was right, but it didn’t give me a lot of comfort knowing that, whoever
they were, they were out there, somewhere, free to do to someone else what they’d done to me.
I said as much to the deputy.
“I can’t help but agree with you, compadre, but I’m afraid we’re stuck on this one. Now,
don’t you think you ought to let me get you a doctor? You don’t look too good to me.”
“That’s what I said, Officer Fuentes, but he wouldn’t listen to me,” Tina complained. I was
assuring Fuentes and Tina that further medical attention wasn’t necessary, when another deputy,
this one an Anglo, stuck his head through the door and asked, “Does this look familiar to anyone?”.
He held my wallet out before him in his right hand.
Fuentes took it and looked at the picture on my driver’s license. “Yup, that’s you, minus a
few lumps.”
The other deputy laughed, saying, “Funny as a crutch, Manny,” and left.
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I checked the contents of my wallet, although I knew better than to expect anything other
than what I found.
“Anything missing?” Fuentes asked.
“Just seven hundred dollars,” I grumbled.
“Ouch!”
“My sentiments, exactly,” I sighed. “It’s a good thing I paid for the room in advance and
I’ve got a full tank of gas.” I was also glad that I’d gotten rid of all my credit cards when my ex,
Linda, walked out on me.
“Do you have an ATM card?” Tina asked. “There’s a bank two blocks from here, on the
north side of the street.”
“Yeah, I do,” I said, looking at my wallet again. “For some reason, they didn’t take it. You
probably scared them away before they could get to it. Thanks, Tina. I owe you one.”
“We see a lot of this sort of thing anymore,” said Fuentes. “There are a lot of common
thieves just running up and down the highways, waiting for some poor tourist to cross their path.”
“No,” I disagreed. “Those creeps weren’t just run-of-the-mill muggers, Fuentes. As a
matter of fact, I don’t think they were nearly as interested in the money as they were in hurting
someone.” I told him what the one member of the gang had said.
“Sounds like some bad hombres to me, Pal. I’m just as happy they’re most likely out of
my patrol area.”
“You think they’re bad? You ought to meet my ex-wife!”
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CHAPTER FOUR
After Fuentes left my motel room, I had a long discussion with Tina. The gist of it was
that young girls don’t get involved with middle-aged men. She didn’t agree with my point of
view, and her end of the conversation consisted mostly of tears and cries of, “Why don’t you like
me?”. It was one o’clock in the morning before I got to bed.
It must be hard to be nineteen, female, and consumed with one passion: to get out of
Gallup, New Mexico. Not that I could blame her, but, I wasn’t into being a meal ticket any
longer. While I was flattered with Tina's attentions, I wasn’t enough of an egotist to think that I
was what every young girl dreamed of. Tina deserved a chance to experience what real love
felt like, without it being tainted by the desperation to escape from the boring life she’d known.
She was a great kid. I hoped she got everything she wanted and deserved.
By seven A.M. the next morning, I was in my car and back on Interstate 40. I stopped
by the bank before I left town, and was solvent once more.
It took me a couple of hours to get out of the flat part of the state. In Albuquerque, Route
40 met Route 25, and I started to climb. An hour later, I was passing Santa Fe at seventy-five miles
an hour, and heading for the high plains.
Unless you've been there, it’s extremely hard to realize the unbelievable sense of infinity
that grips anyone traveling the western edge of the Great Plains. Leaving the last of the outskirts
of Las Vegas, New Mexico, with it’s dogs, pick-up trucks, and hovels, all of which is evidence
of what the twentieth century has done to the Indian, you climb into a world so vast, so remote,
that it’s no wonder that many of the pioneers who crossed this part of the world went completely
mad from the sheer loneliness.
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I sat back in my seat, and with Sanborn playing “Hideaway” on the cassette player, I
crossed the grasslands of the northern part of the state with a lot less trepidation than those early
sojourners. As a matter of fact, the miles flew by. Before I knew it, two hours, and one hundred
and fifty miles, were behind me, and I was crossing the southern border of Colorado.
I stopped at a combination gas station/market in Trinity, filled up both my tank and my
belly, and was back on the road in less than half an hour.
After leaving the desolation of the plains for the glory of the Southern Rockies, I was
filled with thankfulness for the color green. Don’t misunderstand me. The plains have their own
mystic beauty, but I have always been a lover of the mountains. When I think of places like
Huntington Beach, California, for example, with its’ mile or more of young bodies, mindlessly
sacrificing themselves to the Great God, Sol, I hunger for the cool serenity of a mountain slope,
naturally seeded with pine, juniper, and conifer. How anyone, surrounded by the verdant bounty of
forestland, as evidenced in the Rockies, can long for the crowded streets of Los Angeles or
Chicago, is beyond my ability to comprehend. I guess that, in my own way, I am as narrowminded
as anyone else.
As I drove up toward the eastern slope of the greatest mountain range in North America,
listening to good music, and filled with a sense of wonder, I started to think about the future and
what my place in it might be. Here I was, forty years old and, except for a vague idea about
wanting to write a book about Colorado history, without a clue as to how things were going to turn
out.
I had no real fear for tomorrow. I’ve always been healthy. I played baseball in high school
and college. As a matter of fact, baseball helped pay for my education, for I played shortstop on
the state championship team as a teenager. Although I tend to have to fight to keep my weight
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down, I’ve always stayed active, playing golf, slow-pitch softball, and working out at the gym three
or four times a week. At one inch above six feet, I was managing to keep just below two hundred
pounds.
Rather than fear, I felt full of energy and excitement at the prospect of starting a new life
in a new place. Except for the aches and pains that had resulted from the previous night's
misadventure, I felt good. Even my sore bones and muscles were already beginning the healing
process due to the fact that my injuries, while somewhat painful, were really superficial. I felt
as though nothing could get in the way of my enjoyment of life.
Ever since I was about seven or eight years old, I’ve wanted to be a writer. In my spare
time, I’d always written little odd bits of poetry, and snatches of stories. I’d never gotten much
encouragement, though, from those closest to me. I’d always allowed others to push me in another
direction, away from my dreams. First my parents, and then Linda, urged me to go after
something that would guarantee my, and hence their, security. So, I earned a B.S. in electronic
engineering, and then followed it with a Masters degree in business.
I had sacrificed much of who I really was, trying to be Mr. Success. What happened was
that I made myself, and the one person I loved the most, my wife, miserable. I wound up
frustrating my own dreams, and became a very unhappy man. It was no wonder that Linda left
when she did. Back then, even I didn’t like me very much.
As much as it hurt at the time, and as much I detest the fact that she left me for another
man, it was the start of reuniting myself with the man I had started out to be. I found out that
there were things that were very important to me that I hadn’t given much thought to before, when
I was so consumed by climbing the ladder to the heights of corporate hierarchy. Now I was
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consumed by the prospect of realizing the dream that I’d pushed to the back of my mind for so
long.
I did, however, wonder how I was going to make my dream come true once I arrived in
Colorado Springs and got settled in. I know it must seem strange to think of leaving behind the
security of a safe, stable job with a major electronics firm, especially since I’d been with them for
many years and had risen to what most people would consider an important position in the
company. As successful as I had become, however, I realized that I hadn’t done it for my
own satisfaction. It had been more for Linda, and to give her the status that she craved, that I had
acted out of a mistaken sense of what I called, ‘love’. The problem was that I had forgotten to save
some of that love for the person closest to me: myself.
I realized that there were some very basic rules of human conduct that should never be
violated, and I hoped to maintain my freedom to always act in accord with that knowledge. I never
wanted to deliberately cause harm to anyone, and at the same time, not allow anyone to harm me.
I discovered a great sense of pride in being a man, and in expecting to be treated with
respect. I’m not talking about phony, macho pride, but pride for who I am and what I’m really
capable of doing. Like every man, sometimes that pride can take on a seemingly stubborn tone,
such as refusing to back down from a physical challenge, but, most of the time it's a quiet,
healthy sense of self.
As I approached my destination, I decided, for the hundredth time, that if I stayed true to
what I believed was the way to live my life, not expecting everyone else to agree with my
views, but maintaining my right to them, other things would fall into place.
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CHAPTER FIVE
No matter how many maps you study of a new town, when you actually enter the place for
the first time, it takes you by surprise. A flat map can’t prepare you for the natural contours of the
land, or the number of buildings or their style of architecture.
As I entered Colorado Springs from the south, the sight of a good-sized city at the base of a
giant like Pikes Peak was more impressive than any picture in a Chamber of Commerce brochure
could capture.
At first sight, the city itself didn’t exactly sweep me off my feet. The buildings were old,
the streets were cracked and scarred by the previous winter’s snow. In short, it looked like many
other towns that I had visited when traveling in the east. Indeed, the first emotion I experienced,
upon entering the land of my dreams, was disappointment.
I exited Route 25 at the Bijou St. off-ramp, and meandered through the middle of town. I
have a pretty good sense of direction, but I still managed to make a wrong turn. I was north of the
Institute for the Blind, before I realized I wasn’t going east. It was going to take me a while to get
used to the mountains being west of town, instead of north.
I turned south on Hancock, then west on Pikes Peak Ave. With the mountain dominating the
scenery, I started feeling better about what I was seeing. The area around the Institute had been
rather run-down, but as I continued on west, the homes looked better cared for.
I turned north again on Cascade, and soon found what I’d been looking for. In the area
around Colorado College, a lot of the old, Victorian homes had been converted to boarding houses,
or small, one-room apartments, used mostly by college students. These rooms were, for the most
part, inexpensive, and would make an ideal temporary place for me to stay until I found more
permanent lodgings.
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I parked in front of a large three-story house that had a small “Room for Rent” sign in the
window in the front door. There was a flight of steps leading up to a wide veranda. I had just
reached the top step when the door opened, and a woman, who seemed to be in her seventies,
appeared in the doorway.
“Kinda old to be a student, aren't ya?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” I replied. “I'm a writer. A student of life.”
“Sound like a God-damn hippie to me,” she countered, as she peered at me through a pair of
the thickest glasses I’d ever seen.
I was about to respond when she suddenly laughed, and waved me inside, saying, “Don’t
mind me none, fella. Us old ladies have got to have our fun any way we can. For me, that means
making strangers think I’m a grouchy old hen! Welcome to the Springs. My name is Maude
Embree. What’s yours?”
“Ryan James, ma’am.”
“Ryan James..., what?”
“Just Ryan James, Mrs. Embree.”
“What’sa matter? Don’t you like your last name?”
In spite of my best efforts, I’m sure my eyes crossed, slightly. I changed the subject.
“How did you know I’m new in town?”
“Don’t let these spectacles fool you, Ryan. I usually manage to see whatever I really want
to. That comes from bein’ old and snoopy.” She laughed again. “Actually, I saw the California
license-plate on the front of your rig. Not bad for an old egg-layer, huh?”
Maude Embree was exactly the type of person I had hoped to meet in Colorado. She was
straightforward and honest. Sometimes her honesty bordered on brutality, but it was genuine.
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“So, you’re a writer, huh?” she asked.
“An aspiring one,” I answered.
“You ever write anything I would’ve heard of?”
“No.”
“Figures,” she observed, disappointedly.
Her eyes narrowed suddenly, and she asked, “What’s the matter with your head? One side
looks bigger than the other.”
I told her about my recent misadventure in Gallup, and the apparent lack of motivation
behind my attackers’ actions.
“You didn’t see any of their faces?” she asked.
“Not a one, Maude.”
“Hmph.” She shook her head. “Gallup. I never did like that town. Too many people, just
passin’ through.”
“Actually”, I said, “Their car had California plates on it, just like mine. I think they were
probably from L.A.”
“L.A., huh? I never liked that town, either. Too many people, period.” She stared vacantly
into a distant corner of the room.
“Uh, Maude?” I prodded gently. “Might I have a look at that room?”
She started at my intrusion into her reverie, then replied, “Certainly. Just let me get the
key.”
The room was on the top floor, situated at the front of the house. Across the hall was
another bedroom. It was unoccupied. My prospective new home was small and furnished simply. It
had a full-sized bed, a dresser and matching bureau. All the furniture was made of maple in a style
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that had been popular in the ‘40’s. There was a mirror over the dresser that matched the rest of the
furnishings. Everything was extremely neat and clean.
As Maude looked around the room, she said, “This all belonged to my husband and I.
Arthur has been gone for ten years. I haven’t used it myself, since then.”
“Was he sick before he died?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Arthur was murdered. We were on vacation. He went out
into the hallway of the hotel we were staying at to get some ice. Some son-of-a-bitch blew the back
of his head off. Didn’t even take his wallet, just spread his brains all over the wall.”
“Where did this happen?” I asked, startled.
“In Los Angeles. Arthur was killed because we had always wanted to see where they made
all the movies. I haven’t watched a movie since then.” She turned, and walked out of the room.
What do you say to someone at a time like that? I couldn’t think of a thing, so I silently
followed her back downstairs.
After coming to terms with Maude concerning the rent, I went out to my car, and brought in
my bags. It took me about a half-hour to hang my clothes and arrange what few personal items I
had brought with me. By that time, it was two o’clock in the afternoon, and I was ready to do a
little exploring around town.
It was early May, and the nights were still pretty cool, so I changed into a pair of new
Levi’s, a light blue knit shirt, and a short, gray windbreaker. I put on a pair of boots that I’d bought
from a mail-order house that specialized in authentic Western-style clothing. I was ready.
I decided that driving wasn’t necessary, so I set out on foot. Walking south on Cascade, I
looked around at the old homes, and just enjoyed the cool spring air on my face. As I walked past
the college, the vitality of youth was on exhibit on every side of me. Students, male and female, had
23
just been released from the last class of the day, and were obviously ready to celebrate the fact that
Friday night was only hours away.
On the corner of Cascade and St. Vrain St., there was a branch of the Bank of Southern
Colorado. I went inside, and although the girl at the new-accounts desk was taken aback at the size
of the cashiers check, the bank was more than happy to accept my deposit.
A few minutes later, I left with a bunch of temporary checks and a savings book that
vouched for the fact that I had over sixty-seven thousand dollars on deposit with the Bank of
Southern Colorado. I kept a couple of hundred dollars, in cash, to last me until the bank cleared my
check. Upon leaving the bank, I continued walking south.
At Colorado Avenue, I turned east, and walked another two blocks to City Hall. I sat on a
bus bench for about forty-five minutes, and watched the late afternoon pedestrian traffic. In
addition to the college students, there were housewives walking home, carrying shopping bags.
After about three-thirty, the secretaries and office clerks started coming out of the office buildings
and headed off to get the weekend started. As the Colorado version of a rush hour got under way, I
did too.
I walked back to Cascade, then south one long block to Vermijo. As I was standing on the
corner, waiting for the traffic light to change, I noticed a sign about half a block away, advertising a
pub. I looked at my watch, and was surprised to see that it was after four o’clock. Realizing that it
had been several hours since I had eaten, I decided that this would be as good a place to remedy the
situation as anywhere.
24
CHAPTER SIX
As I entered the pub, the subdued lighting was a relief, after the glare of the late afternoon
sun. I stood in the entryway for a few seconds, letting my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness.
The interior of the bar was done in dark wood. The walls were oak-finished panels. The
large, central bar was, itself, a massive thing of beautifully finished oak. To the left of the door
was an elevated area, furnished with wooden booths upholstered with black leather-grained
vinyl. To the right of the bar, along the wall, were small wooden tables, resembling miniature
picnic tables, with matching benches. Overhead, were large brass ceiling fans whose purpose
seemed more decorative than functional.
Presiding over the bar at “Mick’s Place” was a large, ruddy-faced man, obviously of the
Irish persuasion.
I sat at one of the small tables to the right, and had barely touched bottom to wood
when a voice asked me, “What can I get you, Pal?”
I looked up into the bluest pair of eyes I’d seen in a while. The eyes came completely
equipped with a young, healthy woman in her early thirties, who looked like she was probably
related to the bartender.
Pointing toward the bar, I commented, “He’s Mick, right?”
“Good guess, Pal,” she grinned.
“And you are...?”
“I’m Patty. Mick’s my Dad, but I guess you were working that one
out for yourself,” she laughed. She looked like someone who would laugh often and well.
“How do you do, Patty? My name is Ryan.”
“Hi, Ryan. New in town, huh?”
25
I made a show of trying to see the back of my jacket. “Am I wearing a sign or
something? You’re the second person to ask me that in the last couple of hours.”
“I’m not sure why it’s obvious, but it is.” She folded her arms and cocked her head to one
side, examining me.
Patty was worth examining, herself. She was about five feet, six inches tall. The shortsleeved
top and shorts she was wearing showed off a trim, athletic figure guaranteed to keep men
looking. Her round Irish face was highlighted with a wealth of honey blond hair that fell,
dramatically, down below her shoulder blades.
I ordered a Guinness Stout, eliciting a look of approval from Patty. She brought my beer
in a few minutes, and suggested I try the corned beef on rye.
As I drank my beer and waited for Patty to bring my sandwich, I looked around at the
few patrons who occupied the bar at this early hour. They were men about the same age as Mick,
for the most part, who
had no reason not to be in a pub at this time of the day. I could see the puzzlement on some of their
faces at a man my age who wasn’t still at work.
I was looking at some of the trophies given to bowling teams sponsored by Mick’s Place,
when Patty came back, her father following with another Guinness on a tray.
“Dad, this is Ryan,” Patty said, introducing us.
“Ryan, is it?” Mick asked with raised eyebrows. “I hope that means there's a little of the
Irish in you.”
“Sir, my name is Ryan Andrew James. My father was English, but my mother’s maiden
name was Hanrahan.”
26
“Well,” he said, extending a large hand. “We can't all be perfect. Welcome to Colorado,
Ryan James, and most especially, welcome to ‘Mick’s Place’. I’m Mick O’Brien, this beer is on
the house, as a welcoming gift, and I don’t want to hear any more of that ‘Sir’ nonsense. You're
among friends, here.”
“Thank you, Mick,” I said. “I don't think I’ve ever experienced such a warm welcome as
this anywhere before.”
He put his arm around Patty's shoulder, and said, “Patty gave you her seal of approval.
She’s a good judge of character, and I trust her instincts.”
I looked at both of them and said, “I'm flattered. I’ll try to live up to the implied
compliment.”
Mick gave me a careful look, saying, “Be sure you do. It wasn’t flattery.” He started to
walk away, then turned back and asked, “By the way, Ryan. Are you a single man?”
Patty's eyes widened, as she protested, “Dad!”
Mick chuckled as he returned to the bar.
Patty set the plate she'd been holding on the table, in front of me. The sandwich was made
with generous portions of corned beef, and was served along with a side order of home-fried
potatoes and a small bowl of stewed cabbage. She sat down across the table from me.
I looked at her with amusement and asked, “Don’t you have other
customers to wait on? You might get in trouble.”
She grinned. “Not this time of night. It's too early. Besides,” she said, helping herself to
one of my fries, “it's okay. I know the owner.” She laughed, head back, her eyes betraying
a sense of controlled mischief. Her laugh was full, hearty, and genuine. It was a laugh I could have
listened to forever. I almost wished I was funnier than I am, just so I could hear her laugh more.
27
“Thanks for the vote of confidence with your Dad. What makes you
so sure that I deserve it?”
She looked at me with just a touch of humor in her eyes, and said, “Just a hunch. So, are
you?”
“What, deserving?”
“No. Are you single?”
“I’m divorced, Patty. It was finalized about six months ago, but Linda and I have been
separated for almost two years.”
“Any kids?”
“No.”
“What about girl friends?”
“Nope.”
“Me, too.”
“I’m sorry," I said. "I don’t understand.”
Patty sighed. “I’ve been divorced for three years.”
“Hard for you sometimes, huh?”
She leaned back on the bench, pushing with her hands against the
table. “You mean hard because of the hurt, or hard because I’m a woman
on my own?”
“Gee, I don’t know. I guess a little of both. I didn’t step on any feminist sensitivities, did
I?”
28
She laughed, humorlessly this time. “Hardly. I guess I’m just a little tired of pity being the
first reaction I get when I tell a man my story. Of course, I’m being silly. You haven’t been
subjected to the Saga of Patty O’Brien, yet.”
“I’d be interested in hearing it, if you’re interested in telling it.”
Patty sighed, and waved her hand dismissively. “Someday, maybe. Suffice it for now to
say that Tom was a local high school hero who believed all his own press releases, but couldn’t
live up to them. Probably nobody could have. Tom was just less able to deal with the
disappointment of discovering that he wasn’t infallible.”
“Well, in all fairness, Patty, most men have some problem with that, myself included.”
Her face showed the bitterness that she still felt as she said, “Yeah, but did you take it
out on your wife, beating her senseless when you’d had a snootful of Old Bushmill?”
“No. I didn't.”
“Precisely.”
“Well, okay, so it has been tough. So what about you? Do you have any children?”
“No.”
“So, what do you do when you're not working here?”
She let go of the edge of the table, and leaned forward, the pride evident in her voice.
“I’m going to school again. I’m a thirty-three-year-old sophomore at the University of
Colorado, Colorado Springs. Working here pays the bills in the meantime.”
“What are you studying?” I asked.
“Computer Science. I hope to design custom software, someday.”
“How's it going?”
29
“Really well. I seem to have a natural affinity for computers and logical progression-type
thinking.”
“Sounds like you may have finally found your niche.”
Patty yawned and stretched, providing me with a frontal view that was pretty hard to
ignore. I gave up trying. She caught the direction in which my eyes were turned and grinned.
“So, Ryan. What do you do when you’re not ogling young women’s
boobs?” When I looked flustered and embarrassed, she laughed that laugh, and said, “Don’t
worry. When you do it, it feels like a compliment. So, what’s your line?”
Regaining my composure I said, “I have a degree in Electronic Engineering and
Business. I spent a lot of years working in that field, but now, well, I’m hoping to become a
writer. It’s what I’ve always wanted, and I came to Colorado Springs to start over. I’m just not sure
if I have as much talent as I think I do. I have enough money to live on while I try.” I told her some
of my life’s story, including what had lead me to coming to Colorado. I had just finished telling
her about my experience in Gallup, when she looked up and realized that the dinner crowd was
beginning to make an appearance.
“Look”, she said, “I would like for us to have the opportunity to talk some more.”
“Are you sure about that?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I laughed. “Are you always this direct?”
She smiled, beautifully. “Yeah. Usually. C’mon, Ryan. I saw how you looked at me
when I first waited on you, and, frankly, I was attracted to you immediately.”
30
Patty stood up. “Just let me help with serving dinner. That should take about an hour
and a half. I know Dad will let me leave after that. Would you wait for me, Ryan? Maybe we can
go somewhere after that.”
“Maybe we can just walk around town, and you can point out the
highlights,” I suggested.
“I’d like that. Right now, though, I’d better get back to work. See you in a little bit.” She
patted my hand and ran off towards the other side of the room where the booths were starting to fill
up.
After Patty left my table, I paid my bill, got up, and fended my way through the dinner
customers as I went to visit the restroom.
There were five stalls, two of which were occupied. I went in an empty stall, and was
sitting on the throne when a familiar voice sent a chill through me. It was a voice reminiscent
of violent confrontations in parking lots.
“Well, ‘Mano. What do we do for action in this little hole of a town?”
31
CHAPTER SEVEN
I couldn’t believe it. Perched on the cold porcelain, I was made far colder by the realization
that the people responsible for trying to turn my brains into hamburger were only a few feet away,
talking unconcernedly about how to manage an evening’s entertainment.
As I sat there, however, my shock turned into anger. How dare they act as if attacking me
was of no consequence! How dare they continue on with their lives with no evident remorse or
interest in the effect their violence could have had on my life! True, I had managed, somehow, to
escape any serious or lasting physical damage, but that wasn’t the point.
As I sat with my pants down, feeling impotent, I heard the door to the restroom open and
close. I realized that they had gone back to the main part of the pub. I felt as though I’d let them get
away. I felt angry and guilty at the same time. I finished my business, re-secured my means of
dignity, and re-entered the pub.
I looked around, not seeing anything out of the ordinary. I walked up to the bar, and
attracted Mick’s attention.
“What’s up, Ryan?”
“Did you see someone come out of the restroom just before I did?”
“No. I wasn’t really watching the bathroom door. It doesn’t normally give me too much
trouble.”
“Shit!”
Mick frowned. “What’s this all about?”
“On the way here from L.A., I was beaten and robbed in the parking lot of a motel. It was
dark, so I couldn’t see their faces, but one of them talked about how much fun it was to beat on
me.”
32
Mick rubbed his face and said, “Patty and I both noticed that you looked as though you’d
had an accident. We just thought it would be impolite to say anything.”
“Yeah? Well, guess what? While I was in the restroom, just now, I heard that voice again.
He’s here, in this pub, and I don’t know who he is.”
I was looking around the room, trying to find some sign of who it was I was really looking
for. “Mick, these fellas were probably Mexican men from Los Angeles. Do you have many
customers tonight who would fit that description?”
“Well, that narrows it down. There aren’t too many Mexicans coming in here. It just isn’t
their thing, as they say these days. But, tonight there’s a group over at the last table in the back, by
the video games.”
I started to turn toward the back of the room, but Mick grabbed my arm. “Ryan, take it easy.
That’s a rough bunch back there. I’ve had trouble with some of them before. I was trying to think
up an excuse to call the Police and have them thrown out. They’re gettin’ pretty well juiced, and
talkin’ kind of loud, but, so far, they haven’t done anything I can call them on.”
“How many are there?” I asked.
“Four.”
“Is there a door back there?”
“Yeah. City ordinances say that there has to be more than one way in and out of a public
place, in case there’s a fire. There’s an alarm on the door, so nobody can sneak out without
paying.”
“Can you turn off the alarm?”
“I suppose so.” He frowned, asking, “What are you planning? I don’t want any trouble
inside here!”
33
“Don’t worry, Mick,” I assured him. “Nothing’s gonna happen to your place. Just turn off
the alarm, so nobody thinks there’s a fire when the door opens. I’ll handle the rest.”
I walked to the back of the room, and leaned on the bar. I ordered a glass of iced tea and a
beer. While I leaned my back against the bar, I took turns sipping the beer, and then the tea. It’s a
great way to enjoy your beer, and avoid getting too much of a ‘buzz’.
There was a part of my mind that was telling me that what I was doing was really stupid. I
was drinking beer, and planning to go up against four men in a bar, four men who had already
proved that they had no compunction about committing violent acts. They had acted violently
toward me with no reason other than their own desire to be mean and vicious. The money that
they’d taken had only been a bonus to them for an unprovoked attack on an innocent and
unsuspecting victim. I had a feeling that I wasn’t the first to suffer at their hands.
I was mad. I didn’t like thinking of myself as a victim. The more I thought about it, the
angrier I got. I’d run up against their kind before. As a kid in East L.A., I grew up with mostly
Mexican people around me. I used to go home with my friends, and their mothers would feed us
beans cooked with chili’s that had been grown in the back yard and ground by hand on a stone
mortar. They treated me just like I was one of their own kids. They were great people.
There were, however, other kids who would bully all the others, just to prop up their own
twisted sense of machismo. They were the kind of kids that the street gangs were made up of. By
ganging together, they’d managed to ruin what had been some great old neighborhoods, using those
same neighborhoods as a territorial excuse for their transgressions. If they’d lived in 12th or 13th
century Asia, they’d have ridden with Genghis Khan, just for the fun of it.
I stood, back to the bar, and stared at the group at the table, listening to them talk. Two of
them had the hair on the side of their heads shaved close, one with a little ponytail trailing down the
34
back. The head of the third one was shaved completely bald. He wore a little earring in the shape
of a cross. They all wore baggy Pendleton’s and khaki pants.
The fourth member of the group was talking very little, but, when he spoke, the others
stopped their loud talking, and listened politely. His voice sounded very familiar. He was a tall,
slim man in his late twenties. Unlike the others, he wore a conservative business suit. He was well
groomed, and had a single diamond stud in one earlobe.
As I stood, watching them casually, they started looking over at me from time to time, and
then talking together in whispers. If I didn’t know better, I would have said I was making them
nervous.
Finally, the one with the ponytail got up and crossed over to the bar. He walked slowly,
with an insolent smirk on his face. He came right up to me until his face was only about six inches
from mine. He wasn’t having an easy time maintaining such proximity, due to the fact that he was
about seven or eight inches shorter than I am.
“What’chu lookin’ at, pendajo?” he asked through the fumes of about half a quart of
Jose Cuervo.
I crossed my arms, smiled, and answered, “Actually, I was wondering the same thing
myself.” I waved my hand in front of my nose. “Whatever it is, it smells.”
He turned around to where his friends were, and called out, “Tomas! We got a smart-ass
gringo here. A comedian, ese.” He turned back to me, asking, “So, Asshole. You think you're
funny?”
I continued smiling. My arms were still crossed. “No,” I said. “You’re just such great
material, I couldn’t go wrong.” It had gotten very quiet at the bar.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked, excitedly.
35
“Cheech Marin?” I asked, innocently.
“I am Victor Garcia, Asshole. I fuck up stupid gringos like you just for a warm-up!”
I took a stab at the truth. “Yes, but only in the dark, when they’re not looking and you’ve
got back-up. Right?” His eyes widened. “Excuse me,” I said, “but you're not worth my time.” I
turned to the right, as if to leave him standing at the bar.
As I turned, out of the corner of my left eye I saw him start to move toward me. While I was
in the act of turning back, I brought my left hand up, and grabbed his ponytail, giving it a good
yank. When he instinctively resisted, I went with him, our combined momentum driving his
forehead into the bar. Not surprisingly, it made a hollow sound. Victor slumped to the floor. I’d
played him for a sucker, but he’d helped out a bit by being one.
Victor’s friends came out of their chairs in a hurry, only to be surrounded by a ring of
Mick’s regular patrons. There must have been at least ten or twelve of them, Mick leading the way
with a nasty looking chunk of lead pipe in his thick right hand.
Patty came out of the kitchen, carrying a couple of plates. When she saw the commotion at
the bar, she said, “What’s going on?”
Mick said, “Go back in the kitchen, Patty.”
“But, Dad,...”
Mick turned and snapped, “Now! Do as I say, girl.” She went.
The Mexican in the business suit was standing, with his hands clasped behind his back. He
said, “I’m Tomas Hernandez. You hurt my friend.”
“Maybe you should think about cultivating a better class of friends,” I suggested.
He smiled, but only with his lips. “Perhaps, but Victor is my cousin. One can’t choose one’s
family, verdad?”
36
I walked over closer, so we wouldn’t have to keep shouting across the barroom. “No,” I
said, “but you could control him. Actually, I’m pretty sure you have been, all along.”
His eyes narrowing, Hernandez asked, “What did you mean by that?”
“Come on, Tomas. Get real! Don’t I look familiar in the light? Perhaps if we were in a
darkened motel parking lot in Gallup, it would come back to you.”
As realization of who I must be came to him, Hernandez answered, “I don’t know what
you’re talking about, James.”
“No? So, who told you my name? Is it possible that you remember it from the driver’s
license in a stolen wallet? By the way, thanks for at least disposing of it where the Sheriff’s
deputies could find it and give it back to me.”
Hernandez licked his lips nervously. “What are you gonna do? Turn us in to the Police?”
I shook my head. “No, Tomas. We’re going to finish this in a way that you’ll understand.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to kick your ass. Maybe then we’ll turn you over to the Police.”
I could see his confidence returning as he said, “Oh, really? You think you can do that,
gringo?”
I pointed toward the back door. “We’re gonna find out. By the way, you and your friends
hand your wallets to Mick.”
He started to protest, but Mick and his friends weren’t in a mood to discuss things. Mick
collected the wallets, and brought them to me.
I removed their contents, and counted the money out on the bar.
37
“There’s thirteen hundred dollars here, Mick. I’ll take the seven hundred they stole from
me. If I win, the rest goes to your favorite charity. If Tomas here wins, give him back six hundred,
okay?”
“Give it back?” Mick protested. “They probably took it from someone else!”
“No doubt,” I said, “but I only know about my seven hundred. I’m not a thief.”
“Fair enough,” Mick agreed.
I turned and pointed toward the door. “After you, Tomas. You two,” I said to Hernandez’
companions, while pointing to Victor’s sprawled form, “bring out the garbage.”
38
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hernandez led the way, with his cohorts, Luis and Julio, following with the still
inert Victor carried between them. I came next, with Mick and company bringing up the rear.
We were in an alley that ran behind Mick’s Place and the adjoining businesses. There
was another group of brick buildings on the other side of the alley, the alley itself being perhaps
20 - 25 feet wide.
Luis and Julio dumped Victor unceremoniously on the pavement. he didn’t complain.
Hernandez stood, arms akimbo, smiling as if he knew something I didn’t. Maybe he did. He was
about an inch or two taller than me, and a lot leaner. I was heavier in the arms, chest, and
shoulders than he was.
“Tomas,” I said, “my friends here are going to make sure that your buddies don’t join in
the fun. It’s just you and me, ‘Mano.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, gringo,” he said. “I’m looking forward to kicking the shit
out of you all by myself.”
Tomas took his suit coat off, and handed it to bald-headed Julio. He took off his shirt and tie
, throwing them to the side. As he stood erect for a few seconds, I could see that he really was lean,
the hard planes of muscle coating the skeletal frame with their thin armor. He emptied his pockets
of anything that might encumber him. I’d already removed my coat and boots, and was standing
there in my off-white boot socks.
As he was finishing with his left pocket, Hernandez launched a vicious kick at my groin
with his left leg. He was quick. I just barely managed to turn my hip, and take the blow on my
right buttock. The kick was hard enough for me to feel a slight constriction in the hamstring of
that leg.
39
He followed up by turning 360 degrees and bringing his right arm up to deliver an elbow to
the back of my neck, since I had also turned slightly in deflecting his kick. I twisted back toward
him, and again just barely managed to block the intended blow with my swinging right forearm. It
was a great beginning. One numb arm, and one numb leg, and I hadn’t even thrown a punch yet.
“Come on, Ryan,” Mick urged. “Show him what a real Irishman can do!” Although they
were afraid to be too vocal, Luis and Julio were trying to cheer on their compadre.
His momentum had been checked by my throwing all of my greater body weight into
that swinging motion. This time, I followed up with an underhanded left jab that connected with
the right side of his rib cage. He winced, and backed off for a moment.
Hernandez placed a hand on his ribs, saying, “You can punch, gringo! I give you
credit for that much.” Neither one of us was breathing heavily yet, although I thought I noticed
some signs of discomfort on his part with each breath.
He went back into his stance and approached me again, a little more cautiously this time,
it seemed. He faked a left hand to my solar plexus, and then followed with an overhand right
intended for my upper jaw. Again, I moved just enough to receive a glancing blow on my left ear.
That hurt!
I responded by hooking a left back to his ribs. He grunted with pain, and I followed with
an uppercut to the point of his chin. His head snapped back, and he backed off again. I was
grateful for the chance to catch my own breath.
Hoping to get him to thinking less clearly, I asked, “What’s the matter, Pachuco? You
can’t cut it? Maybe if I turned my back, you’d feel more comfortable!”
He was furious. I could see it in the way he looked at me, the way he continuously
clenched and unclenched his fists. I had made him appear to be less than he wanted to be. I had
40
damaged the way that even he thought of himself. I’d laid bare the fact that, underneath all the
grooming and affected machismo, he was nothing more than a well-dressed bully, a stone-faced
gangster with a heart of clay. He would never forgive me for that. The only way for him to restore
his vision of himself was to destroy me.
Hernandez came at me with everything he had. He launched a running, leaping attack,
all clenched fists and slashing feet. I took a half a dozen blows to the shoulders, the thighs, even a
couple to the side of my head. I found myself in the position of being forced to give ground, while
I tried to cover up everything vital. In doing so, my arms and legs took a terrific pounding. In
the space of a few minutes, he’d done what it had taken four years of college ball to do. I hurt
everywhere. I was going to be a mass of black and blue in the morning.
I finally found myself backed up against a brick wall. As I continued to protect myself,
I began to see a pattern in his attack. There lay his weakness, I realized. He had been pressing me
with a series of 360-degree turns: right, then left. What made it work was the speed with which he
accomplished the transition from one direction to the other.
I was beginning to notice, however, that his movements were becoming less crisp, less
sure. He had expended so much energy in his all-out assault that he was getting tired.
I’d had an excellent baseball coach in high school. He suggested that, if I would be
willing to put up with the resultant pain and soreness, getting into the boxing program sponsored by
the local Parks and Recreation Department during baseball’s off-season would be a great way to
develop some additional upper-body quickness, as well as make it possible to maintain myself in
top condition for the rest of the school year, since baseball only came around during the last two
months of the second semester. He was right. Not only did my batting average improve
dramatically, but my life as the only Anglo in that part of town was made a lot more livable.
41
At one point, Hernandez completed another of his cyclic maneuvers and ended up with his
back exposed for a split second. I exploded off of the wall.
I delivered a sweeping right hand to his right kidney. He gasped with pain and surprise. As
he tried to pivot and adjust to my seizure of the offensive, I delivered a left uppercut to the jaw,
followed by a crossing right hand that cut him under the left eye.
I tried to block out all my surroundings, concentrating only on Hernandez’ body like a
missile locked on target. He was my universe.
Taking the initiative, I found that I was able to establish a rhythm in my breathing, as
well as in my combination of punches. I was coming back.
I had taken Tomas Hernandez by surprise. Now he was forced to take a defensive
posture, and was no longer afforded the opportunity to indulge in extravagant spins and twists.
Now he was covering up, but he had so fatigued himself that I was beginning to get through his
defenses.
I hit him with two consecutive left jabs to the face. I then hammered at his upper arms
with both hands, and was rewarded with seeing his guard drop. I went to work on his upper body.
Blows landed on his chest, shoulders, and neck. He was starting to wheeze.
Finally, he was standing almost flat-footed. I led with a left to the temple. His head jerked
in response. I followed with an overhand right to the forehead. Then came a left hook to the throat
combined with a jab to the bridge of his nose. He was weaving.
Planting myself directly in front of him, I reached out with my left hand, and held him
in place. I brought my right hand from somewhere behind my shoulder, and nailed Tomas
Hernandez into the asphalt of that dark, brick-lined alley.
Mick’s patrons went wild. They rushed me, congratulating me.
42
About that time, Victor came around, saying, “What’s happening, dudes?”
Luis reached down and slapped him, growling, “Shut up, pendajo!”
One of the on-lookers went into the pub. He came out with a pitcher of cold water, and
poured it over Tomas’ up-turned face. Tomas sat up, spewing water and coughing. Julio
crouched next to him, supporting him as he tried to gather himself.
I felt both good and bad, all at the same time. I felt vindicated, ransomed from a sense
of victimization, but my body felt every bit of the abuse it had undergone in the last two days.
As Mick helped me back into the pub, I heard Hernandez call out, “James, you are a dead
man!”
“Yeah,” I answered over my shoulder, “but I’m still standing.”
43
CHAPTER NINE
An hour later, I was standing outside Mick’s Place, waiting for Patty. I’d soaked my hands
in a bucket of ice water that Mick had provided for the purpose. I didn’t think that the knuckles
would swell too much. I’d taken several aspirin tablets that Patty insisted on my swallowing, and I
felt pretty good, overall. I was probably going to feel a whole lot worse tomorrow.
One of Mick’s customers sat with me while I soaked my hands. He was a lawyer named
Charlie O’Hara. He listened to my story, and made me realize that I would have a real hard time
getting Hernandez and the rest arrested for assault, considering Tomas’ present physical condition.
With that in mind, and with my money recovered, as well as an additional six hundred of their illgotten
dollars already being assimilated into the unique Irish-American charity fund-raising system,
we decided to let them go, with Mick admonishing them to never show themselves around his place
again.
As he was being shown the door, Tomas offered up one last verbal sortie: “Mr. Luce ain’t
gonna let you get away easy on this one, O’Brien!”
Mick responded in what seemed, to me, an inordinately angry manner.
“Get out of my place, you creep!” he yelled across the room. “If I’d a’ known you worked for that
bum, Luce, I would’ve kicked you out myself, earlier!” Before I could ask, “Who’s Luce?”, they
were gone, and Mick had gone back to the kitchen.
So there I was, standing outside, watching the seven o’clock Friday night traffic, and
waiting for Patty like a sixteen-year-old kid on his first date.
How did I get myself into these things? I’d only been in town six hours and, already, I’d
been for a walk, had dinner, met a girl, and gotten into a fight. It had to be some kind of record.
44
Well, I’d been complaining about my life being boring and needing a change, but I didn’t think that
I could handle this much stimulation on a daily basis.
Patty came out a few minutes later. She’d changed into a pair of designer jeans, and a lime
green, V-necked sweater, topped off with a braided wool jacket. She was the most beautiful sight
I’d seen in a long time. That sweater caused me to feel my pulse in places I ought to be trying to
ignore.
“An hour and a half, huh?” I asked. “Any longer, and I would have felt stood-up.”
She stood, posing, with her hands on her hips, looked up at me, and retorted, “How was I
supposed to know that some fool was going to put on a show in the alley, causing everyone to hold
off ordering until the fun was over?” She laughed, then grabbed my arm with both of her hands,
asking, “Seriously, are you okay?”
I looked down into her blue eyes. “I am now.”
“Typical Irishman,” she said. “Full of shit.”
It was my turn to laugh.
“Really, Ryan,” she said. “You scared me. I almost didn't come out.”
“Why not?”
“As you may recall my telling you, I’ve had some personal experience with violence.
Knowing that you’re capable of that kind of thing frightened me.”
“I’m sorry, but it had nothing to do with you. I hope you realize that.”
“Oh, sure,” she sighed, as we started walking toward Cascade. “I know that. It just gave me
a start, is all. Of course, Dad went to bat for you when he saw my reaction.” She looked up at me
again. “He likes you, Ryan.”
45
I smiled. “I like him, too.” We stopped walking for a moment. “I think I like his little girl
even better.”
She grinned. “Little girl, is it now?” She imitated Mick’s accent.
“Before this evening is through, I may have to do something to change your view of me.”
There went my pulse again, making it hard for me to walk gracefully, as she started off
again, forcing me to hurry in order to catch up.
We walked north on Cascade to Colorado Boulevard, then turned west, toward Old
Colorado City. She pointed out some of the shops that had been there for years. She'd grown up
with most of the shop-owners, and knew the stories each had to tell.
We continued to walk, arm in arm, through the old city, sharing our life stories. In the
telling, the sharing, a warmth developed between us that the evening chill couldn’t touch. Being
that close to her, listening to her voice, feeling her body shake with laughter at a shared joke, I lost
complete track of everything but that small part of the world that we inhabited. We? I had thought
that I’d never think in terms of “we” again.
We left the commercial part of town, turning up a residential street. I admired the old
Victorian homes, while keeping up my end of the conversation. I let Patty lead, as befitted her role
as tour guide. We walked up and down a number of streets as we talked. I looked at my watch, and
suddenly realized that we’d been at it for over two hours. I looked around and realized that I had no
idea where we were. I said as much to Patty.
“We’re right next to Bear Creek Park.” She pointed to her right. “It’s off over there. We’re
standing on the corner of 25th and Wheeler.”
“Can’t see much in the dark,” I observed.
46
“What’s the matter, big guy? Afraid of the dark?” She gave a little chuckle. “Don’t worry.
Patty won’t let anything happen to you.” She patted me consolingly on the shoulder.
She brought her hand up to my cheek. I reached up with mine, feeling the softness of her
skin, and falling into her beautiful blue eyes. She put her hand behind my head, pulling my mouth
down to hers. For a few seconds, as our lips parted, and our tongues explored, we were bonded
together by mutual desire.
Patty moved first, breaking the spell. She lay her head against my chest. I stood, my arms
around her at waist level, trying to control pulse, breathing, and a couple other bodily functions.
This was a lot of healthy, hungry girl!
“Ahem!,” I croaked. “Excuse me for ever calling you a little girl.”
She looked up at me, with a soft, gentle expression for just a second. Then, the deviltry
came back into her eyes, and off she went again, calling over her shoulder, “Come on!”
Patty took my hand, pulling me along. I had no idea where we were going, and, frankly, I
didn’t give a damn as long as she was there.
After a few minutes, she asked, “Would you like a cup of hot tea? I would.”
“That would be very nice,” I agreed, “but where is there a restaurant around here?”
She grinned again. “I know a great place.”
We walked up the drive of a small apartment building that seemed to consist of only three
units; two downstairs, one up. Patty led me up the stairs, took out a key, and let us inside.
“Welcome to my humble home,” she said, gesturing grandly.
It was small, and neat as the proverbial pin. The furniture appeared to be relatively new,
although inexpensive. There was a small kitchen and dinette to the left. We were standing in the
47
living room, which had a fireplace, and I could see through an open door into a bedroom. I
assumed that the only other door had to be the bathroom. I pointed at the door.
“That reminds me. May I?”
“Sure. I’ll put the water on to heat in the meantime.”
When I came out, the water was boiling. Patty was nowhere in sight, but the bedroom door
was now closed.
I turned off the fire, and searched through the cupboards until I found two teacups. I sat
them on the counter, and then looked for some tea. It was in a small canister on the countertop. I
put a couple of spoonfuls in the little tin infuser that I found in a drawer. I put the tea in the pot,
turning the heat on low.
I found sugar in the mate to the tea canister, and cream in the refrigerator. I was pouring the
tea into the two cups, when I heard the bedroom door open behind me. I turned to find Patty
standing there, wearing a floor-length silky nightgown and a look on her face that indicated that she
was hoping for my approval.
My face must have registered what my heart was screaming, because she put her arms
around my waist, burying her face in my chest.
It’s at times like this one when I’m always at my most eloquent. I held the teapot up with
my free arm, asking, “Tea, anyone?” She punched me on my free arm.
“Beast!” We both exploded in laughter.
“Oh, Ryan,” she said, wiping away a tear. “I have so enjoyed your company this evening.”
“As have I, yours.” I pointed at the fireplace. “Does that thing work?”
“Yes, indeed it does. I always keep it set up for a fire. I enjoy it so much. The matches are
on the mantle. Would you light it?”
48
I did so, and we sat in the floor in front of the hearth, soaking up the warmth. It felt so good,
so natural to be there. I hoped this wouldn’t be the last of our times together.
After we had finished our tea, and Patty had taken our cups to the kitchen, I leaned against
the couch, still sitting on the floor. Patty came and sat next to me, her arm around my shoulder,
trailing her fingers in the hair behind my left ear. I flinched.
She jumped. “What’s the matter?” she cried.
“I’m just a little tender back there. That part of my anatomy has taken quite a beating in the
last couple of days.”
“Maybe I can help.” She turned me until I was lying across her lap. She was supporting my
head and neck in her arms. She started kissing my neck behind my ear, her lips moving across to
my cheek, then my temple. I stopped her.
“What’s wrong, now?” she wailed.
I lay in her arms, looking up at the most beautiful sight I could imagine. “Patty,” I
explained, “You seem to be exactly what I’m looking for, exactly what I need. I just don’t know
where it’s going to lead.” I stood up, pulling her with me.
Putting my arms around her, I pulled her closer, saying, “You’re such a wonderful person, I
don’t want to be responsible for hurting you.” I sighed. “I want you so badly, I can’t hardly walk
straight. I just can’t promise at this point that it’s forever.”
She laughed lightly, gently. “You silly man. Have you forgotten who brought who to this
apartment? I’ve been giving you every signal I could come up with all evening that I want you too.
Nobody’s going to get hurt. Even if it did happen, so what? Life involves risk. Relationships, and
possibly, love, involve being willing to take those risks without giving in to the fear.”
49
I put my hand underneath her chin, bringing her lips to mine. Her body melted into mine, as
our need grew together into a living thing with a will of it’s own. As our lips joined, I put her down
on her feet, and, in one motion, she shed her nightgown. She was even more beautiful than I had
imagined. I undressed, and she pulled me down onto the bed, the fullness of her breasts pressing
against the hair on my chest. As she pulled me closer, her natural fragrance sweeter than anything
designed by man, I knew what the expression, “one flesh”, as spoken in millions of wedding vows,
meant.
I kissed her lips, her eyes, her throat, as she responded to my every touch. My tongue
lingered over her nipples, hardening them. She dug her nails into my back as we merged, her eyes
widening at first, and then narrowing to mere slits as she gave in to her need.
The rest of the night was lost in a host of kisses and moans, accompanied by the liquid
sounds of pleasure. We explored each other like driven, hungry adventurers, looking for the final,
great treasure. Every time I thought that she was spent, falling off to sleep, she would reach for me,
reawaken my need, and guide me into her soft, warm body. We’d build to a thrusting, pounding
climax, then lay back, Patty uttering a satisfied, kittenish purr.
Finally, we were both spent beyond our abilities to recover. We lay in a tangle of sheets,
sweaty and sated. Patty lay with her back to me, hips pressed against my thigh. I stroked her hair,
even as I was drifting off to a dreamless slumber.
“Ryan?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“I lied.”
“Huh?”
“It would hurt me awful if you left me.”
50
“I won’t. Not ever.”
51
CHAPTER TEN
I awoke to find myself alone in bed. I started to turn over, gasped, and changed my mind. I
hurt in every joint, every muscle. The combination of love and hate that I’d experienced in the last
couple of days was demanding that I pay the price.
As I lay still, I heard kitchen sounds from the other side of the door. I got slowly out of bed,
and was searching for my underwear, when the door opened and Patty launched herself at me,
carrying us both back onto the bed. Patty lay on top, kissing me on the forehead, the neck, the ear.
“Help!” I cried. “I’m imprisoned by a mad woman!”
“Hey!” she objected. “You weren’t complaining last night.”
“I was bewitched.”
“And now?”
“I’m even more bewitched,” I laughed, grabbing her under her robe.
Patty sat up, straddling me. “I just want you to know that I’m not letting you go.”
“So, who’s leaving?”
She sighed in relief. “I was,... well, you know.”
“What?”
“I was afraid that, now that you’ve had your way with me, you’d want to get out, quick.”
“Patty, no,” I said, rolling her over onto her back. “Do you remember the last thing I said to
you last night?”
“No,” she lied slyly, with downcast eyes.
“Yeah, you do,” I laughed. “For the record, I said that I’d never leave you.”
“Are you sure that that’s how you really feel?”
52
I lay still for a moment, thinking. “Honestly?” I asked.
“Well,... yes.”
“I am sure that that's how I feel right now, as of this minute.”
She frowned. “What exactly does that mean?”
“It means,... look at me, Patty.”
She did.
“It means that I'm as sure of my feelings toward you as I can be of anything that involves
the future. Look,” I explained, “a lot of good people who were really in love haven’t lasted. It could
happen, for any number of reasons. I don’t want it to, and I’ll try to do everything I can to make
this work.”
She threw her arms around my neck. “Me, too. I promise.”
“Good.” I sniffed. “Now, what is that good smell coming from the other room?”
Patty grinned, wiggling out from under me. “Typical man. One need satisfied. Move on to
the next.”
We sat at her small dinette and had a huge breakfast. There were eggs, bacon, pancakes,
home-fried potatoes, and sautéed mushrooms. Patty had made a pot of coffee, along with a pitcher
of orange juice. I could feel my arteries clogging with every bite.
I never knew that mealtime could be such an intimate experience. While Linda and I were
married, we shared very few meals together. About the only time that we sat down together was
when we went out, or when there was a business dinner. Linda didn’t seem to really like food. As
for me, I can hardly remember a time when I wasn’t hungry.
Actually, come to think of it, Linda just wasn’t a very physical person at all. She was mostly
concerned with appearances. Was she thin enough? Did she give the impression of having just the
53
right degree of affluence to attract the right people? We ate at the correct hour, we had sex the
appropriate number of times a month. Mr. and Mrs. Average. Hip, but not very happy.
Patty, on the other hand, was a completely different animal. She tore into her bacon and
eggs like there was no tomorrow. I wondered how she managed to keep herself in such good shape.
Even at her best, Linda couldn’t have managed it. I think she must have tried too hard. Patty
seemed to enjoy every aspect of life. Her appetite for sex was as genuine as her enjoyment of a
good meal. Last night had been proof of that. Whereas Linda had been obsessive about her figure,
Patty seemed unconcerned about the effects of eating such an enormous meal. I asked her why she
didn’t seem to be as worried about her weight as Linda had been.
She laughed. “It’s really quite simple, Ryan. I’m a busy girl. I mean, look at my schedule.
During the school year, I get up at 5:30. My first class is at 7:30. I don’t usually get out of school
until about 1:30.” She forked a bite of potato from her plate. “That gives me about two hours to go
to the library and do my homework, then go home, change and get to work by four o’clock.
Somewhere in there, I manage to get to the gym about three times a week. Now, you tell me, did
Linda have to keep up with a schedule like that?”
I shook my head. “The highlight of Linda’s day was when she needed a manicure. She spent
almost her entire day, either in a beauty salon, or a health spa. I don’t know why. Linda is an
absolutely gorgeous woman, but the only time I ever got to enjoy her was when it fit in with her
program. I still don’t understand all the dynamics involved in that!”
“What a waste! Life is too short. It’s to enjoy, not to hoard.” Patty placed a hand on mine.
“Ryan, I have no axes to grind. My ambitions are purely personal. I don’t need a man to make them
happen. That’s my job.”
54
“That’s not the kind of thing I’ve experienced,” I sighed while chewing a mouthful of bacon
and eggs.
“Believe it,” Patty stated. “I didn’t ask you here because I need a man. I asked you here
because I wanted you here.” She got up from the table, and came around to stand behind me, with
her arms around my neck.
“Ryan, dear. I know this is hard to believe after so short a time, but I really am falling in
love with you. Don’t ask me to explain it. I just know it’s true.” She kissed me on top of the head.
I stood up, pulling her into my arms. “I know,” I said. “The same thing is happening to me.
It is pretty weird. After all, I’m forty years old. I’m coming off of a really nasty divorce, and the
last thing I was looking for was any kind of commitment.”
“So, is it too soon? The last thing I want is to catch you on the rebound.”
“No,” I said. “That’s the funny thing. I had convinced myself that I didn’t want any
entanglements. I figured that I’d probably find myself involved in a series of brief but unfulfilling
little affairs. I didn’t believe that there was really any such thing as love or commitment. After all,
look where commitment had gotten me. I’d been betrayed by someone I’d trusted for thirteen
years.”
“Tell me about it,” Patty agreed. “Tom and I were married for only about half the time you
and Linda were, but the sense of betrayal was just as real.”
“The thing is,” I continued, “being with you is so easy. I don’t feel like I’ve got to keep
finding new ways to impress you.”
“Hey big boy,” she grinned. “You impressed me plenty last night.”
“You were pretty impressive yourself,” I responded, “but that wasn’t what I was talking
about. Linda needed someone to help her feel good about herself. When I was having troubles
55
feeling good about myself, she couldn’t handle it. She was confused. She acted as if I had betrayed
her.” I threw my hands up in the air. “I guess she decided that I wasn’t what she wanted, so she
went looking for someone who was. Believe me. It didn’t take long for her to replace me with
someone else.”
“Good.” Patty gave me another squeeze around the middle. “Her loss is my gain.”
After we’d finished breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen, I went into the bathroom to take a
shower. It was just getting good and steamy in there when, suddenly, I wasn’t alone.
“Doesn’t a ‘busy girl’ like you have a lot of work to do?”
She curled her wet silkiness around me, saying, “It’s Saturday morning. I’ve got lots of
time.”
An hour later, we were clean, dry, and satisfied. I was buttoning my shirt when the phone
rang.
Patty answered, “Hello?”
I was looking in the mirror, with my back to her. I saw her reflection lose its’ color. By the
time I turned around, she had dropped the receiver to the floor.
“Patty, what’s wrong?”
She didn't answer.
I picked up the phone, saying, “This is Ryan James. Who’s this?”
“Mr. James, this is Charlie O’Hara. Can you find someone to stay with Patty, and get over
here? Mick’s dead.”
I inhaled sharply. “Where’s here?” I asked.
“Mick’s Place.”
“Why me?”
56
“You’ll see when you get here.”
57
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was ten o’clock before I got to Mick’s Place. Charlie O’Hara met me at the door. He was
a tall, lean man in his early fifties, with a full head of gray-streaked hair over a sallow, thinlipped
face dominated by close-set gray-green eyes.
“How’s Patty?” he asked.
“A mess.”
“Where is she?”
“At the only place I could think of,” I answered. “I left her with my landlady, a nice
old gal named Maude Embree.” I gestured impatiently. “What happened here?”
O’Hara rubbed the back of his neck. He looked like he hadn’t slept for a couple of
days.
“The only thing I know for sure is that Mick’s dead, and that he died from two shots to the
head. The Police say that they were fired from less than five feet away.”
I felt an icy lump in the pit of my stomach.
“When did it happen?”
“Sometime after the place closed, at one o’clock in the morning. He was laying in the alley,
just outside the back door.”
“Who found him?” I asked.
Charlie grimaced. “I did.”
A man walked up, wearing a dark blue suit, and a striped tie.
“Who’s this, O’Hara? The last thing we need is a spectator, for Christ’s sake.”
“Ryan, this is Detective Sergeant Ralph Timmons. Sergeant, Ryan James.”
58
“Mr. James, why are you here? What’s your interest in this?” Timmons demanded, ignoring
my outstretched hand.
Ralph Timmons looked as though he’d just eaten a bad piece of fruit. I suspected that he
always looked that way. He was about the same age and height as Charlie O’Hara; but, where
Charlie was slim, Timmons was about the size of a small car.
“I’m just a friend, Sergeant.”
“Friend, huh? Why haven’t I seen you before?”
“I’m a new friend,” I answered.
“How new?” he asked. Before I could answer, his face acquired the expression of a man
who’d just had a new thought, and wasn’t either familiar or comfortable with the experience.
“Wait a minute,” he said pointing at me with one finger. “Ryan James. You’re the guy that
started the fight in here last night, ain’t ya?”
O’Hara stepped in. “Wait a minute, Ralph. That’s not exactly how it was. You see,...”
“Why’re you protectin’ him, Charlie?” Timmons asked. “Did James, here, retain you as his
lawyer?”
“Excuse me, Sergeant,” I interposed. “I wasn’t aware that I needed protection. Or a lawyer,
for that matter. Are you saying that there’s a reason why I may need both?”
“Seems kinda funny to me that Mick meets his end right after you start a fight in his place.”
I took a deep breath, then blew it all out in one long exhalation.
“Timmons, I think that you’d better get a few things straight. Hernandez threw the first
punch. Actually, it was a kick. He gambled. He lost.”
“Yeah?” he blustered. “Well, the way I heard it, you goaded him into it.”
59
“Sergeant, those men set on me a few hundred miles back. They attacked me in the dark,
stole money from me, and then left me lying there. Now,” I reasoned, “if you were in my position,
and you came upon them unexpectedly, what would you do?”
“That’s when you’re supposed to come to me,” he growled.
“And what would you have done?” I argued. “I didn’t have any proof. It would have been
their word against mine. I did the only thing I could do, other than let them get away with what
they’d done.”
“And now Mick’s dead.” Timmons pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his coat
pocket, selected one of the less damaged ones, and lit it.
“What the hell does one thing have to do with the other?” I yelled. I was already getting
tired of Detective Sergeant Timmons.
“Easy, Ryan,” Charlie cautioned. “Ralph’s right.”
“He is?”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “Do you remember what one of those punks hollered at Mick as they
were leaving?”
“Yes,” I recalled. “He said something about somebody named Luce. I remember Mick got
pretty upset.”
“Tony Luce,” Timmons stated, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth, “came to town
about four or five months ago. He’s been going around to all the real estate offices in town,
inquiring about empty land for sale. I did a little inquiring of my own. It seems that Luce has some
very heavy connections with organized crime in L.A. On the record, he’s the president of a
development corporation, Luce Properties, Inc.; however, the F.B.I. has a list of suspicions
concerning Mr. Luce that makes for very interesting reading.”
60
“So, what does all this have to do with Mick?” I asked.
Charlie answered, “A couple of weeks ago, some real tough types, like the ones last night,
came into Mick’s Place. They were drinking pretty heavy, and got a little nasty with some of
Mick’s lady customers. Just like last night, Mick got all the guys to gather around and kicked them
out. They weren’t happy, but they left.
“The next night, Luce himself comes in and tries to smooth things over, asking Mick if he’d
let up a little and let those guys use Mick’s Place as their watering hole. When Mick found out that
those punks worked for Luce, he kicked Luce out, too. Then, he went to all his friends with
businesses in the Springs, telling them that Tony Luce wasn’t someone they ought to be doing
business with.”
“Everyone knew and liked Mick,” Timmons added through a smoke screen. “That was all it
took. Won’t nobody even talk with Luce now. I got a feeling that those fellas that you had your
run-in with had been brought in by Tony to try to put the pressure on people.”
Charlie said, “It looks like they made an example out of Mick.”
“Poor Patty,” I said.
“You better start worryin’ about yourself,” Timmons pointed out.
“Why? Because I had a fight with one of Luce’s thugs?”
“Yeah,” Timmons said. “Evidently, you made a big impression on Tomas Hernandez. The
word is that he went back to Luce and told him that Mick and the other business owners had hired
some muscle of their own.”
“That’s crazy!” I objected.
“Of course it is, Ryan,” Charlie said. “You gotta remember, though, what kind of people
you’re dealing with.”
61
“That’s right,” Timmons agreed. “They think that if they’d hire leg-breakers, so would the
other side. They aren’t capable of understanding that normal people don’t act like that. That’s what
makes them the crooks that they are.”
“So, now what?” I asked. “If you know all this, why don’t you arrest him?”
“We don’t know, at least not technically. We suspect. We can’t prove anything yet.”
“Great,” I retorted. “So, what we gotta do is, we wait until we can catch Luce or some of
his people in the act of killing some innocent like Mick, right?”
“Yeah,” said Timmons. “That would be a real help.”
“Timmons,” I answered, “I don’t think that this town can afford to help you out like that too
many times.”
“Just watch yourself,” Timmons suggested. “In the meantime, I’ve gotta try to prove that
Luce and his boys have stepped over the line.”
“Does this mean that I’m no longer on your list?”
Timmons laughed, “Hell, you never were!”
“Than why all the pressure tactics?”
Timmons looked at me, dropped his cigarette on the floor, and crushed it. “That’s just my
way of seein’ where you stand, James.”
I gritted my teeth. “Just for the record, Timmons, let me tell you something. I just met Mick
O’Brien, but I liked him. He was a straight-talking, square-dealing kinda guy. I would have liked to
have known him better.”
Timmons turned away, saying, “Well, there’s still Patty.”
I took a step after him, but O’Hara grabbed my arm. “Forget it, Ryan. It wouldn’t be worth
the trouble you’d get into. I’m a lawyer, remember? I know about these things.”
62
“What a jerk!”
He scratched his head, saying, “True. Ralph doesn’t have too many friends.”
“No kidding.”
Charlie said, “Let me tell you something, Ryan. Ralph is rude, caustic, and bullheaded, but
he’s good at what he does, and this town needs him right now. Don’t let him get to you.”
I threw my hands up, saying, “I know. You’re right. I’m just getting a little tired of all the
hassle I’ve been getting over the last few days. It seems like, everywhere I go, someone wants a
piece of me. I’m sick of it!”
Charlie looked at me, quizzically. “Getting a little angry, are we?”
“Damn straight. There are too many creeps out there that think it’s okay to use other people.
They think that they can just walk all over anybody that gets in their way. A lot of good folks like
Mick are getting hurt or killed for no good reason at all.
“Shit!” I exclaimed. “What am I gonna do with Patty?”
“I was going to ask you about that,” Charlie said, “when the time was right. What’s
happening between you two?”
“Charlie,” I explained, “she’s the best person I’ve ever met. I’ve only known her for less
than a day, but I can already tell that. I guess that seems stupid.”
“Hey pal, you’re not gonna get any argument outta me on that score,” O’Hara protested.
“I’ve known Mick and Patty since right after her mom died, almost twenty years ago. She’s the
cream of the crop. There isn’t one of those people that you saw in here last night that wouldn’t do
anything at all for her.
“I’ll tell you something,” he said, leaning forward. “There are going to be a lot of angry
Irishmen in this town, after this.”
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“Count me among them,” I said, grimly.
“I hope you mean that.”
“Of course I do.”
“Good.”
It was my turn to look at him funny.
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “Right now, I think your place is with Patty.”
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CHAPTER TWELVE
I drove back to Maude’s, arriving there about noon. Maude let me in. She pulled me into
her kitchen with one index finger raised to her lips, urging me to be quiet.
“I put Patty in the room next to yours.”
“How is she?” I asked.
Maude shrugged. “As good as can be expected, I suppose,” she said. “Look, Ryan. I called
my doctor. He came over and gave her a sedative. Patty’s going to be out for hours. Let’s just let
her sleep as long as she can, okay?”
“Makes sense to me,” I said. “By the way, Maude, thanks for taking care of her. I know it
was a lot to ask, but you’re about the only other person I know in town.”
“Don’t be silly,” Maude responded, waving her hand in dismissal. “That there’s a good girl.
I can tell.”
“Yeah, she is. She’s had an awful shock, and I’m afraid things are gonna get worse before
they get better. Mick was all the family she had.”
“Think a lot of her don’t ya?” Maude asked.
“Maude, I’ve never met anyone like her, before.”
“Well, I’ll say one thing for you, boy,” Maude said with a smile. “You work fast. How long
you been in town? About twenty-four hours, ain’t it?” She laughed.
I shook my head, saying, “I’m as surprised as you are. The last three days have been about a
month long, if you know what I mean.”
Maude laughed again. “Indeed I do, Ryan. Indeed I do.”
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I went up to my room. I lay down on the bed. It occurred to me that this was the first time
I’d done so. Things were happening faster than I could adjust to them.
How did I manage to make so many friends and enemies in such a short time? As for the
enemies, I hadn’t asked for them, they’d come to me. As far as my new friends went, one of them
was already dead. Was it because of me? And what about Patty? Weren’t we taking things a little
too fast? There didn’t seem to be any easy answers to my questions.
Mick had already had at least one run-in with Tony Luce before I had even arrived in
town. Perhaps my fight with Tomas Hernandez had escalated the tensions, but it seemed to me that
it was just a matter of time before things started heating up, anyway. I hated to think that I was
the cause for Patty being without her father.
What was Luce up to, anyway? He was looking into undeveloped land in Colorado
Springs. That wasn’t exactly an illegal activity, so why was he leaning so heavily on the local
businessmen? Colorado Springs had a very slow economic situation. Industry was in pretty much
of a holding pattern, as far as growth went. There weren’t a lot of lay-offs going on, but there
wasn’t much hiring taking place either. Real estate and construction were really slow. Luce’s
presence in town didn’t seem to make a lot of sense.
As I lay still, exhaustion set in, and I fell into a sleep filled with dreams of flashing fists,
angry words, and gunfire in the dark. Dominating everything, though, was the presence of a pair of
warm, blue eyes.
When I woke up, it was dark in the room. I turned on the light next to the bed, and looked at
my watch. It was 6:17 in the evening. I rubbed my face and stood up.
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I went out into the hall and stood at Patty’s door, listening. Opening the door a crack, I
peeked in. It was dark, but I could just see the outline of a figure in bed, motionless. I started to
close the door.
“Ryan?”
I went inside the room, closing the door behind me. “Yes, sweetie,” I answered.
“Com’ere,” she whispered, her voice impaired by the barbiturates she’d been given.
I kneeled down next to the bed. “I’m right here, Patty.”
“Turn the light on so I can see you.”
I did.
She looked up at me, circles around her slightly unfocused eyes. I kissed her forehead, and
caressed her cheek with my hand.
“Daddy’s dead,” she said, listlessly.
“I know, babe. I’m sorry.”
“Do me a favor,” she mumbled, as she drifted off again. “Kill ‘em.”
It startled me. This warm, wonderful girl, who hated violence, had just asked me to perform
the ultimate violent act. I knew she was in shock and was hurting, but it still came as a surprise.
I got to my feet and stood, watching Patty sleep. She lay with her arms at her sides, mouth
slightly open. Even now, even sedated, she was a beautiful sight. I felt an enormous need to protect
her. I’m sure that some psychologist could have had a field day with all the emotions that were
competing for dominance inside me at that moment. I
felt love, anger, helplessness, fear, and anxiety. I knew only one thing for certain. No one was
going to hurt this girl again.
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I turned off the light, and slipped quietly out of the room. I went back to my room and
washed my face in the sink. I then went downstairs, and out on the front porch. Maude was there,
sitting in an old rocker, wearing a man’s sheepskin coat.
“How’s she doin’?”
“In shock. Out of her head from the sleeping pills. She just asked me to kill whoever it was
that murdered her father.”
“So?” Maude responded. “It doesn’t sound like such a half-bad idea to me.”
“I know,” I agreed, “but I’m not a killer, Maude.”
“Rumor is, Tony Luce thinks you might be.”
“Where’d you hear that?” I asked.
“Your lawyer friend, Charlie O’Hara, came by. He told me all about Luce.” She pulled a
bulky envelope out of a coat pocket. “Seems that someone slipped this under his office door with
instructions to deliver it to you.”
I opened the envelope. Inside were ten five hundred dollar bills, along with a note. Five
thousand dollars. It wasn’t too hard to figure where that came from, especially after I read the note.
It said: “The old man was too stubborn. Maybe we can do business. Meet me at the Buccaneer’s
Inn. Eight o’clock.”
I showed the note and the money to Maude. Her eyes widened at the sight of that much
money. “Whew!” she breathed. “I wonder what he expects you to do for that?”
“Maybe he’s gonna offer me a job in his development company.”
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I entered the Buccaneer’s Inn at exactly eight o’clock. The light was subdued, the
darkened corners of the restaurant resounding with the table noises of happy Saturday night diners.
A pretty, green-eyed hostess came up to me and asked if I needed a table. I wasn’t sure
what to say. While I was meeting someone, I had no idea what he looked like. The situation was
solved for me when Tomas Hernandez walked up to the hostess’ station.
“He’s with me, mi corazon.” The hostess looked at him as if he had lice, and walked
away.
“You got a real way with the women, Tomas,” I remarked.
“Shut up, James, and come this way. Mr. Luce wants to talk to you.” Maybe my sense of
humor doesn’t translate well into Spanish.
Hernandez led me back to a table near the kitchen door. I hate that. You might as well eat
dinner on the San Diego Freeway. Oh well. I didn’t think that I’d been invited for my opinions on
fine dining.
Tony Luce sat at the table, two-thirds of the way through a plate of manicotti. When I
walked up to the table, he sat his fork down and gestured to the chair opposite his. I sat down, and
a waiter appeared at my side. Hernandez remained standing.
“Take a walk, Tomas,” Luce ordered.
“But, Mr. Luce,...” Tomas started to object.
Luce looked at him. “A long walk.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Luce.” Hernandez walked over to the bar and leaned against it, glaring at me.
69
The waiter was tall and slender, with curly hair and a neat little mustache. His name was
Joel.
“Give Mr. James whatever he wants, and put it on my bill, Joel.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Luce.” Joel held out a menu for me to examine.
I pointed to the manicotti. “I’ll have some of that.”
“Excellent choice, sir. What to drink?”
“Do you have Bass Ale?”
Joel wrinkled his nose. “I’ll have to see,” he sniffed, and left.
“And a glass of iced tea!” I called after him.
Luce sat, looking at me. I sat, looking at him. He was a medium-sized Italian man. I
guessed him to be in his late forties. He was wearing a very expensive European cut suit, with a
silk tie. It made me feel out of place in my jeans, button-down shirt, and western tweed jacket. On
the other hand, I was wearing my best pair of boots.
After we’d been admiring each other for a few moments, I said, “Want to see the
birthmark on my left butt-cheek?”
“Tomas said that you thought you were funny,” Luce observed. “He doesn’t share that
opinion.”
“It’s a common failing. I’ve grown accustomed to it.”
“Hmph,” Luce agreed, and then lapsed back into silence.
I sat back in my chair, folded my arms and looked around the room at the other customers.
Joel came back with my Bass Ale and iced tea. He managed to pour the beer into the glass with
just the right degree of snobbish disapproval in his manner so as to tell me what he thought of
people who drank beer in such a classy restaurant. No tip for him.
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After Joel left, I looked back at Luce, who was still examining me.
“Do you actually have something to say to me, or are you just falling in love with my
manly countenance?” I asked, pleasantly.
“What are you, James?” he demanded, testily.
I raised an eyebrow. “Me? Why, I’m just a real friendly guy. Mr. Congeniality. I love
everybody.”
He shook his head in disgust. “Even Tomas?”
“‘There’s no such thing as a bad boy’,” I quoted.
“You’re a real case, you know that, James?”
I shrugged.
Tony leaned forward in his chair. “I realize that you’re probably the funniest thing to
come along in a long time, but, we got a real problem here.”
“We?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he insisted. “We. As in you and me.”
“Tony,” I said, “you don’t know me well enough for us to be a ‘we’. I think I’d kinda
like to keep it that way.” I threw the envelope with the money on the table.
Joel came back, carrying my manicotti in one well-manicured hand. Luce quickly snatched
up the envelope, put it into his coat pocket, and jerked his thumb, telling the waiter, “Beat it,
faggot.”
Joel went off, in a huff. I smiled, and took a bite of my dinner. It was delicious.
“Look, James,” Luce said, patting his pocket. “I sent you this for a reason. Do you even
know why?”
“Elocution lessons?”
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“Stop that, dammit! I’m serious.”
I sighed. “So am I, Tony. I’ve got nothing worth your spending that kind of money on.
You’re wasting your time.”
Luce pointed a finger at me. “All I want is for you to back off. I don’t know what
O’Hara and his bunch are paying you, but, if necessary, you can consider that five grand a
down payment.” He gestured with both hands. “Just look the other way. Is that so hard?”
I took a bite of garlic bread, chewed, sipped some beer, and then some iced tea. I looked at
him, shaking my head.
“Luce, when you screw up, you do it royally.”
“What do you mean?”, he asked, surprised.
“I’m not on anybody’s payroll, and I’m not for sale. I came to town for my own reasons.
The only reason that Tomas and I mixed it up last night is that he and his buddies waylaid me on
my way to town, as some kind of perverse entertainment. When I saw them in Mick’s Place, I got
mad, and the rest, as the saying goes, is history.”
Luce sat back in his chair. “So you’re not hired muscle?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I’m trying to be a writer.”
“A writer, huh? Well, then,” he said, tapping the table, “we don’t have a problem.
That’s great!” He picked up his fork, putting a large piece of manicotti in his mouth. “Just don’t get
any ideas about writing about me, you hear?”
“There’s just one thing I’d like to know, Tony. Did you kill Mick O'Brien, or have him
killed?”
Tony continued chewing his food unconcernedly, as if we were discussing the weather.
“What do you care?” he said, finally.
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“Mick was a good, steady guy, Tony. I care.”
Luce waved the idea away with his hand. “O’Brien was a stubborn old fool.”
“So you said in your note.”
“So, what does it matter if some old coot gets wasted for sticking his nose in where it
doesn’t belong?”
“It matters, Tony. He was a person. He had value.”
“Geez,” he said, with a backhanded gesture. “All that human rights bullshit don’t wash
with me. What is it with you, James? You don’t seem like the type to go soft.”
I stared at him. “I don’t think that believing in the sanctity of life is ‘going soft’. Taking
another life unnecessarily is not only wrong, it’s stupid.”
“Yeah?” Luce retorted. “Well, I say it was necessary. What do you think of that?”
“Who appointed you to make such decisions?” I asked. “What else is going to become
necessary? Is there someone else who you think doesn’t deserve to live?”
He pointed his finger at me again. I was getting tired of people doing that.
“Look, candyass. I don’t give a shit about who deserves what. Do you understand that? If
someone gets in my way, I’m gonna take them out. You’d better be real careful, James. You can
go the same way as O’Brien. You’re tough, but you’re an amateur. Don’t cross me.”
“Let me lay it on the line for you, Tony,” I said. “Mick left behind a daughter, Patty.
She’s someone who is very important to me. By taking away her father, you hurt her badly. That
doesn’t make me too happy, but it’s done. I can’t bring him back. Think about this, though.
Patty’s probably going to inherit Mick’s Place. If I read her right, she’ll have the same attitude
toward you that her father had.”
“Well, then you’d better have a talk with her, so that she doesn’t get in my way.”
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“Stay away from her, Tony,” I warned.
“Or what? You gonna threaten me, candyass? Don’t let some little piece of ass do your
thinkin’ for you.”
I felt the blood come to my face. I reached, and turned over the rest of Tony Luce’s dinner
into his lap. He jumped out of his chair, wiping furiously at his suit with his napkin. He looked at
me, opened his mouth, but couldn’t seem to find the words to say.
I got up at the same time, turned, and walked away. Hernandez was still leaning against the
bar.
As I walked past, he said, “This time, you really are dead, hombre.”
“Aw, go beat up on a nun,” I said.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
On Monday morning, just over two days after Mick had been murdered, I managed to
talk Patty into getting out of bed and taking a drive into the country with me. She wasn’t very
enthusiastic, but she finally agreed to come along.
Patty hadn’t taken anything to help her sleep since that first night, so she wasn’t groggy or
listless anymore. All the same, she was very quiet. As we drove along the Midland Expressway,
past The Garden of the Gods and Manitou Springs, and headed toward Pikes Peak, she didn’t
say more than a half dozen words. When I asked her a question, she would respond as briefly as
possible, but she wouldn’t elaborate or otherwise try to keep up her end of the conversation.
Believing that good music is always medicinal, I put on a tape. As Al Jarreau sang, “Since
I Fell For You”, with David Sanborn and Bob James backing him up instrumentally, we drove
through the pines and blue spruce on our way up the mountain.
The road up the mountain was a good one, wide and well maintained. The weather
had been beautiful since I’d been in town, so traction wasn’t a problem. The wind was in the
trees, I had a beautiful woman at my side, and the sun reflected off of the snow on the peak. Only
trouble was, the woman’s father had been murdered, and his killers weren’t real pleased with me,
either. More evidence of an imperfect world.
We didn’t go far. I found a place where I could get the 4-Runner off of the pavement. In
an area cleared for parking, there was a wooden rail placed to act as a parking bumper. Beyond
the parking area, there was a meadow with a trail leading off to the west.
I got out of the car and went around to the other side to open the door for Patty. I said,
“It’s a little early yet for a picnic lunch. Would you like to take a walk?”
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“I guess so,” she replied.
I took her arm in mine, saying, “Let’s go, then.”
We followed the trail through the tall, brown prairie grass. The blades of grass were still
coated with the morning dew, but the warmth from the sun was beginning to make its’ presence
felt. The mountain air was cool and thin. Only an occasional magpie, chattering madly as it flew
overhead, broke the stillness. The sense of isolation, of being the only people up there, was
tangible.
I took Patty by the hand and led her across the meadow, toward the tree line. Once in
among the trees, it was colder. Patty shivered, and I put my arm around her. She was wearing a
quilted vest over a western-cut flannel shirt. I had on a sweatshirt with “U.S.C.” emblazoned
across the front, and a leather bomber jacket. It felt good when the wind came up, as it did from
time to time.
As we rounded a bend in the trail, a clearing came into view in front of us. In the
clearing, a doe was tending to her fawn. The mother deer was cleaning her child’s ears with her
tongue. Patty caught my arm, and we stood still, watching the doe’s motherly ministrations.
The fawn stood there reluctantly, tolerating its’ mother’s attentions, in the manner of all
children.
“Beautiful,” I whispered. I looked at Patty just in time to see one big tear roll down her
cheek. “What’s wrong?” I asked in an undertone.
“By this time next year, some hunter will probably have shot that little deer,” she cried,
quietly. The wind must have shifted, because the doe’s head jerked up in alarm. She sniffed, and
then, evidently not liking what she sensed, she nudged her baby and they trotted into the forest
together.
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“That was a cheerful thought,” I observed.
Patty looked at me. “Everything good dies or gets ruined,” she stated, the bitterness she felt
evident in her eyes.
“Does that include us?”
She looked me in the eyes for a moment, then lowered her head, weeping.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled.
“Oh, Patty.” I put my arms around her, pulling her closer to me. “I am so sorry. I feel
responsible.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I can’t help but wonder if maybe I’m to blame for Mick’s being shot.” I sighed.
“Maybe if I hadn’t let my pride get the better of my good judgment, he’d still be alive. I should’ve
let Hernandez and the others alone, instead of getting into a fight with them. I’m sorry.”
Patty pulled back from my embrace, running her fingertips along my jaw line.
“Ryan,” she said, “You’ve got nothing to apologize for. You’re not the reason my Dad’s
dead. He’d already had trouble with Luce’s people a couple of times before. They killed him, not
because of you, but because that’s what people like Tony Luce do. So, don’t take on more
responsibility than you’ve got coming.”
“Thanks, Patty. I needed to hear that from you,” I commented.
“I have to tell you, though, that I don’t feel real good about the other night,” she said.
“I don’t understand.”
Patty put her hands in her vest pockets as she paced around the clearing. “I saw what you
did to Tomas Hernandez, Ryan. It scares me that you’re capable of that. You beat him
unconscious.”
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“Didn’t we have this conversation the other night?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “But, it still bothers me.”
“What do you think he would have done to me if things had turned out the other way
around?” I objected.
“I know, I know,” she acknowledged, gesturing with both hands in front of her, palms
held outward toward me. “It still frightens me, though.”
“Look, Patty,” I reasoned. “People like that think that they’re above the law. They think
that if they want something, then they have the right to it. It doesn’t matter to them how much
someone else may have to suffer, as long as they get what they want.”
“But, couldn’t you have just gone to the police?” she asked.
I looked at her, shaking my head. “I think you already know the answer to that question,
but I’ll answer anyway.” I took a deep breath. “No. I couldn’t. I couldn’t prove that they’d done
anything wrong. It would have been their word against mine. As much as it went against what I
believe in, the only way to get any kind of justice was to take matters into my own hands.”
Patty stood facing me, hands on her hips. “So. Is that the answer to everything? My father
believed the same way you do, and now he’s dead!”
“As you said, Mick is dead because Tony Luce is who he is, not because of how your
father believed or acted,” I pointed out.
Patty remained frozen in the same pose for a few seconds, looking at me, her hands on her
hips. Then, she bowed her head, bringing her hands up to her face, as the tears started in earnest.
I took her in my arms, holding her quietly for several minutes while she cried
continuously. Her shoulders shook with the force of her grief. There were no words, only a
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great, gushing torrent of heart-wrenching tears. They soaked the shoulder of my jacket. I was
neither surprised or ashamed that not all of them were Patty’s.
In a little while, the weeping slowed, then stopped. Her face was buried in my chest, but
she was still. We stood that way for a while longer, then Patty pulled away, wiping at her face and
eyes.
“He was such a good man,” she said chokingly.
“I know. I didn’t really know him,” I said, “but I could tell what sort of man he was. I
would have been proud to call him ‘friend’.”
She made a half-hearted attempt at a smile. “He had a lot of friends. I think that was
what he was proudest of.”
I nodded. “It’s something to be proud of.”
Patty came to me and put her arms around my waist, with her head against my chest.
“Thank you, Ryan.”
“What for?” I queried.
She stood back again, taking a deep breath and wrapping her arms around herself.
“Oh, for bringing me out here, for helping me to cry away some of the pain.”
She threw her head back, then looked at me again. “I know that this won’t be the last
time I cry for Mick, but it’s a start. Thanks for being here for me.”
I stepped forward, taking her in my arms again.
“It may sound strange, since we’ve known each other for such a short time, but, I love
you, Patty. I couldn’t not be here.”
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“I know,” she agreed. “It does seem odd. Ever since I first saw you, I’ve been drawn to
you. After he’d met you, Dad cornered me in the kitchen, and said, ‘Patty. That’s a man out there.
You could do a lot worse. Take the advice of an old man, and don’t let him get away.’”
Patty laughed, shaking her head. “He knew. Don’t ask me how, but he did. He recognized
that there was come kind of chemistry between us. He was really intuitive about things like that.”
We stood together, quietly, for a few minutes, just letting the chemistry ‘brew’ for a time.
I’d never felt so close to anyone before. Considering that I’d been married to someone else for so
many years, that seems kind of weird, but it’s true nonetheless. I hoped that Patty was
experiencing the same feelings.
We’d been standing that way, holding on to each other, for quite some time when Patty
announced that she was now hungry. We walked back to the car, hand in hand. On the way back,
the forest seemed, somehow, friendlier, as if nature knew that lovers were the most natural of all
living creatures, and the rarest.
I had packed a blanket for our picnic, and we spread it out on the grass, bending the long
blades down to make a place for our picnic lunch. Patty laid out the contents of the basket I’d
packed, and we enjoyed a leisurely meal of cheese, crackers, apples, and wine.
After we were through eating, and we’d cleaned up, putting everything but the
blanket back in the car, we stretched out in the warm spring sun. Patty fell asleep with her head
on my shoulder. I looked up at the gathering clouds overhead, and thought about the woman
beside me.
How did I get to be so lucky? Laying in a place of such natural beauty, with another
natural beauty beside me. Whatever the future brought, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that
I’d found someone who was the perfect complement to me. She was hurting right now, but she’d
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come through. I only hoped that I’d always be able to care for her needs, just as she was the
fulfillment of mine.
I fell asleep as well, with Patty’s perfume blending in with that of the surrounding forest.
I experienced no dreams, just a deep peaceful sleep induced by the satisfaction of having her
close.
I woke up about an hour later. The sky was darker, Patty was shaking me, and
raindrops were wetting my clothes and the blanket under me. I jumped up, rolled the blanket
into a ball, and we ran, laughing, back to the car. Patty got in, and, after throwing the blanket
behind the back seat, I did the same.
I started the four-wheeler, and turned it back toward town. Patty turned on the radio to
get a weather report. Instead, there was a special news report on, telling about, “... a
tremendous blast, leveling the entire building, here on Cascade Ave. It was an old Victorian
home, converted into apartments. The owner, and manager of the apartments, Maude Embree, is
presumed dead.” I reached over, and switched off the radio.
“Oh, no!” Patty cried. “Not again!”
81
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As we drove up Cascade Avenue toward Maude’s house, we could see the evidence of
Police and Emergency Services activity. The street was crowded with official vehicles. When we
actually managed to get close to the house, there was a barrier made of that yellow tape that the
authorities are so fond of, stretched between the trees bordering the property.
The top floor of the house was completely gone. The second floor was blackened and firescarred.
A van from the Coroner’s office was just pulling away. Firemen were busy, snuffing out
the remnants of little fires that had started in the grass and surrounding shrubbery.
I left Patty sitting in the car, and walked over to where Ralph Timmons was standing,
talking to another man who was dressed in the uniform of an official of the Fire Department.
Timmons saw me and waved at me to come over to him.
Before I could say anything, he blurted, “I’m gettin’ tired of picking up the bodies of
people who’ve made your acquaintance, James. Being your friend doesn’t sound like a very
healthy occupation, does it?”
“Well Sergeant, at least you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Timmons glared at me, saying, “I’m also getting tired of your smart mouth.”
I sighed. “That’s at least one thing that you and Tony Luce have in common.”
“Wha’d’ya mean?”
I told him about my meeting with Luce two nights before.
Timmons bristled. “Look asshole, did it ever occur to you that Luce is killing off
everyone that has had anything at all to do with you?”
I did a little bristling of my own.
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“Yeah, Timmons. It did. It also occurred to me that you’re doing precious little about it.”
I snorted, derisively. “You call yourself a cop?” I turned and walked away.
“Come back here, James!” he barked. “I’m not done with you, yet.”
“Well, I’m done with you!” I yelled over my shoulder. “If you need me for anything
important, call Charlie O’Hara. He’ll know where I am.”
I stomped back to the car, opened the door, and got behind the wheel.
“What’s wrong?” Patty asked.
“That idiot, Timmons, is blaming me for everything that’s happened: The fight the
other night, your dad’s murder, and now Maude,” I fumed.
“Well,” Patty said, “he does have a point, you know.”
I turned my head to look at her. “Excuse me?” I asked.
“Come on now, Ryan,” she responded. “I’m not Ralph Timmons. I’m not accusing you
of anything. Besides, you big dope,” she smiled, stroking the back of my head, “I love you.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I remarked.
“You do have to admit, however, that all the things that have happened in the last few
days have one thing in common: you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I suppose that’s true.”
“And here you are, right square in the middle of it.”
“True, again.”
“So,” Patty reasoned, “if you were Sergeant Timmons, and you put all the pieces together,
what would you come up with?”
“That Ryan James was, somehow, mixed up with Tony Luce in bringing all this trouble to
the fair city of Colorado Springs,” I answered.
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“Right,” Patty said. She kissed me on the temple. “It is also true, however, that he doesn’t
love you like I do.”
“Thank God for that,” I laughed. “I don’t think I could live with the shame!”
I backed the 4-Runner out of the parking space, and headed down Cascade to Colorado
Ave., then hung a right turn.
“Where are we going?” Patty inquired.
“‘We’,” I said, “are taking you home. I, on the other hand, am going to see someone about
putting an end to all this nonsense concerning Tony Luce.”
“Would that someone be Charlie O’Hara?” she asked.
I looked at her and grinned. “Sometimes, I forget how smart you are.”
“Not really,” Patty said. “It’s logical progression-type thinking, just like they teach us in
school. I heard you tell Sergeant Timmons that Charlie would know where you were. Add that to
the fact that Maude said that you had told her that you thought that Charlie was cooking something
up, and, ‘Viola!’”
“Seems to me that Timmons and Co. could use you.”
“I prefer to retain my amateur status,” she laughed.
As we neared her apartment, Patty said, “Ryan, I want to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For helping me through all this. For spending the time with me, talking me through all my
feelings. I am feeling better.”
“Well, as far as spending time with you goes, don’t thank me,” I said. “It’s my pleasure. I
hope to do a lot more of that in the future.”
She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I love you for that,” she said.
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“That makes it unanimous,” I said, “because I love you, too.”
We pulled into the driveway of Patty’s apartment building. I turned off the engine.
I said, “It seems to me that Charlie hasn’t told me everything he knows. If I am, as you say,
smack in the middle of this thing, then I need to know everything I can.”
“Makes sense,” Patty admitted. “Well, my darling, learn what you can, then come back
home to me. You never know what pleasures might be waiting for you.” She leaned over and
kissed me on the mouth, holding it for a deliciously long time.
“Did I detect your tongue in my mouth?” I asked.
“That’s just the beginning, Big Boy,” she teased, laughing devilishly as she slid out of the
car seat and shut the door.
“Hubba, hubba,” I responded.
“‘Hubba, hubba?’” She asked, “Is that the best you can do?”
“Words fail me.”
“Well,” she said as she walked up the drive, “there’s a first time for everything.”
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Charlie O’Hara had a second story office, located over a bakery on the corner of Bijou and
Tejon. As I walked up the stairs, the aroma of baked bread assaulted my olfactories and caused me
to salivate like a basset hound.
Charlie was sitting at his desk when I walked in, reading something that looked like a
contract or legal brief. He looked up, nodded, and motioned me to a chair opposite the desk from
him. I sat, while he continued reading.
The office was dark, the only light coming from a brass desk lamp with a green metal
reflector. The furnishings reminded me of Mick’s place, all done in dark wood and leather.
Charlie looked as if he hadn’t slept in several days. His clothes looked as if he’d been
doing most of his not-sleeping in them. His eyes were red, his gray hair disheveled, and there
was a hint of perhaps just a little too much Brut attempting to cover up the evidence of his
self-neglect.
After a few moments’ reading, he put the papers down, and looked at me.
“That’s Mick’s will,” he said, pointing at the document in front of him on his desk.
“And,...?” I prompted.
Charlie shrugged. “And nothing. It’s all cut and dried. He left everything to Patty. The
house, the bar, everything. It’s all there in black and white, just as it should be. Mick left all of his
worldly goods to his only surviving heir, his daughter.”
“So, what’s the problem?” I asked.
“The problem is,...” He paused, shaking his head. “Hell, James. I don’t know.” He picked
up the will, then dropped it back on the desk. “There’s nothing wrong with the damned will!”
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“Well, if everything’s as it should be, and the will’s in order, why do you look as if you just
stepped in something nasty?”
Charlie O’Hara sat with his chin on his folded hands and glowered at me, saying nothing
for a few seconds. Then he leaned back in his chair.
He asked, “Just how permanent is this thing between you and Patty?”
“Are you asking as her lawyer, or her friend?”
“Friend,” he answered, leaning forward again. “Shit, Ryan. I’ve known Patty since she was
a newborn. Did you know that her mother died giving birth to her?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, that’s what happened. Mick is..., was,” he corrected himself, rolling his eyes at
the ceiling, “the only family Patty ever knew. Now he’s gone, and Luce and his punks are still
here, and Patty’s gonna have to face them on her own.”
“No. She won’t,” I asserted, locking eyes with O’Hara.
Charlie held my gaze for a few moments, then observed, “You mean that, don’t you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Do you understand what the two of you are in for?” he asked.
“Not really,” I admitted. “But I’m here for the long haul.”
“She means that much to you in such a short time?” he asked.
“I’ll forego the obvious remark that it’s none of your damn business, because I know
you’re her friend.” I sighed, waving away his impending retort.
“Look,” I said. “I don’t even understand the whys and wherefores of it myself. I just
know that there’s an undeniable connection between us. If you look at it objectively, it doesn’t
seem to make much sense, but since when did people’s emotions make sense? I just know that I
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love Patty, and she loves me. That’s more important than Luce, Hernandez, Ralph Timmons; or
even you, for that matter.”
Charlie held his hands up in surrender, laughing. “Okay, okay. I give up. Just understand
that I had to ask.”
“I understand.”
“So, what do we do now?”
“Well,” I said, “I had a feeling that you had some ideas on that subject.”
“Indeed I do,” he responded. “Indeed I do.”
“Well?” I asked.
Charlie shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Understand this,” he explained. “I’m an officer
of the court, and if it ever got out that I was in any way involved with what I’m about to share
with you, I’d never be allowed to chase another ambulance. Am I making myself clear?”
“So far,” I answered him. “Mum’s the word.”
Charlie sat back, inhaled and then blew it all out in one giant breath. “Mick had a lot of
good friends here in the Springs,” he began. “We’re all pretty blown away by this.”
“Understandable,” I reasoned.
“Understand this, then Ryan,” he said. “For all of the military presence in Colorado
Springs, and all of the high-tech industry here, this is still, basically, just a sleepy western town.
No one here is prepared to deal with someone like Tony Luce. People like him belong in
someplace like New York, Chicago, or Los Angeles; not in Colorado Springs.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “We don’t have any experience with gangs or organized
crime. Even Timmons, for all of his posturing, doesn’t have a clue as to what to do.”
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“Geez, Charlie,” I said. “Who would? How many people have ever had to stand up to
something like Luce? Despite what you might think, L.A. doesn’t have gangsters lurking around
every corner. I know. I was unfortunate enough to grow up in an area where street gangs were a
real problem, but, believe me, such things are not the common experience of everyone in
L.A.; or New York, for that matter. No, you’re wrong. There’s no place in the world for people
like Tony Luce.”
"So, what do you do?” he asked.
“You get by,” I answered. “You act smart. You don’t go out alone after dark. If you see a
potential for trouble, you get the hell out of there.”
“Is that what you did?”
“When I could. Sometimes though, the situation existed in which I didn’t have the
opportunity to make a conscious decision.”
“What’d you do then?”
“I improvised. Sometimes I talked my way out of trouble. When that didn’t work, I
resorted to more drastic methods.”
“Meaning,...?”
I laughed. “Sometimes there’s no substitute for a good ass-kickin’. I learned, early on,
how to handle myself. There wasn’t an alternative. The lessons I learned as a kid weren’t
always pleasant, but learn them I did, out of necessity.”
Charlie looked despondent. “I’m afraid that the citizens of this town aren’t going to be
able to learn those lessons in time to keep Tony Luce from riding right over the top of them.”
“I’m afraid that you are probably correct in your assessment,” I observed.
“‘Which brings me back to the issue that I've been ducking.”
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Aware of Charlie's discomfiture, I suggested, “Let’s hear it.”
Face still pointed down, toward his desk, he said, “I’ve been authorized, by some of
Colorado Springs’ leading citizens, to hire you to rid us of Tony Luce.” He looked up, sideways, to
see my reaction.
“Now wait just a minute,” I objected. “I’m not some kind of vigilante!”
“I know, I know. It’s just that word has gotten around about how well you took care of
Tomas Hernandez. There’s no one else in town that could have done that.”
“For pity’s sake! A fist fight is one thing. Taking on Luce’s whole organization is
another. I’ve got no illusions of being Elliot Ness. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect Patty. I
thought that that’s what you had in mind, too!”
“I do, Ryan. The thing you have to realize is that Colorado Springs is full of people just
like her. They’re all just innocent folks. What about them? They’re small businessmen, working
people. They’ve never faced anything like this before.”
“So I’m supposed to be responsible for them, too?”
Charlie looked at me for a few seconds before saying, “There’s another aspect to this
thing that you may not be aware off.”
“What’s that?”
“Tony Luce.”
“What about him?” I asked.
“Ralph Timmons told me that the word is out. You are number one on Luce’s list of
problems to be eliminated.”
“I’m what!”
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“”Tony’s calling in the reserves. Ralph said that there are a couple of new faces hanging
around with Hernandez and his friends. He said that they look like more of the same type.”
“Jesus Christ!”
Charlie looked me in the eye. “Ryan, you don’t have a choice. You really ruffled Tony
Luce’s feathers. Who do you think that bomb was meant for?”
I shrugged. “I figured that he was just trying to scare me, and Maude got in the way.”
O’Hara shook his head.
“People like Luce don’t feel the need for idle gestures. That bomb was meant to take you
out. The timing was just off.”
“This is crazy!” I exclaimed.
“Sure it is,” Charlie agreed. “But that doesn’t change a thing. If you don’t get him first,
Tony Luce is going to kill you.”
“God damn,” I said in wonder. “How the hell did I ever manage to get into this much
trouble?”
“You do seem to have a knack,” Charlie observed.
“What do I do now?”
He reached into his desk drawer, removed something, and passed it across the desk.
“That’s up to you, but this might help you prepare for whatever’s ahead.”
I looked at it. It was a certified check.
“Ten thousand dollars?”
“I don’t know much about these things,” Charlie said, “but it seems to me that you’re
going to need some equipment, some firepower. That should buy some, with money left over.”
“I’m sorry, Charlie, but I can’t accept this,” I said. I handed it back to him.
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“Why not?” he asked.
“If I accepted that, I’d feel like a real cur,” I said.
Charlie shook his head, sighing. “‘Better to be a live dog than
a dead lion’, Pal.”
“Woof!” I said.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was time to reclaim some of what several days of inactivity had caused to atrophy.
Except for my tussle with Tomas Hernandez, I hadn’t gotten very much exercise in almost a week.
Patty was prone to dispute that point, but she was willing to recommend a local gym, anyway.
If I was going to be put in the position of having to protect myself, I figured I’d better be as
sharp as possible, at least physically.
It was ten o’clock on Tuesday morning when I left Patty’s apartment, on my way to
find a good work out. Mick’s funeral was scheduled for that afternoon. After promising to pick
her up later, I’d talked Patty into going back to her morning classes, saying that the distraction
would be good for her. While that was true enough, I was also concerned with her being seen with
me. That didn’t seem to be such a healthy thing for anyone to do lately.
Lombardi’s Athletic Club was located on Cache la Poudre St., just east of Colorado
College. Patty said that the place had been there for years. It looked like it. The building was an old
frame warehouse that had been stuccoed over about thirty years earlier. The exterior paint looked
like it was of about the same vintage.
Upon entering the place, however, any doubts I may have had disappeared. Lombardi’s
was divided up into various areas, each designed for a specific purpose.
The main area, located immediately as I first entered the establishment, was a room
devoted to the latest developments in high-tech exercise equipment. It looked like a shrine
dedicated to the Great God Nautilus. There were machines designed to exercise every individual
muscle group that the human body had to offer. There were a
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few items that looked more like they were inspired by the perpetrators of the Inquisition than by
someone interested in personal fitness.
At the back of the building was a long room, walls covered with mirrors, for use by the
aerobics freaks.
Along the sides of the building were smaller rooms whose purposes were clearly
designated. There was an “Arm Room”, a “Leg Room”, an “Upper Body Room”, and so on.
Each room was furnished with the appropriate platform designed to aid in the exercise of the
designated body-part, and equipped with a plethora of free weights, dumbbells, and barbells, so
as to ensure that the gym’s clientele would get the maximum benefit from the exercises
offered. It was jock-heaven.
The room that appealed most to me, however, was located on the left side, toward the
rear of the building. Inside were both a heavy bag and a speed bag, as well as an assortment of
boxing gloves for the budding pugilist. Hanging on the walls were a variety of jump ropes. Some
of them were weighted for increased cardio-vascular benefit.
I learned later that the stairs going down from the main room lead to a basement, where
the locker rooms and showers were located. The building had a tall ceiling with large, exposed
beams, varnished and polished to a fare-thee-well. There were large ceiling fans throughout the
building, spaced about fifteen feet apart.
As I stood, perusing the surroundings, a short, wiry man walked up to me. Although he
was only about five feet seven inches tall, the impression I got from observing his movements
was that of a coiled spring, just waiting to be released. Fat had never graced a frame that, at first
glance, appeared to be slight, but proved to be made of muscle and sinew. He had honed his small
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body into an elegant, tight collection of skillfully crafted muscle groups so that he walked with the
grace of a tiny Bengal tiger. Sigfried and Roy would have been fascinated by him.
Reaching out to grasp my hand with an unintentionally impressive grip, he asked in a
Brooklyn accent, “What can I do for you, Pal?”
Knowing, instinctively, that I was going to like this man, I answered, “Hi. My name is
Ryan James. I’d like to find out if it’s possible to purchase a membership. I’m new in town, and
I’m looking for a good gym.”
He looked me over for a few seconds before saying, “Is that right? Well, you’re in
one. Let me tell you something though,” he added, “If you’re some kinda yuppie asshole,
you’re in the wrong place. This here is a serious gym. The people who come here are serious
about their workouts and don’t want to be bothered.
“This isn’t a ‘meeting place of the nineties’ like those sissy places in New York and L.A.
We got both men and women comin’ here, but it’s still a gym, not a singles’ club. We don’t have
instructors, or a health bar serving carrot juice. If you don’t already know what you’re doin’, than
you’re in the wrong place. You might be able to get someone to ‘spot’ you if you’re lifting
something really heavy, but that’s about it.”
I laughed, saying, “This is just the kind of place I’m looking for. I’ve been working out
regularly for years, and I intend to continue. A friend recommended you to me.”
“Who might that be?” he asked.
“Patty O’Brien.”
He looked impressed. “Patty? Now that’s one seriously in shape lady.” He took another
look at me. “You don't seem to be a complete pilgrim, yourself. If Patty recommended you, you
must know something. She knows how I feel about things.” He extended his hand again,
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saying, “I’m Nick Lombardi. Welcome to Lombardi’s. Whatever you want to build, I’ve got the
means to do it.”
“Thanks, Nick. I just need to keep myself in good condition.”
Nick looked at me, scratching his chin. “Wait a minute. You said Patty O’Brien
recommended you. What did you say your name was?”
“Ryan James.”
He laughed, pointing at me. “Now I recognize you! You’re the guy that dismantled that
punk, Hernandez, aren’t you?”
“We fought,” I admitted.
“Fought?” he protested. “Hell, that wasn’t a fight. You took that dude apart. I was there. I
know.”
“You were at Mick’s on Friday? I didn't see you.”
“I was sitting across the room from you, but I went outside with the rest to watch you
destroy Hernandez,” he said.
“He almost destroyed me,” I pointed out.
“You just needed to get loose. Gettin’ belted a couple ‘a good
ones will do that for ya. Believe me, I know.”
“Well,” I said, shaking my head. “He still almost killed me with all those karate moves.”
“Naw,” Nick said, waving his hand dismissively. “All that martial arts crap is great, but you
gotta have the right attitude. His was all wrong. Yours worked for you that night.”
“I was scared to death!” I protested.
“Of course you were. You would have been stupid not to have been scared. You were up
against a ruthless, skilled adversary.”
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“So that’s the secret to success in the fight game, being scared shitless?” I asked,
laughingly.
“No,” Nick explained patiently. “Not exactly. Hernandez was too confident. He was
cocky. He didn’t know anything about you, but he still assumed that he could win. Bad attitude.
What you need is just the right combination of fear and determination. You had it that night.
The fact that you’d put on the gloves before helped, too.”
“How’d you know that?” I asked.
“You moved well, like you’d been there before. If I had to guess, I’d say that you’d been
in a similar situation before. Besides,” he shrugged, “you threw some good combinations. A
simple street fighter wouldn’t know to do that. I could see you’d been in the ring.”
“Where did you learn all this stuff?”
Nick sighed. “You remember about twenty years ago? There was a guy named Jimmy
Valenti, a middle-weight. He fought for the championship. He was winning on points in the
ninth round, when he suddenly collapsed. They said he had appendicitis.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Now that you mention it, I do remember.”
“Well, he didn’t have appendicitis. The mob had gotten to him, paid him off. He was so
scared he couldn’t think of anything but what would happen to his girl if he didn’t cooperate.”
“How do you know?”
Nick looked at me levelly. “I was his manager.”
We passed a few minutes in silence, leaning against the front counter. While we both
considered Nick’s revelation, a small, distant part of my mind examined the assortment of
exercise wear displayed under the glass counter-top. The selection ran mostly to gray
sweatpants and sweatshirts with “U.S. Air Force Falcons” emblazoned on
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the chest.
After a few minutes, Nick said, “Eventually, it came out that there wasn’t really
anything wrong with Jimmy. He was drummed out of boxing. Because I was his manager,
everybody figured that I had to have known what was going on. They kicked me out too. I haven’t
worked the fight game since. I moved out here, bought this building, and turned it into a gym.
It took every penny I had saved for my retirement. Since then, I’ve been able to upgrade, using
the profits to pay for the improvements. Over the years, I’ve turned this into a fairly profitable
venture.”
“It's a great gym,” I observed.
Nick’s head jerked around to look at me. “You’re damn right it is, Pal! If I couldn’t do
what I wanted to do for a living, at least I could make sure that this is the best damn gym money
can buy. It helps to make up for what the mob’s money took away from me.”
“Almost,” I said.
“Yeah,” he agreed, nodding his head grievously. “Almost. Not quite.”
Nick looked around the place that he’d built as a substitute for all the broken dreams. “You
wanna hear somethin’ funny?”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“About three weeks ago, Tony Luce came in here and offered to buy me out. Me? Bought
out by the mob? I’d rather burn it down!”
“So, what happened?”
“What d’ya think happened?” he snapped. “I kicked him out.”
“Be careful, Nick,” I said. “Tony Luce doesn’t take rejection very gracefully.”
“I’m not afraid of that creep!”
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“Neither was Mick O’Brien,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, well, what about you?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You stood up to him, and you’re still here,” he reasoned.
I shook my head. “There are some good people who aren’t.”
“Like who?”
“Like Mick. Like Maude Embree.”
Nick looked at me, quizzically. “You think that bomb that killed Maude was meant for
you?”
“Something like that,” I agreed. “Tell me, Nick. Did you ever hear of Maude making a
stand against Luce?”
Nick thought it over for a few seconds. “No. I don’t recall ever hearing about any such
thing.” He paused. “Let me tell you, though, that if it had ever come up, Maude would have done
just that. Like me, she had reason enough not to like gangs.”
“I know. She told me. The point is, she didn’t have any connection to Tony Luce,
except through me. Luce killed her accidentally. That bomb was meant for me.”
Nick chewed it over. “Makes sense.”
He looked at me out of the corner of his eyes. “So, tell me. Is that why you’re here? To
get ready for Tony Luce?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I figure I’d better cover all the angles. ‘Forewarned is forearmed’,
they say.”
“Well, I’ll be glad to help you, but let me tell you something, young fella. A strong body
won’t be much good against a bomb, or a gun.”
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I patted him on the back. “I know, but let’s take one thing at a time, shall we?” I changed
the subject. “First, I need to buy a set of workout duds. Most of my stuff was burnt to a crisp.
What do you recommend?”
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I picked Patty up at her place, feeling wonderfully stretched, pulled, and tight from the
two hours I spent working out at Lombardi’s. I was refreshed from the shower, and felt as if I
could take on anything that came my way. Nick was right. It was a damn good gym.
Mick’s funeral was scheduled for two o’clock. Patty got in the car without even kissing
me on the cheek. She was quiet and withdrawn all the way to the cemetery.
After we had parked the car, and gone through the reception area, I was astonished at the
number of people who had come to say their goodbyes to Mick O’Brien. There had to have
been at least seventy-five or eighty people at the funeral. I had the feeling that, if it wasn’t for
the violent nature of Mick’s demise, there would
have been even more. Loyalty and friendship are often among the first things to suffer the erosive
aftermath of fear.
It had started to rain lightly, but since such an occurrence wasn’t uncommon in
Colorado in the spring, almost everyone was prepared. As the priest began speaking of the
inevitability of the ending of life, Patty felt for my hand, and rested her head on my shoulder.
As we stood there, listening to Father Malloy giving what comfort and solace he was capable of,
I could feel Patty’s hot tears mixing with the few cold, windblown raindrops that had gotten
through the umbrella and stained the shoulder of the suit coat that I had borrowed from Charlie
O’Hara. Except for being a bit tight in the shoulders, it was a pretty fair fit.
The ceremony was brief, ending in a prayer, theoretically offered up for the benefit of the
newly departed, but, in reality, intended as a reassurance to those left behind. Patty squeezed
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my hand, straightened up, wiped her eyes, and prepared to accept the condolences of those
in attendance.
Afterwards, as everybody was walking back to their cars, I asked Patty where she would
like to go. She looked at me uncomprehendingly.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well,” I asked, “isn’t it over?”
“Oh, no,” she said, with a sad smile on her face. She patted my cheek, and said, “We Irish
are the world’s greatest practitioners of the melancholic arts.”
“So, now what?” I asked.
“Now comes the wake,” she replied.
“Where?” I asked.
“Where else? Mick’s Place.”
“Of course.” I nodded.
When we arrived, I was issued a black armband that matched those worn by the other
males in the room. Patty was escorted to a place of honor at one of the elevated tables on the left
side of the room. Except for a few that had been placed end to end in the center of the room and
covered with a black cloth, most of the benches and tables had been removed.
There was a bartender, who was busily filling pitchers with beer and stout. Barmaids
were scudding around, placing the heavily laden pitchers on the improvised banquet table. Charlie
O’Hara told me later that they had come from bars and restaurants all over town,
volunteering to work for free, as a tribute to Mick.
I removed my coat, hanging it on an available peg, and strolled around the barroom. The
people who had been there on the night that I fought Hernandez, just before Mick was
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murdered, nodded at me in recognition. Others eyed me with a mixture of curiosity and
uncertainty. Perhaps they were a little afraid to get too close. Proximity hadn’t served Mick
or Maude very well. I said as much to Charlie, when we met on the other side of the room.
“Don't judge them too harshly, Ryan,” he advised. “This used to be a quiet little city.
Things have changed too much, too fast. It hasn’t been an easy adjustment for anyone.”
A barmaid came by, handing each of us a mug of stout, which we accepted gratefully. As
I took a sip from mine, I agreed with Charlie.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know. You're right. It just feels a little strange to be the center of so
much fearful attention. You know, I didn’t come here to stir things up or to start a crusade. I
didn’t even know that Tony Luce existed, before Friday night.”
He placed his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure that’s true, Ryan. If I wasn’t so sure, I
wouldn’t be standing up for you with Timmons.”
“That jerk!” I said, angrily.
Charlie laughed. “Well, he does take himself, and his job, a bit too seriously from time to
time. Think about it though, Ryan. Think about what an adjustment it’s been for him, too.
Being a cop in Colorado Springs was never very challenging, until now. All of a sudden, Ralph
has had to accept the fact that we've got a real crime wave going on here. That’s not an easy
transition for a small-town cop to make.”
I sighed. “Once again, you’re right. You’ve got a very annoying habit of doing that, you
know!”
He smiled, a little sadly. “Let’s hope that I’m on a roll, shall we?”
I took a pull on my mug of stout. “Works for me,” I agreed.
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I heard music. Turning toward the bar, I saw a group of musicians gathered, playing with
the mixture of sadness and whimsy that was the custom at Irish wakes. The group consisted of a
guitar, banjo, standup bass, piano, and the featured instrument, the pipes, played by a man who
looked exactly like Victor McLaughlin, in “The Quiet Man.”
While ‘Victor’ and his band played, the party started to really get rolling. Not a person in
the room was without a glass or mug of good, strong, Celtic brew. Even Patty had accepted a
small glass, as she sat at her assigned place, and quietly mourned her father’s passing.
As the beer flowed, the talking around the bar became gradually louder, and the mood
changed from mourning to a lusty celebration of the life of a man they’d all loved and respected.
Stories about Mick O’Brien were heard in every corner of the place. Laughter took the place of
somberness. Mick was a man who had enjoyed life, and these
people were determined to honor him in a joyful manner.
After a while, Patty left her seat, and came over to put her arm around my waist. She’d
already had her fair share of strong Irish beer, and, while the band played and people raised their
voices in conversation, she looked up at me through slightly glazed eyes.
“Well, Ryan Andrew James,” she asked, with some of Mick’s brogue showing in her voice,
“what d’ya think of us no-o-ow?”
I laughed. “I think you've been enjoying a bit of liquid Irish culture.”
She smiled up at me, dreamily. “Just a wee li’l bit. Just a taste.” With that, Patricia Anne
O’Brien collapsed, almost falling to the floor.
I scooped her up into my arms, and stood there, wondering what to do.
A man next to me raised his glass, tongue firmly in cheek, saying, “And a good time
was had by all.”
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I glared at him, and he went away.
Charlie motioned to me. I followed him, carrying Patty, as he led me upstairs. At the top of
the stairs, he opened a door into a small, well-kept apartment. It looked a lot like Patty’s apartment.
“Mick lived here,” Charlie explained.
I took Patty into the bedroom, and laid her on the large bed. I covered her with a quilt
that I found draped over the back of a rocking chair in the far corner of the room.
We left her there to sleep off the beer and, perhaps, to rest easy for the first time in days.
Considering the shape she was in, I figured that she’d be out for hours.
As we walked back downstairs, Charlie said, “Let’s not rejoin the party, just now. We need
to talk.”
“Alright,” I said.
As we walked across the barroom, toward the kitchen, I noticed that Charlie caught the
eye of several men, one at a time. Each one of them, in his turn, excused himself from the group he
was part of, and followed us into the back room of Mick’s Place.
In the kitchen, Charlie motioned to a large table, and we all sat down. Including Charlie
and myself, there were seven of us at the table.
One by one, I was introduced to the others seated with me. They were: Stephen Kimball,
owner of the market down the street; George O’Malley, the neighborhood pharmacist; Nicolas
Papadouris, a baker; Bill Stewart, president of the biggest bank in town; and Rusty Hanners,
owner and broker at Hanners and O’Flaherty Realty, which was, he explained, the largest agency in
Southern Colorado.
While none of these men were directly involved in city government, I realized that
they were, collectively, the real voice of power in Colorado Springs. Together these men
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exercised the real financial power in town. They were also the ones most directly threatened
by Tony Luce.
Charlie spoke first. “Nothing that is said in this room must ever go any further than these
walls. Even the fact that we are meeting in this way could be construed as a violation of both state
and federal conspiracy laws.” I wiggled uncomfortably in my chair. I didn’t like the way this
meeting was beginning.
O’Malley replied, “Don’t worry, Charlie. We were all Mick’s friends.”
“That’s right,” Bill Stewart said. “Not only that, but we’ve all got a lot at stake in this
thing.”
“Very well,” Charlie said. “What we’ve got to do is come up with a plan of action. We’ve
got to proceed very carefully from this point onward.”
“Excuse me,” I interposed.
“Certainly.”
“Just why am I here?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” Kimball asked.
“Well, except for me, everyone here is a business owner, a pillar of the community. As I
understand it, the only thing that I have in common with all of you is a mutual respect for Mick
O’Brien.”
“No, Ryan,” Charlie said. “You’re wrong.”
“I am getting a little tired of hearing that particular point of view expressed,” I said a
little more heatedly than was, perhaps, called for. By then, I should have been used to making a
fool of myself.
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“I am sorry Ryan,” Charlie said, tiredly. “Be that as it may, it’s true, nonetheless.” He
sighed. “Whether you like it or not, you are involved in this thing. Tony Luce has drawn the battlelines,
and you stand there, right square in the middle.”
Papadouris interrupted. “I still don’t understand, Charlie. What is it that Tony Luce
wants?”
O’Hara stood tiredly, just shaking his head in frustration. Rusty Hanners said, “Let me try
to explain it to him, this time, Charlie.”
Charlie shrugged, saying, “Be my guest, Rusty.”
Hanners leaned forward, his big hands resting on the wooden table. “Now Nikki, you
know that property values in this state aren’t worth shit.”
“Yah,” Papadouris interrupted again. “If I were to sell now, I’d take a terrible loss. Why, I
remember...”
“Goddammit, Nikki,” Hanners broke in. “Will you just shut up and listen for a minute?
No wonder you don’t get it. Now,” he started again, “as I was saying, you can’t sell a piece of
property for a decent price, these days.” He held his hand up for silence, as Papadouris started
to interrupt again.
“Luce knows that this recession won’t last forever. There he sits, with all his ill-gotten
gains, directly traceable to his rackets back in L.A. Drugs, prostitution, gambling; that’s where his
money comes from.
“What better way to launder money than to invest in cheap real estate? When things are
better again, he makes a killing. In the meantime, he gets the write-off from the loss he takes
on the devaluation of the land he buys. With the kind of backing he’s got, he can stand to take a
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temporary loss, looking forward to future gains. What would kill any of us, is a profit on three
fronts for him. He can’t lose, except...”
“Except we won’t sell to him!” Papadouris exclaimed, excitedly, seeing the light for the
first time.
“Exactly,” Charlie interposed. “So far, the businessmen in town have been able to
withstand Luce’s efforts to take control, but, as the economic situation worsens, it’s getting harder
and harder to turn down the chance to escape total loss that Luce holds out as bait.”
“So, what now?” Kimball asked.
“Well, that’s where Mr. James comes in,” Charlie said, looking at me.
“What do you mean?” I asked, guardedly.
“Ryan, my friend, you are our chance to rid ourselves of Tony Luce, once and for all.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Bill Stewart leaned forward, saying, “What Charlie is tryin’ to tell you, is that we’re
willin’ to pay you to get rid of Luce by whatever means you deem necessary, up to and including
killing him.”
I stood up, with my hands up in front of me. “Now wait a minute, fellas,” I objected. “Like
I’ve already told Charlie, I’m not a thug. I don’t take money to hurt people. True, I’ve gotten
myself into a difficulty with Luce and his people, but that’s a personal thing. I’ll do what I have to
to protect myself, but I won’t accept money to kill him. All I want is to be left alone. If I can get
out of this without any more violence, I will.”
“What about us?” Hanners asked.
“Go to the police.”
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“What do you think we’ve been doing, James? Ralph Timmons either can’t, or won’t, do
anything!” he exclaimed.
I backed away from the table, shaking my head. “I’m real sorry, guys. It seems that we
have a common enemy, but I’m no killer. I refuse to lower myself to Luce’s level. Defending
yourself is one thing, but, coldly going after someone to kill them is something else. You’re gonna
have to find yourselves another boy.”
O’Hara asked, “Will you, at least, promise not to repeat what you heard here tonight?”
“Yeah, Charlie,” I said. “I won’t say another word. As for the rest of you, I don’t blame
you one bit for the way you feel. I guess, if I had my back against the wall like you do, I’d feel
the same way.”
“It already may be against the wall, Ryan,” O’Hara said. “It just already may be.”
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CHAPTER NINETEEN
I walked out of the kitchen, and rejoined the party. Actually, all I really did was grab
another beer, and go sit alone in a corner to brood.
It really startled the hell out of me, to hear a group of respected businessmen sit
around and calmly discuss doing away with another individual, even if Tony Luce was the
prospective doee. I can talk a tough line as good as the next guy, but that stops way short of
murder.
There was just one problem. Tony Luce wasn’t giving me a lot of space in which to
exercise my ethical options. He’d already killed two people who’d gotten in his way. He’d also
made it quite clear, in our conversation together, that he wouldn’t mind doing the same to me.
So, what were my options? Could I just leave town? I could, but I knew I wasn’t going to.
Could I just go around and pretend that none of this had happened? I didn’t think that Luce
would allow me to delude myself that way for long. Well, if I wasn’t going to run, and I couldn’t
hide, what other option was there? Only one thing left to do: fight back.
The idea of taking on a part of organized crime, even a small part, wasn’t making me
happy. Sweat was standing out on my upper lip, and I didn’t think it was from the beer I’d been
drinking. What was I supposed to do?
The only thing that I was certain of, was that Luce wouldn’t quit. Now that he felt
that I’d crossed the line, I was merely an annoyance, to be removed in the most convenient way
possible. I didn’t have a choice, did I? Sooner or later, they would come after me.
That was just swell! What ever happened to the idea of starting a nice, new, quiet life here
in Colorado Springs? Tomas Hernandez had ended that notion before I’d even gotten to town, by
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rapping me up the back of my head in Gallup. He’d brought the trouble to me. I’d never been
given the option to avoid it.
Unless I found a way of dealing with Tony Luce, there would be no future in Colorado
Springs, or anywhere else. Within the next few days, some wolf living in the mountains
would be feasting on my remains. I shivered at that thought. I rebelled at the idea that I could
disappear without leaving behind something significant to mark my passing. I had the same sense
of invulnerability as any young man, but it was a lie. What was there about me that would protect
me from evil, from the madness that Tony Luce had brought to the mountains?
I shook myself to rid myself of such thoughts. I was becoming maudlin. I had too
much to live for. I’d found someone to love who seemed to love me. I had a sense of who I
wanted to be, and how I wanted to live my life. I didn’t know all the details, but it was a start.
Lives had been built upon a lot less.
No. I wouldn’t let my hopes and dreams be killed by anyone, especially not by bullies.
For, that’s really all they were. True, they were evil, dangerous men, but they were not all that far
removed from the school-yard bullies I’d faced as a kid. Take away their advantage in
weapons and numbers, and they could be seen for the morally small and mean-spirited persons
they were.
If I were to survive, I would have to find a means of countering their advantage with my
own ingenuity. Unfortunately, I might find myself in the position of having to set aside some of
my scruples, merely in order to keep on living. They wouldn’t feel any hesitation at the idea of
taking unfair advantage in hunting me down and killing me. They’d already proved that. I, in
turn, couldn’t afford to be weak.
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But, was morality the same thing as weakness? Could I, in all good conscience, resort to
the same methods that Tony Luce would employ in order to prevail? There was one essential
difference between my outlook and that of Luce, Hernandez, and the others. I might do what was
necessary, even violating my own sense of goodness in so doing. The difference was that I’d have
trouble living with it. That was both my strength and my weakness. Maybe, in this situation, it was
all the difference that mattered.
But was that really true? As I sat, sipping my beer and contemplating my supposed
moral superiority, others around me were mourning the death of a man who had died because
he took such a superior moral stand. A nice old woman was dead because she got too close to the
so-called right side of a dispute rooted in cruelty and avarice. Upstairs, a young woman slept,
dreaming of a father she’d never see again, and knew that his death was caused, in part, by the
man she loved.
No, I’d best not kid myself by thinking of myself as a model of virtue. When the time
came, virtue would go right out the window. If that’s what it took to survive, I’d kill Tony Luce,
Tomas Hernandez, or anyone else who threatened me, or those I loved. Either that, or I’d die
trying. It’d bother me some, but I’d do it.
I had just taken a big swallow from my mug, when a commotion behind me drew my
attention. Victor Garcia was standing just inside the door, surrounded by a group of angry Irishmen.
I didn’t envy him.
“Where is that asshole, James?” he was screaming. At least he got my name right.
“I’m gonna kill his ass!”
I stood up from the table, sighing and shaking my head.
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Victor saw me and screamed, “There you are, Asshole! How does it feel to know you’re
gonna die?” His eyes were big, his breathing rapid, as he pointed at me and yelled.
I spoke quietly. “We’re all going to die, Victor. Some of us just rush it a little more than we
should.”
“Rush it? I’m gonna rush you right straight to hell, gringo. Just quit hiding behind your
friends, and I’ll take care of you right now.”
I walked toward him, still shaking my head. “Victor, Victor, Victor. Why do you wish
such harm to come to me?”
He had to look over the shoulders of those who stood between us as he answered,
“Because these chicken-shits hired you to fight us, that’s why. Tomas told me not to come here
by myself, but I’m not afraid of you, Asshole. Why should I be afraid of a dead man, eh?”
I had stopped walking. I was only about half a yard away from him at that point. “Let him
go,” I instructed the others.
They complied, standing back to put distance between themselves and the inevitable
violence to come.
“Victor, nobody had to pay me to knock you out, the other night. It was my pleasure. If you
don’t turn around, and walk out the way you came, I am going to knock you even sillier than you
already are.”
Victor was stupid, but not completely so. He produced a small automatic pistol, pointing
it at me. He grinned sadistically.
“What about this, gringo?” he asked. “You’re not such a big man now, are you? I think I’ll
put a hole right between those green gringo eyes.” He brought the gun up against my forehead.
At that moment, a scream came from the top of the stairs. “Ryan! No!”
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Everyone in the room looked up to see Patty gripping the rail, eyes wide in terror. I
looked back at Victor to see his gun moving from me toward Patty. I felt something inside of me
shift. It wasn’t exactly a physical reaction. It might have been an increased flow of adrenaline.
I’m not real sure what it was, but I felt it, nonetheless.
I reached up with both hands. My right hand plucked the gun out of Victor’s grip,
throwing it to the floor. I then grasped his wrist with both hands, twisting it. There was an audible
snapping sound.
Victor staggered away, crying out, “Oh! Madre de Dios, you broke my fucking arm, you
asshole!”
I felt the same internal shifting again. I threw a right uppercut that lifted Victor Garcia up
off of the floor. He landed in an unconscious heap, five feet away. The room was still.
Suddenly, the room was full of cops. Ralph Timmons was there, leading them.
“Just in time, eh Timmons?” I observed. I reached for the gun, and tossed it to him.
He caught it clumsily. “What's this?” he asked.
“Probably, the murder weapon in the Mick O’Brien case. It’s a clue. Don’t drop it.”
“Your gun?” he asked hopefully.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Timmons, but I’ve got about seventy witnesses who saw me
take it away from that little shit.” I pointed at Victor’s still form.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I saw you beat the crap out of him. I suppose I could make a case
for assault and battery.”
Patty had managed to get down the stairs and through the crowd. She put her arms around
my waist.
“It was self-defense, Sergeant,” she protested. “Everybody here will say so.”
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There was a chorus of voices, raised in agreement.
Timmons put his hands up in defense. “Okay, okay. You win, Ms. O’Brien.” He
laughed. “I wouldn’t arrest him for cleaning up this mess, anyway.” He pointed at Victor, who
was just beginning to stir.
“Let’s go, men,” he called out.
Two officers picked Victor up off of the floor.
He came to complete wakefulness, screaming, “Watch my fucking arm!” They left.
As Timmons’ entourage left, I turned away, with Patty still clutching me around the
waist. I saw Charlie O’Hara standing by the kitchen door, with his friends.
I pointed at them. “I’ve still got some reservations about this whole thing, but ....”
“Yes?” Charlie inquired.
“You’re on.”
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CHAPTER TWENTY
Patty and I drove back to her apartment after everyone had left the wake, and the place
had been cleaned up. The volunteer waitresses and bartender had offered to clean up, but Patty said
that it was her place now, and she would see to it. The others stayed to help, anyway.
While Patty was busy supervising the cleanup effort, I took Charlie aside, to talk in
private.
“Look,” I said. “I’m willing to do something about Tony Luce, but let’s get one thing
straight.”
“What’s that?” Charlie asked.
“I’m no paid assassin.”
Charlie smiled, enigmatically. “I think that you’ve already made that abundantly clear,
Ryan.”
“Be that as it may, I’m not willing to profit from anyone’s death,” I stated flatly.
“So, where does that leave us?”
“Tell you what,” I said. “Put the money in a fund to assist Patty in paying for help to run
Mick’s Place until she finishes school. I’ll trust you to find a way for the balance to continue to
earn interest and grow.”
“Hell, Ryan,” he said. “I would have been willing to do that anyway. Do you have any
idea how many meals Mick provided for me while I was finishing law school? If it hadn’t have
been for him, I would have gone hungry a good deal of the time.”
“Well, there you go then,” I said. “Make it happen.”
Charlie gave me his word, and we parted in agreement.
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In the car, Patty leaned against my shoulder, and asked, “What were you and Charlie
talking about so seriously back there?”
“You don’t miss much, do you?” I observed.
“No, I don’t,” she replied. “So, answer the question.”
“We were talking about what to do next about Tony Luce.”
“And?”
“And,..., well, neither of us is really sure,” I said.
“That’s comforting,” she said, sarcastically.
“I know, Patty. I know. The trouble is, Luce isn’t really giving me much room in which to
move.”
“‘Me’?” she asked. “What’s this me shit?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.
“Well, a couple of sentences ago, it was ‘us’, meaning you and Charlie. Now you’re
talking singularly, as in alone.”
“Well, kiddo, I’m the one that Luce seems to want out of his way.”
Patty sat back against the far door of the car.
“So, now what? Do you do a John Wayne? Go up against him and his thugs all by
yourself? That’s just pure stupidity!”
I pulled the car into her driveway.
“Patty, I haven’t been given a choice. Luce isn’t going to let up until I’m no longer a threat
to him. According to his way of thinking, ‘no longer a threat’ equals dead.”
We sat in the silence of the night, together yet so apart. The crickets chirped, and a tear
began to trickle down Patty’s cheek.
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“Ryan!” she cried. “Why does it have to be you?”
“I don’t know, babe,” I answered truthfully. “I guess I’m just in the wrong place at the right
time.”
Patty moved back to me, and hugged me fiercely with both arms.
“I can’t bear to lose you, too.”
I laughed, humorlessly. “In all honesty, I can’t bear to be lost.”
“What are we going to do?”
I placed my arm around her, drawing her closer.
“Just stay together, I suppose.”
She looked up at me, saying, “Oh, Ryan, I don’t know...”
“What don’t you know?” I asked.
She took her time explaining, choosing her words carefully.
“Well, as I see it, the only way that you can come out of this whole thing alive, is to
return violence for violence. You know how I feel about that.”
“Yeah, I know, Patty, but....” She placed her hand over my mouth.
“Please, dear. Just shut up and let me have my say. Okay?”
She removed her hand.
“Alright.”
“How can you respond violently without it destroying you? How could you ever be the
same person you were before, after putting yourself in the position of having to injure, perhaps
even kill someone else, even if it is in self-defense. As afraid as I am of your being killed, I am
just as afraid of who you might become if you were forced to act just like Tony Luce and his gang.”
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I shook my head. “I’ve been asking myself those same questions, Patty. I’m afraid that I
don’t have any real solid answers. All I know is that I won’t be anybody if I don’t defend
myself. Luce, or Hernandez, or someone, will put an end to me. I’m not ready to write an end to
my life that easily, not even to stand up for a set of principles that I believe in. And, do believe
me, when I say that I believe in those principles as strongly as you do.”
“So, what will you do?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know, exactly,” I admitted. “I guess I’ll do whatever has to be done,
just like always.” I took her hand in mine.
“Listen,” I started, “I don’t think there are any rules for something like this. If there
are, I sure don’t understand them. I just know that I love you, and I want to keep on living.”
Her eyes softened somewhat, as she said, “I love you too, Ryan. I’m just scared of what
might happen.”
She leaned back over toward me, and kissed me, full on the mouth. The kiss lingered, and
then deepened. We stayed that way for several moments, fear and uncertainty being pushed
aside by the depth of emotion that we shared.
Patty sat up straight, her eyes looking a little glazed. It could have been all the beer she’d
consumed, but I didn’t think so. I was pretty sure that my eyes had crossed slightly, as well.
“I think that we should go inside. Don’t you, Mr. James?”
“I..., I think so,” I answered thickly. My voice had turned husky.
We got out of the car, and walked to her apartment. Once inside, Patty asked me to make a
fire on the hearth. She disappeared into the bathroom. Shortly, I heard the shower running.
I crumpled up most of that morning’s newspaper and jammed the pieces under the
brazier. I placed the rest of the paper, opened completely, on top of the brazier. I then took out
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my pocket knife, and shaved small pieces of kindling from a stud taken from the stack of two-byfours
that was next to the fireplace. Patty had told me once that a local contractor brought her leftover
lumber from construction sites that he worked on.
After I was done with my whittling, I pocketed my knife. I then built a tier-work of twoby-
fours, two in a layer, and three layers high. When I was done, I had a fire sure to start with one
match, that would burn for at least an hour, with minimum tending. I lit the newspaper, in
several places, with a long fireplace match from the container that Patty kept on the mantel.
I stood back from the fire and, as I was admiring my handiwork, I realized that the sounds
of running water from the next room had ceased some time ago. I heard the door open, and turned
around to see Patty standing before me.
She was wearing only a towel. As she went up on her toes to kiss me, she let the towel fall.
As always, I was startled with the wonder of her. Her body was made up of a series of taut, welldefined
muscle groups, softened by the natural, thin, subcutaneous layer of fat that overlay the
muscle. The overall effect was of a powerful femininity.
“You like?” she purred, eyes narrowed, cat-like.
“I like,” I answered, hoarsely.
She’d brought a blanket into the room, and let it drop to the floor. As she spread it out in
front of the fire, I hastened to remove my clothing. By the time I had my pants off, Patty was
stretched out on the blanket.
I lay down beside her. She turned her back to me. I put my arm around her, drawing her
closer. She pressed against me, a slight moan escaping her lips, as she did so.
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I stroked her side, her belly, her hips as we lay together on the blanket, before the fire. I
could feel the strength in her thighs as my hand brushed lightly over them. The urgency inside of
me grew with each passing second.
“What’s this?” Patty asked, mischievously, as she felt my growing organ pushing to get
between her thighs.
I passed one arm underneath her, and placed both hands on her breasts. She pressed
harder against me, and her thighs parted lightly.
“Please,” she breathed. “Now!”
We merged in one, symbiotic thrust of mutual hunger and need. Now that we were one, we
slowed the pace of our love-making. She moved her upper body forward, and we were closer yet.
As the fire roared out it’s warmth, Patty and I moved together in a rhythmic series of
joinings and separations. Each separation made the following rejoining more intense. My hands
traveled over her body, first caressing her breasts, then stroking her parted thighs. Patty placed
her hands behind me, running them over the hairs on my
buttocks, urging me on, causing me to thrust ever deeper and deeper.
Finally, as we reached the limits of our endurance simultaneously, she bent
forward at the hips, arched her back, and shuddered, just as I delivered one last, climactic thrust.
We stayed there, frozen in the act of ultimate joining, demanding every last microsecond of joy.
As our bodies relaxed, we remained intertwined, my arms around her, her head back, as
I kissed her face, neck and eyes. The fire dimmed, the shadows dancing on the ceiling and walls.
Patty and I got up from the floor, dragging the blanket into the bedroom. We lay on her
bed, holding each other.
“Ryan?”
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“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“And I love you,” I returned.
“I know that all this stuff with Luce is tough for you,” she said.
“No more than it would be for anyone else,” I answered.
Patty raised herself up on one elbow, the blanket sliding off to reveal one perfect breast. I
readjusted the blanket to keep her warm.
“No,” she said. “I don’t believe that. I know that it’s a struggle for you. You’re too
good a person for it not to be.”
“Don’t put me up on such a pedestal, Patty,” I warned her. “I get dizzy at such heights.”
“No,” she said. “I’m not exalting you. I just want you to know that I trust you. I believe
that you’ll do what you have to, but I also believe that you’ll stay true to the person you are
within.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think that you’ll go as far as the situation demands, but no farther.”
“But, that may mean that I’ll have to go much farther than you ever could. I might have to
kill someone.”
“I know,” she said. “But you’ll never enjoy it. That’s what makes you different from Luce
or the others. They enjoy hurting people. You never could.”
I pulled her down where I could look deeply into her eyes.
“Were you reading my thoughts a few hours ago?” I asked. “I was thinking the same thing
then.”
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“No,” she said. “We just think alike. That’s one of the reasons we were so drawn to each
other right from the first.”
“I don’t know,” I sighed. “Sometimes, I think that you can get right down inside of me.”
Patty giggled. “I think you have the two of us confused!”
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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I was making breakfast, while Patty got ready for a morning class. The phone rang. It
was Charlie O’Hara.
“Can you meet me at the Garden of the Gods in an hour?” he asked.
“Why?” I poured myself a cup of coffee.
“There’s someone there I want you to meet.”
“Who?” I asked.
“You’ll see when you get there,” he answered. Sometimes Charlie’s tendency to be
enigmatic was maddening.
“Oh, by the way,” he said.
“Yes?”
“One of your problems is taken care of,” he said.
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Timmons called this morning to inform me that the ballistics check confirms that the
gun you took away from Victor Garcia was indeed the one used to kill Mick. Victor won’t talk.
He’ll be put away for a very long time.”
I said, “That’s one down.”
“Indeed it is,” Charlie agreed. “So, will you be there?”
“Make it two hours, okay?”
“See you then.” He hung up.
I folded the omelet over the mushrooms, green peppers, and onions I’d used as filling.
Patty came out of the bathroom.
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“Who was it?” she asked.
I turned the heat off under the omelet pan, and flipped its’ contents, then covered the pan
with a lid, to keep it warm.
“Charlie.” I poured her a cup of coffee.
“What did he want?” she asked, guardedly.
“He says that there’s someone he wants me to meet,” I answered.
She shook her head, disgustedly. “Probably another co-conspirator. Those poor fools.”
I shrugged. “Possibly,” I said. “But if it’s help he’s offering, I’m in no position to turn it
down without at least listening to what he has to say.”
“Good point.”
“I thought so. Now, how about some breakfast to build up your strength after last
night?” I put the finished omelet in a serving tray.
“We younger folk don’t have as much trouble with our stamina as you oldsters do,” she
pointed out, as she got out knives and forks from the silverware drawer.
“Shut up, kid, or I’ll cut off your privileges.” I pretended to snarl.
Patty looked me directly in the eye, smiling self-assuredly. “No you won’t.” We held the
look for an instant, and then broke it off, both laughing.
“You’re right,” I admitted.
Patty set her cup down on the kitchen table, walked over, and kissed me slowly and
deliberately.
“We’re for keeps, sweetie,” she said.
I put the serving tray, containing the omelet I’d made, on the table. We sat down together.
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“I agree with you, of course,” I said. “But that does bring up something that we need to
discuss.”
“What’s that?” Patty asked as she took a bite of omelet.
“I can’t continue to stay here with you, in this apartment.”
I tasted my breakfast. Not bad. I never tired of my own cooking.
Patty raised her eyebrows. “Why not?”
“Well, there is your reputation to consider,” I pointed out.
“My reputation?” she asked, a look of genuine surprise on her face.
“Well, yes,” I said. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not married.”
“So?”
“So, I don’t want anyone to think badly of you,” I said.
Patty laughed quietly, over her coffee.
“What's so funny?” I asked.
She reached across the table to place her hand on mine. “Ryan, everyone around here has
known me all of my life. It’s going to take more than my ‘shacking up’ with you to make them
think ill of me.” She smiled.
As always, my reaction to her smile was just a bit south of my belt buckle.
“My dear, sweet man,” she said. “This isn’t Los Angeles. Oh, sure, we may be a little
provincial in our attitudes, but people here mostly don’t give a damn what anyone else does with
his or her life.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “You’re all amazingly liberal, for what is basically a small town.”
She looked at me, intently. “So, what gives?”
“Huh?”
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“What’s really on your mind?” she asked, insistently.
I sighed, looking around the room and scratching the top of my head. I picked up my fork,
then set it back down.
“Come on,” she urged. “Tell Momma everything.”
“I’m just worried about us,” I said. “I want this to last forever.”
“That’s a good sign,” she remarked.
I stood up and paced around the small kitchen. “I want to give us every chance to succeed in
this relationship. I don’t want us to screw it up.”
“Are we screwing it up, somehow?” Patty asked.
I raised my hands up in the air, then let them drop to my side.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I just want us to get off to a good start before we start to get
tired of each other.”
“Tired of me already, huh?” she asked, playfully.
“Hardly,” I said, walking over to put my arms around her neck, as she sat at the table. “I
do think, however, that we should give ourselves some time to get to know each other before each
of us drives the other crazy with our bad habits.”
“Speak for yourself,” she retorted, as she turned in her chair to face me. “I don’t have any
bad habits.”
Seeing my exasperation, she stood up, putting her arms around me.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “I’ve been teasing you while you’re trying to be serious.” She
leaned into my embrace, and looked deep into my eyes. “Actually, I agree with you.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t mind being courted just a little bit, myself.”
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“Keep the mystery happening, huh?” I asked.
“Something like that.” She smiled.
“By the way, Charlie had some news for us,” I said.
“What's that?” Patty asked.
“Victor’s gun definitely killed your father.”
Patty’s smile disappeared. “So, what does that actually mean?”
“It means that he’ll most likely be convicted of first degree murder,” I explained.
“Especially since he refuses to implicate anyone else in the deed.”
Patty let out a long sigh. “Thank God,” she breathed.
“I tend to share in that sentiment,” I agreed. “So, getting back to the original topic of
discussion, do you think I should start looking for an apartment?” I asked.
“Actually, I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”
“But, you just said....”
She placed her fingertips on my lips to silence me.
“Really, darling, you should learn not to fly off of the handle so.” She smiled. “What I
was going to say was that you can have Mick’s old apartment, above the bar. It’s mine, now. I can
let anybody I want stay there. I can’t think of anybody I want more than you.” Her smile turned
into a mischievous grin.
“Hey,” I said, thinking it over. “That’s not such a bad idea.” I shook my finger at her. “I
expect to pay you a fair amount of rent, though. I won’t have anyone saying that I’m taking
advantage of you.”
“We can work out the details, later.” She grabbed my right buttock. “Maybe I can
take it out in trade.” Her grin became more devilish in nature.
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“Wanton woman,” I observed. “I don’t know what I see in you.”
“Tits and ass, pal.” She grinned wider. “Tits and ass.”
129
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Garden of the Gods was only a five-minute drive from Patty’s apartment. Convenient.
It’s always comforting to know that your personal convenience is being given consideration by
those conspiring with you to commit murder.
Although I hadn’t been to the Garden of the Gods since I was a kid, I remembered it
well. The Garden consists of a grouping of sedimentary rock formations, arranged around a
grassland valley. Geologists say that the formations were pushed up as part of the process of
forming the Rockies. Wind, water, and time all played a part in their formation.
The Ute Indians were the first to view the area as being supernatural in nature. A
white railroad executive was the first to recognize its’ economic value. It is now a holding of the
City of Colorado Springs Park and Recreation Department.
As I entered the park from the south, off of Highway 24, the road narrowed and I had to
drive between Balanced Rock and Steamboat Rock. The top of the 4-Runner just cleared the
rocks. I drove through the park, past the Trading Post and a couple of picnic areas. I turned right
on Juniper Way, then left on Ridge Road, finally parking in the lot at the Visitor Center.
I left my car and found the trail that led past the White House Ranch Historic Site to an
open area, covered with prairie grass. Charlie was waiting for me about a quarter-mile down the
trail, where the grass was deepest. There was a short, stocky, red-haired man waiting with him.
His close-set, gray/green eyes were shifting nervously from side to side. On the ground next to
him, open, there was a large briefcase, of the type used by pilots to hold their flight logs.
Charlie introduced his companion, “Ryan, this is my cousin, Sean O’Hara. Sean is visiting
from the old country. His father is my uncle, Patrick.”
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“Pleased t’ meet you, Mr. James,” Sean said in a thick brogue. We shook hands. Sean
appeared to be in his early twenties. Charlie was at least twenty-five years his senior. Uncle Patrick
must have been very virile, indeed. All the while we talked, Sean’s eyes never stayed focused on
one spot for more than a few seconds.
“Me too,” I returned, pleasantly.
Charlie explained the reason for the clandestine nature of the meeting. “Sean has some
things with him that you may find useful during the current unpleasantness.”
“Really?” I asked. “And what might they be?”
“Look in the bag, Mr. James,” Sean suggested. “Satisfy your curiosity.” His smile was
smug, like that of a car salesman who thinks that he’s got your number.
I complied with his suggestion. The case was full of a variety of small arms, along with an
assortment of various accessories. I snapped my head back to look closer at Charlie’s cousin.
“Who are you, really?” I asked.
“Tha’s not your concern, Ryan m’friend,” he evaded.
“IRA, right?”
“Speculation on that account might not be wise,” Sean said, pointedly.
I looked over at Charlie. “Can I speak to you, in private?” I motioned, with my head,
toward a spot about ten yards away.
“Certainly,” Charlie said.
We walked over, out of ear-shot of the Irish Armory.
“What the hell is going on here?” I asked. “He’s no more your cousin than I am!”
“Sean can help you,” Charlie answered. “So, I called him.”
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I threw my hands up in the air. “But, Jesus, Charlie. The freakin’ IRA? Terrorists?
How did they get in on this?”
“Look, Ryan. Where do you think the IRA get most of their funding?” Charlie asked.
“Well, let me tell you. Most of it comes from Irish-Americans. We keep them going. They send
their fund-raisers to every city in this country where there is a significant Irish-American
community. Sean is just one of them.”
I gestured with my right hand toward the sky. “Okay, okay. I understand that. My
grandfather used to pass the hat when I was a kid, but, Jeez, Charlie, when did they start
smuggling guns into this country?”
“It’s real simple, Ryan,” Charlie explained. “We help Sean and his people a lot. So,
when we need help, all we have to do is ask. See?”
I shook my head. “No. I don’t.”
“Guns are not all that difficult to come by, especially in America. Call it a return on
our investment. Sean has the connections to divert some of our donations to the right place. It’s
a simple process. All that remains is to file off the serial numbers, and you have weapons that
have been paid for, in advance, and that can’t be traced back to you.”
“It stinks, Charlie. It stinks!”
“Maybe, but it’s necessary in this case.”
“Tell me,” I asked. “Did Mick contribute to Sean and his friends?”
Charlie shook his head. “No. He didn’t. Mick said that they were no different from any
other group of hooligans.”
“Sounds to me like Mick made a lot of good sense!” I said.
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Charlie said, “Ryan, we Irish are no different than any other group of people. We
don’t always agree on everything. Most Irish-Americans feel the same way Mick did. But
there are enough of the other type to make it worthwhile for people like Sean to continue coming
around.”
“What about you?” I asked. “Where do you stand on this matter?”
Charlie asked, “Does it matter so much to you?”
“Yes,” I said. “It does. If we’re going to continue to work together, it matters a lot.”
He stood for a minute, arms folded across his chest, his eyes locked with mine.
“I’m not really part of anything, Ryan,” he said. “But, I know people who are involved in
a lot of different things.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why, but people seem to confide in me. They
tell me things. And, not just in the way people confide in their lawyer, either. Whenever someone
wants to get in touch with someone who can help them with their problems, they always seem to
come to me for advice. I try to steer them in the right direction.”
“Are you telling me that you’re not actually a member of that little committee that we
met with last night?” I asked. “You’re just a go-between?”
He nodded. “Exactly,” he said. “Although, I have to say that I am in complete agreement
with them and their goals.”
I frowned. “Let me get this straight,” I said. “Right now, at this very moment, you’re
acting in the same capacity as before, only in my behalf.”
“Well, yours and, since they coincide, that of the others in town,” he answered.
“How many other little surprises do you have up your sleeve, Charlie?” I asked
peevishly.
He smiled mysteriously. “One never knows.”
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“Excuse me,” Sean called from where he was still standing, with his bag of deadly tricks.
“Can we get on with this, chums? Someone’s liable to get curious and come over here.”
I walked back to Sean and started to look through his assorted wares. I picked out a
Browning BDM 9mm semi-auto. With a round jacked up into the chamber, it would still have
fifteen more in the clip. If that wasn’t going to be enough, I would most likely be beyond help.
“Good choice,” Sean remarked.
He also had a shoulder holster available to fit the Browning. I tried it on, under my
jacket. With a barrel-length of under five inches, no one would ever notice I was even carrying
a weapon. I started to take it off. Sean stopped me.
“If you’re in as much trouble as Charlie says you are, you’d better start sleeping with
that on,” he suggested.
“Good point,” I admitted, sheepishly zipping my jacket up again.
Sean closed up his case, and we all walked back together to the parking lot, Charlie
leading the way, Sean bringing up the rear.
On the way, Sean spoke from behind me, saying, “I’ve got something else for you in
my car, Ryan.” I nodded.
When we got to the parking lot, Sean walked up to a Volvo station wagon, unlocked the
back, and opened it. He reached in, and pulled out a long black leather case. He handed it to me. I
started to open it, but he put his hand on top of mine, stopping me.
“Whoa, lad,” he said. “Wait until you get somewhere private to look.” I nodded my
agreement.
“One more thing,” he said, and handed me a small Samsonite suitcase. I almost dropped
it. It was a lot heavier than I expected.
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Sean shook his head, turning to Charlie, and saying, “How much experience does this guy
have, O’Hara?”
Charlie just shrugged. Sean then looked at me, questioningly.
“I’ve done a lot of shooting on the firing range,” I answered.
He sighed. “I hope that you realize that this is a completely different game you’re
involved in,” he said.
“I know,” I said, loading the bags into the back of the 4-Runner. “However, I don’t seem to
have much choice, do I?”
“I suppose not,” he said. He turned toward his car, then stopped and turned back toward
me. “Just remember,” he said. “We never met, did we?”
“Who never met who?” I asked, by way of an answer.
Sean smiled, got in the Volvo, and drove off.
I looked at Charlie, shaking my head. “It scares me, to know that there are people like him,
just running around free,” I said.
“If it were me, I’d have already been scared,” Charlie observed.
“Yeah. Right.”
I got in my car. Charlie got into his. Charlie drove off, back into town. I drove out of the
park, along Colorado Avenue, eventually catching Highway 25 off of Cimarron St.
I drove south on 25, until I was south of Widefield. I saw a small, two-lane road
intersecting the highway, and took it, driving east for about fifteen miles, until I was out in the
grasslands. I found a dirt road that lead off further south, and I followed it until it dead-ended in a
small clearing, after about three miles.
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I stopped the car, and got out. The silence was eerie. Only a slight breeze disturbed the
chest-high grass. The sun was out, and it was warm. I took off my jacket, exposing my shoulder
holster and the gun it contained.
I went around to the back of the car, opened it, and took out the black case that Sean hadn’t
wanted me to open in public. Inside was a shotgun. I say shotgun, but it was so modified as to
make a description difficult.
It had been cut down, so that the overall length of the barrel was less than the legal
eighteen inches. It was equipped with pistol-grips, front and back. It was a pump-action 12-
gauge, of uncertain manufacture.
I opened the suitcase that Sean had left me. Inside it was enough ammunition for the two
guns to start a war. There were two extra clips for the Browning, along with a pouch for them
that clipped on the belt. There was an immense quantity of .000 buck shot for the shotgun. There
was also a note.
It said: “The shotgun has a capacity of 8+1. It will be useful for ranges up to about thirty
feet. There should be enough ammo for you to be able to deal with even the most aggressive
adversary. Practice. Your life depends upon it. Happy hunting.” There was no signature. Big
surprise.
I practiced with both guns for about half an hour. While I had never used a shotgun
before, it wasn’t hard. With the modifications, however, it was pretty hard on the wrists.
The Browning was a joy to shoot. The sights were three-dot tritium, adjustable. It fit my
hand well, and, after a while, I found I got used to the extra weight of the gun in the shoulder
holster, and could get it out with reasonable speed. I’d have to make sure that my outer garments
were loose-fitting, however.
136
As I drove back into town, I felt better about my sense of security, as long as they
didn’t try using a bomb again. That thought didn’t make me feel good at all.
137
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When I got back into town, I went directly to Lombardi’s and worked out for about an
hour. When Nick saw me come in, he came over.
“Hail, Pythias!” I said, in greeting.
“Who the hell is Pythias?” Nick asked.
“You know, Damon and Pythias. Greek mythology. Two good friends.”
Nick walked away, shaking his head and muttering, “Pythias. Shit.”
I worked out for about an hour, then showered, dressed, and left to pick up Patty at her
apartment.
About three o’clock that afternoon, Patty and I were driving toward the Chapel Hills Mall.
When I picked her up, we agreed that she would accompany me to the mall, while I bought some
clothes to replace the ones that got destroyed in the explosion and fire at Maude’s. I was getting
tired of wearing the same three sets of clothing; or borrowed clothing that didn’t fit quite right. The
deal was that, in return for her company, I would buy Patty dinner at the restaurant of her choice.
An hour and a half later, we were walking to my car, with various bags and bundles under
our arms. I had a new wardrobe with which to fill my new closets.
“How did you do that?” Patty asked, after we got into the car.
“How did I do what?” I drove out onto Academy Boulevard.
“How did you manage to do that much shopping in that little time? I couldn’t believe it, the
way you rushed me around. It would have taken me all day to buy a whole new wardrobe!”
“That’s because you’re a feminine-type person,” I said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she retorted.
“Well, let’s face it,” I explained, “you are a woman. I noticed.”
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I grinned, and turned onto Woodman Road to catch Highway 25, south.
“Women like to shop,” I said. “most men don’t. Taking it a step further, I hate to shop. So,
when I’m forced to go shopping, I get it over as quickly as possible.”
“That still doesn’t explain how you found everything so fast,” she said, arms crossed
irritably on her chest.
“Oh,” I said. “That’s easy. You may have noticed that I’m real definite about what I like
and don’t like, right?”
“So?”
“So, I don’t waste a lot of time going to trendy stores where I know I won’t find anything
that either fits, or appeals to me. I go straight to the men’s casual section, and buy what’s available,
off the rack. My sizes haven’t changed very much in the last ten years. Then, I go and buy a couple
of sport coats, and I’m done.”
“Hmph,” she said, disgustedly. “Sounds obscene, to me.”
We drove down 25 and, in a few minutes, we were off of the freeway and parking in
front of Mick’s Place. With Patty’s help, I took my things upstairs, to my new apartment. I picked
out what I wanted to wear to dinner, leaving the rest to be hung up when I returned, later that
evening.
Patty wanted to change her clothes, as well, so we went over to her place. Then, we decided
to share a nice leisurely shower. She decided not to comment on the gun and shoulder holster, when
I undressed.
It was a couple of hours before we were ready to leave for dinner. By then my stomach was
thinking my throat had been cut. Ah, the price one pays for love.
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Patty had opted for Mexican food, and said that she knew just the right place. She insisted
on driving, since, she said, I’d been doing all the driving since we’d met. So, we got into her little
two-seater, and left for an evening of epicurean excess.
By the time we got to the restaurant, my stomach was having second thoughts. It wasn’t
that Patty was a bad driver, exactly, it was just that she didn’t really enjoy it, so she tried to get it
over with as quickly as possible. She turned the whole experience into something that the Six Flags
Corporation would have drooled over.
The restaurant was called La Napolera. Upon entrance into the foyer, my stomach decided
that everything was going to be alright, after all. I smelled the redolence of enough good Mexican
cooking to do all of East L.A. proud.
The hostess who came to seat us was small, middle-aged, and congenial. We had barely
been seated at our booth, when a busboy brought us chips and salsa, and a waitress arrived to ask
what we would prefer from the bar. I ordered a Dos Equis, with a glass of iced tea on the side. Patty
asked for a double marguerita, blended.
“You’re a real creature of habit,” she observed. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I just know what I like.”
After our drinks arrived, I sat back and exhaled audibly, allowing all the tension to drain
from my body. It felt good to spend some time with Patty, just relaxing.
“So, tell me,” I asked, taking a big bite out of a tortilla chip laden with spicy salsa. “In
addition to trying to commit vehicular homicide upon your beloved, how else did you spend your
day?”
She grinned, and sipped at her drink. “We’re working in class on the correlation of real-time
application and programming protocol,” she said.
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“Say what?”
She smiled slyly. “For the uninitiated among us, that simply means, ‘How do you create
programming that really addresses the needs of your client?’”
“I may not be as ignorant as you seem to think I am,” I suggested. “Even though my
approach is strictly from the technical angle, I understand a few things about programming. Are
you working from the standpoint of any particular programming language?”
“No,” she said. “What we’re really working on is the mental process involved. Regardless
of the protocol used, the means by which you determine the needs of the actual person, who will
use the programs you create, should be the same.”
“In other words,” I said, “the mental processes by which you determine whether or not your
efforts will be more than a series of useless numbers are the same, regardless of what language is
used, or what the final application is. The important thing to remember is, your programming is
merely a tool to be used by humans, to solve human problems.”
“Hey,” Patty said, through a mouthful of spice, “you really do know a thing or two!”
I looked into her eyes, and reached across the table for her hand. “I know that I love you,” I
said.
“That’s only one thing,” she said, smiling back at me.
“I also know that you love me, too.”
“Do you, now?” she asked, leaning smugly back in her chair.
“Well,” I said, “it’s either that, or my masculine charms are overwhelming your good
sense.”
Patty took a sip from her marguerita. “You’re right,” she said. “It has to be love.”
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The waitress came, and took our dinner order. Patty ordered a taco plate, with rice and
beans. I decided upon Chile Colorado, with black beans on the side. I asked for another Dos Equis,
as well.
We ate a leisurely dinner, spending a lot of time just smiling at one another. Seated across
the table from me, Patty was a joy to look at. Her thick, honey-blond, slightly curly hair billowing
over her shoulders, set off a round face dominated by deep blue eyes and a generous mouth cast in
a perpetual half-smile.
When she was motivated to smile in earnest, lips and eyes were joined together in an
expression that was guaranteed to stimulate pleasure in anyone who was lucky enough to be
present. Because of the symbiosis between her facial features, Patty was incapable of deceit or
fraudulent expressions of love or joy. Besides her obvious beauty and goodness, it was, I think,
what attracted me to her most.
The time came, when appetites were sated and merely sitting at a table any longer would
have been painful. Patty suggested a walk to aid in the digestive process, and I quickly agreed.
We stood up from the table, and Patty went to visit the ladies room, while I settled the
check, and then sought out the men’s room. A few minutes later, satisfied and relieved, we met in
the foyer, and I helped her on with her coat. We walked happily out into the night air.
Outside, there were two men I didn’t know, standing next to Patty’s car. Actually, one of
them, a medium-sized man, with heavy features, was leaning against the curbside door. The other
man was tall and thin, with a pock-marked face. They were obviously waiting for us to emerge
from the restaurant. Other than the four of us, the street was deserted.
Pock-Face straightened up from where he was leaning and asked, roughly, “Are you Ryan
James, fella?”
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I looked at him, saying, “Possibly. Are you guys census-takers?”
The heavy one snorted. Pock-Face said, “Don’t get smart, asshole. We’re gonna take you
two on a little trip.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Oh, you don’t, huh?” he asked, as he reached inside his coat. He stopped in mid-motion,
when he realized that my Browning was pointed about six inches above his belt buckle. I didn’t
have any conscious recollection of having drawn the gun. It just seemed to be there when I needed
it.
We all stood there for a few seconds, frozen in the perception of how things stood. Patty
was about two feet from me, her eyes as wide as saucers. She was breathing so heavily, I was afraid
she might be in danger of hyperventilating. Pock-Face ended the impasse by moving his hand away
from inside his coat.
“Not a wise move, asshole,” he said.
“A lot wiser than going anywhere with you,” I said.
“What’s going on, Ryan?” Patty asked.
“These two weren’t planning on us coming back from the little trip they had in mind,” I
explained. “Isn’t that right?” I asked the heavy one.
He shrugged, in answer to my question.
“Jesus Christ!” Patty breathed.
“Precisely,” I agreed.
“O.K.,” I said. “Hardware on the ground, in front of you.”
“And if we don’t?” Pock-Face sneered.
“Then Tony Luce’s payroll will decrease dramatically,” I answered.
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They looked at each other uneasily, then, slowly and carefully, first the heavy one, and then
Pock-Face, reached inside their coats, pulled out their guns, and dropped them on the sidewalk.
“Now,” I said, gesturing with the Browning, “start walking that way, and don’t stop walking
until you’re out of sight of this establishment.”
They looked at each other again, and then complied with my instructions, walking away in
frustration. I watched them for a minute, then grabbed Patty by the arm, leading her to the car.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to forego that walk, for the present,” I said, as I went back
to pick up the two guns from the sidewalk. I opened up the trunk, and dropped the guns in the
compartment under the mat where the spare tire was stored, then walked back to the passenger side,
and got in.
Sitting in the car, Patty looked over at me. “Would you really have shot those men?” she
asked.
“I hope so,” I answered, wondering myself.
144
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
War had been declared. The gloves were off. So be it. They’d tried to take me when Patty
was with me. I could never forgive them for threatening and endangering her. From now on, the
only rule I’d adhere to when dealing with Tony Luce was: win. Kill or be killed.
The next morning, after Patty left for school, I sat and drank my third cup of coffee, and
tried to think of what to do next. I’m not that great of a planner anyway, and the coffee didn’t
make things any better. Caffeine is great when it comes to getting the adrenaline flowing, but I
think it just might kill off active brain cells.
When the idea came, it was more the result of an article that boredom caused me to
read in that morning’s newspaper than any resourcefulness on my part.
That afternoon, I left Patty’s apartment, newspaper in hand, and drove over to see Ralph
Timmons. When I got there, he didn’t look very happy to see me, but he let me in his office right
away.
“What do you want, James?” he snarled.
“What, no ‘How's it goin’?’, or ‘Are ya doin’ o.k.?’” I asked.
“Look, wise guy,” Timmons bristled. “I don’t have time for this bullshit.”
I shrugged. “Never hurts to improve community relations,” I observed.
Timmons stared at me malevolently.
“My relationship with this community is just fine,” he growled. “It’s you I don’t like. What
d’ya want?”
So much for pleasantries.
145
“I need to know where Tomas Hernandez, and the rest of Luce’s flunkies are staying,” I
answered.
Timmons’ eyes narrowed. “Why should I tell you?” he asked.
“Call it a part of community service.”
“Y’gotta do better than that,” he insisted.
“Well,” I said, “you may have noticed that Tony Luce and Co. have expressed an interest in
my early demise.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I noticed. So?”
I let his lack of concern for my welfare pass.
I said, “Knowing where they’re operating from would help.”
Leaning back in his chair, Timmons said, “You’re up to something. What conspiracy are
you asking me to be a part of?”
I leaned toward him. “Look, Timmons. I’m not conspiring to commit a crime. I’m trying to
stay alive.”
He looked at me for a moment before saying, “As a police officer, I can’t condone a private
citizen taking the law into his own hands.”
“Could you condone my murder?” I asked.
“If Luce, Hernandez, or anyone else succeeds in offing you, they’ll be prosecuted to the
limits of the law,” he said.
“That’s comforting,” I observed.
I sat back in my chair. “I’ve done some thinking about how to avoid premature death,” I
said.
“And?”
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“And I think I’ve found a way out of this. A way that you can help without sticking your
neck out too far,” I said.
“Go on,” he said, noncommittally.
I threw the newspaper on his desk. The article that I’d been reading earlier was circled in
red.
“As I understand the law, all that is required for someone to operate as a private
investigator in this state is a business license and a public notice of intent.” I grinned.
“You? A P.I.?” he asked, incredulously.
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”
He leaned forward again, stubby forefinger raised in a gesture toward the ceiling.
“You got no training. You got no experience.”
“The law doesn’t require that I have either of those two things,” I pointed out.
“You’re fucking crazy,” he muttered.
“Quite possibly,” I admitted. “That doesn’t mean, however, that it won’t work.”
“Yeah, but it also doesn't mean that, if you are able to get them before they get you, you
won’t be prosecuted for their deaths!”
“I realize that operating as a private license doesn’t place me above the law,” I responded.
“I also realize, however, that if I, as a licensed investigator, were cooperating with the police in a
legal investigation, whatever might result from that investigation would be easier for both of us to
explain.”
“That’s thin, James,” Timmons objected. “Real thin. Besides, why should I want to help
you?”
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“Come on, Timmons,” I said. “If Tony Luce succeeds in killing me, you’ve still got him to
deal with. Who would you rather have running around loose, him, or me?”
“I’m not real sure about how to answer that,” he said.
“Thanks a lot!”
Timmons made a dismissive gesture with one hand.
“Look,” he said, “I got no love for Tony Luce. As a matter of fact, if he and his crowd were
to just disappear, I wouldn’t expend too much energy in looking for the cause of their
disappearance. But,” he said, pointing toward the ceiling again, “I don’t feel real good about
turning you loose on this town to start shooting things up!”
I sighed, heavily. “Again, Timmons, all I can say is that I’m just trying to stay alive.
You're not ‘turning me loose’, by giving me information that might help me keep breathing!”
Timmons’ eyes met mine, and we remained locked in a mutual stare for several seconds.
Finally, he sighed and leaned back in his chair once more. For a time, there was silence between us.
“O.K.,” he said. “Hernandez is staying with a girl down in Cheyenne Mountain.” He
gave me the address. “Don’t think for one minute, however, that I’m giving you carte blanche
to commit premeditated murder,” he stated, pointing at me with one fat finger. “If I find any
evidence of ambush, or anything else tricky, I’ll lock you up, for as long as I can!”
“Right,” I said, standing up and walking toward the door.
“And get that license!” he yelled, as I walked out.
Less than an hour later, I left City Hall, business license in hand. I went straight to the
newspaper office, and took out an advertisement stating that the firm of Ryan James, Investigator,
was open for business on Vermijo Ave.
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I climbed into the 4-Runner, and headed for the address in Cheyenne Mountain that
Timmons had given me. As I was driving south on Nevada, I wondered at the rapid changes that
had taken place in my life in just one, short week. All I’d wanted was to be a writer! Maybe, I
should have been writing my epitaph.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Cheyenne Mountain is an area of relatively old neighborhoods, bordered on the east by
Colorado Springs’ industrial area, and on the south by The Broadmoor. The mountains border
the west side. It is neither as affluent as The Broadmoor or as dirty as the industrial area, but, the
closer you get to each respective border, the more each neighborhood takes on the personality of
it’s neighbor. Consuela Valdez lived on the eastern edge of Cheyenne Mountain.
Doubtless, Consuela thought of herself as the love of Tomas Hernandez’ life.
Unfortunately, it was a very old story, played out countless times in the past, probably a
number of times by Tomas himself.
Men like Hernandez don’t love anyone. They use whoever is handy at the moment.
When the other person outlives their usefulness, or when the whims of the Hernandez’s of this
world take them elsewhere, the other party is dumped, unceremoniously, right where they lay. Any
hurt caused by the resultant loss is of no concern or importance to the one leaving. The
Consuela’s of this world lead a hard, loveless life. That Consuela loved Tomas is without question.
I drove up and parked in front of Consuela’s house. In contrast to its’ surroundings, her
house was tidy, with a sparse, well-kept lawn. I hadn’t seen a decent lawn since I’d arrived in
town. The winters make healthy grass a near impossibility.
The white sedan that had figured so prominently in my recent misfortunes was parked
in the driveway. This detecting business was new to me, but, upon reflection, it seemed that
someone inside the house might take note of my presence, if I stayed parked where I was. I drove
around the block again, and parked on a street perpendicular to Consuela’s, about one hundred
and fifty yards from the Valdez house, with a view of her front door.
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Waiting is one of the most boring ways to occupy yourself. Waiting, and watching while
nothing happens, is the worst. I remained in my car, eyes glued to the Valdez abode for over two
hours. What sanity I had thus far retained was rapidly seeping out through every available orifice.
About the time that I was ready to concede defeat, at least for the day, Tomas Hernandez
came out of the house, accompanied by a small, dark young woman whom I assumed to be
Consuela Valdez. I’d watched them take several steps before I realized that Hernandez had a tight
grip on the girl’s elbow, and was hurrying her along toward the car in what seemed an
unnecessarily rough manner. It wasn’t quite the way one escorts one’s lady-love.
Could it be that Ms. Valdez isn’t very enthusiastic about Tomas’ intended destination?, I
wondered. Interesting possibility. When Tomas backed the sedan out of Consuela’s driveway
and headed east, I followed along behind, maintaining a prudent interval between us.
Hernandez turned north, and then east again, finally arriving at a small, disheveled house
near the southern border of Memorial Park, in plain sight of Prospect Lake. There were several
cars parked outside, mostly late-model sedans, with California plates.
After Tomas parked the sedan, and he and Consuela went inside, I parked the 4-Runner
down the street. Getting out of the car, I looked around for a vantage point from which I could see
what was going on in the house. I spotted an apartment building across the street from where
my quarry had gone to nest. I climbed the steps and hid myself in the alcove where the stairs
emerged on the second story. From there, I was able to look down into the living room of the
house across the street. The drapes were open.
I could see a group of perhaps seven, maybe eight, Hispanic men. They were seated on the
available furniture, forming a rough semi-circle. As far as I could tell, Consuela was the only
female present. That seemed odd.
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The men present were drinking bottled beer, and passing around what I assumed to be
marijuana. Each man in the group would take a drag off of the joint, and then pass it on. They
laughed, talking animatedly.
Shortly after they arrived, Tomas sat down in the middle of the group, dragging Consuela
with him to the floor. When the joint came to him, he didn’t put it to his own lips, offering it to
Consuela instead.
I leaned against the wall, trying to see clearly what was happening across the street, and
looking around occasionally to make sure that no one was watching me.
When Tomas offered the grass to Consuela, she hunched her shoulders, shaking her head
negatively. He spoke to her more urgently, it seemed. She continued to shake her head. Obviously,
she wasn’t into pot. I wasn’t prepared for what happened next.
Hernandez struck the girl. The blow was severe enough to knock her over onto her back.
The others seated around them laughed, enjoying the show. One of them said something, made a
gesture imitating the blow, and the other members of the group fell back in their seats in
unbridled hilarity over what was befalling the girl in their midst. I felt my blood coming to a boil.
Tomas grabbed the girl by the hair on the back of her head, pulling her back into an
upright, sitting position. He held the joint in front of her. She took it, inhaled, and then experienced
a paroxysm of coughing. Tomas’ companions hooted in sheer joy.
One of the group held out a liquor bottle. Tomas took it, and presented it to Consuela. She
shook her head again, although with less conviction this time. Hernandez cocked a fist back
threateningly, and she gave in, taking a tentative sip from the bottle.
Hernandez grabbed the bottle, tilting it, thus pouring more liquor down Consuela’s throat
than she could possibly handle at one time. She choked, booze dripping down her front as she
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coughed uncontrollably. Tomas grabbed the bottle away, angrily striking her to the floor. All the
while, his companions continued to chortle at the way the girl was being treated.
For the next twenty minutes or so, the scene continued to unravel. First, Consuela would
be forced to take a hit on the pot, then more liquor would be forced down her throat. Finally,
someone produced a small vial, and its’ contents were forced upon the poor girl as well.
Eventually, she lay back against Hernandez’ chest, barely able to move of her own volition.
Suddenly, Tomas stood up, dragging her up with him. He steadied her in the center of the
group, all of whom were now standing as well. Hernandez stepped back, barking instructions to
Consuela. She looked at him, tears streaking her cheeks, and, just barely, managed a negative
shake of her head. Hernandez pulled a leather black-jack from his back pocket, slapping it against
his leg, and spoke again.
Consuela’s head hung low for a second, and then she raised herself erect. Slowly, with the
attention of everyone in the room riveted on her, she began to remove her blouse. The cheers
emanating from the house were audible even from where I stood, across the street.
I left my place on the second story of the apartment house, going down the stairs, taking
them two at a time. Once at the bottom of the stairwell, I stopped. I drew the Browning from its’
place under my arm, and pulled the action back, jacking a round up into the chamber. Holding the
gun down by my leg, I crossed the street.
I walked directly up to the front door of the house. I raised the Browning up to bang on the
door, but stopped, realizing that it would be pointless, as well as dangerous, to give them any
warning. I deactivated the safety, stepped back, and kicked at the door, next to the knob. The door
gave way, with a cracking noise, as the jam splintered.
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In the time that it had taken me to walk down the stairs, cross the street, and then break in
the door, Consuela had managed to remove all of her clothing. She had attracted all of their
attention so completely that even the sound of the door crashing in only registered as secondary to
the scene before their eyes. One man already had his pants unzipped, and was in the process of
removing them. When he saw me, he froze, his pants gathered around his plump thighs.
“Hi there,” I said, cheerily. Anyone looking into my eyes, however, would have seen no
mirth in them. I held the Browning out in front of me, pointed at a spot that was more or less in the
center of the group.
Hernandez stood still, his eyes boring into mine. “What are you doing here, James?” he
asked. “This is none of your business!”
“I didn’t think that one more guest at the party would make all that much difference to you
fellas,” I said, meeting his gaze evenly. “It might, however, make a world of difference to the
young lady.”
Consuela looked at me dully, uncomprehendingly. “Sir,” she addressed me slowly, “may I
go home? I don’t feel well.”
“You’re not going anywhere, slut,” Hernandez snapped at her.
Disgusted, I swung the barrel of the Browning against his head. He collapsed on the spot.
“I beg to disagree,” I said. At that point, all hell broke loose.
One of the others started to reach behind his back, as if he were going for a gun. I shot him
in the forehead, and he fell on top of Tomas’ inert form, his gun falling to the floor beside him.
Another man moved toward Consuela. I moved the gun a few degrees to the right, and shot
him in the leg. He veered to the side, his momentum carrying him into two of his friends. They fell
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together in a pile. After that, everyone was real still. Of course, there were fewer of them to be still,
but I wasn’t thinking of that at the moment.
The man with the leg wound lay on the floor, groaning. His friends bent over him.
“One of you, take off your shirt and tie it around his leg, before he bleeds to death,” I
instructed. Someone did as I said.
“Now,” I said, “the young lady and I are going to leave. Come here, Miss.”
Slowly, unsteadily, Consuela complied with my directions. When she was next to me, I held
her with my free arm.
“Please don’t try to stop us,” I said. “There’s still almost a full clip in the gun.”
From the center of the group, Julio emerged.
“You seem to be making a career of picking your buddy up off of the floor,” I observed.
He looked at me venomously. “You are trying very hard to be dead, gringo,” he said.
I shrugged. “What difference does it make?” I pointed at Hernandez’ limp body with the
Browning. “According to him, I’m dead already.”
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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I hurried Consuela out of there as fast as I could drag her. She was probably getting tired of
being dragged around by people like me and Hernandez. I didn’t take the time to ask, however.
What I did do was get her into the car and the hell and away from there.
After I’d driven in circles for a few miles, and it seemed that no one was following us, I
pulled the 4-Runner into the darkened parking lot of a market that was closed for the night.
Stopping the car, I got out and took off my jacket. I thought for a moment, and then removed my
shoulder rig, as well. I got back in the car, and wrapped the jacket around Consuela. If a cop
noticed me driving around with a gun strapped on and a naked girl in my car, he might have more
questions than I could answer.
I didn’t think about the questions that Patty might have until I helped Consuela into the
living room of Patty’s apartment.
“What’s this?” she asked, pointing at Consuela’s obvious lack of concealment.
“One girl’s not enough for you anymore?”
I dumped Consuela’s semi-comatose body on the couch, pulled a folded afghan off of the
back of the sofa, and draped it over her nakedness.
“Meet Tomas Hernandez’ ex-girlfriend,” I said, by way of introduction. Consuela didn’t say
anything. She was too busy snoring.
“Boy, Mr. James,” Patty said, shaking her head. “Women just seem to be falling into your
arms, lately.”
“It’s a gift,” I explained.
Patty clenched a fist under my nose, saying, “Keep cultivating that particular gift, and Tony
Luce will be the least of your problems!”
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“Does this mean that I should gather up Consuela here, and go home to my apartment?” I
asked.
“Don’t you dare!” Patty giggled, as she tackled me in her best effort at a bear-hug. Bearhugs
are difficult to attempt when you’re only half the the size of the hug-ee.
Removing a mass of honey-blond hair from my mouth, I said, “I think that you are what is
commonly known as a good sport.”
“How so?”
“Most women demand an explanation when their beloved brings home a beautiful and
naked girl,” I observed.
“Beautiful?” Patty asked, trying to look threatening.
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I forgot to show you something.”
I pulled my new license out of my shirt pocket for her to examine.
“I’m now an official private investigator. We’re supposed to notice everything, even
whether or not the naked girls we rescue are beautiful. It’s in the P.I.’s Handbook”
“I think it’s time I demanded an explanation,” Patty said.
“Spoil sport,” I observed.
“True,” she said. “But, let’s hear it anyway.”
I told her about the scene at the house by the park, and how I’d been forced to intervene.
“Jesus! And you killed him?” she asked, when I was through telling the tale.
“I don’t see how he could be anything but dead,” I admitted. “He has a nine-millimeter slug
where the bridge of his nose used to be.”
“How do you feel about that?” she asked.
I scratched my chin.
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“Funny thing,” I said. “Now that you mention it, I don’t feel much of anything. I guess it all
happened too fast.”
“Well, the whole idea scares the hell out of me,” she said.
“You should’a been there.”
“No thanks,” she said.
“If you want to know the truth, it kinda scared me too,” I admitted.
“At least you came out of it alive, along with good old ‘What’shername’,” Patty said,
pointing toward the couch. “By the way, what are we going to do with her?”
“Well, I’ve got a hunch that she’s going to be asleep for a long time,” I said. “She’s got a
lot of controlled substances flowing through her veins, along with a fair amount of booze.
Tomorrow, she’s gonna wake up with ‘the Mother of All Hang-overs’”.
Patty said, “In that case, I guess she can just stay there on the couch.”
“Good,” I said, going into the kitchen and opening the refrigerator. “By any chance, would
you have anything to eat in here?”
Patty laughed. “Typical man. Always thinking with your stomach. It just so happens that I
picked up some Jarlsberg and a nice, light white wine today.”
“Yum, yum,” I said. “Hey, I don’t always think with my stomach,” I objected belatedly.
“True,” Patty observed. “Often, your best ideas come from a little further south than that.”
“Is that a complaint?” I asked through a mouthful of cheese.
Patty wrapped her arms around me. “Hardly,” she said. “My thoughts often originate along
the same general lines.” She kissed me, gently, full on the lips.
We took the wine and cheese into her room, closing the door softly, so as not to disturb the
sleep of our guest. After sharing the Jarlsberg, and possibly a little more wine than good judgment
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would have allowed, we found ourselves laying together, naked on top of the bedspread, Patty’s
head on my shoulder, and my right arm wrapped around her.
Patty looked up at my relaxing face, and asked, “How ya doin’, soldier?”
I sighed, contentedly. “Fine. Just fine,” I answered, sleepily.
“Ryan?”
“Yeah, Babe?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Let’s don’t let anything ruin that, okay?” she asked.
I opened my eyes, lurched up to a position where I was supporting myself on one elbow,
and looking down into her soft, blue eyes. I said, “Sweetie, I’m never going to be very far from
your side. You can take that to the bank.”
“Good,” she said. “I wouldn’t ever want to have to live without you.”
“Me either,” I said, falling off into a deep sleep.
Later on, I awoke from a dream in which I was surrounded by enemies. I’d been firing the
Browning as fast as I could pull the trigger. I woke up sweating profusely. Patty’s arms pulled me
back down to the bed, and she held me tightly, tenderly, until the nightmare images went away.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I woke up the next morning with a headache and my eyes pasted shut. Patty was asleep
with her cheek resting in the juncture of my chest and shoulder. She was snoring quietly.
Carefully, I removed my arm from under Patty’s head, making sure not to disturb her sleep.
I got up, put on my pants, and padded into the kitchen to make coffee. On the way, I peeked at the
girl on the couch. She was still asleep.
After getting the coffeemaker started, I went into the bathroom to take a shower. I stood
under the spray for several minutes, letting the warm water work its' magic on my wine-sodden
brain. I got out of the shower, dried myself off, and took two aspirin from the medicine cabinet.
When I came out of the bathroom, Patty was in her kitchen, dressed in a robe, sipping from
a cup of coffee. Her eyes were a little unfocused but, even slightly hung-over, she looked delicious.
I’ve always felt that the best way to gauge a woman's attractiveness is by how she looks in the
morning. Any woman who looks good when she first wakes up, is a real beauty. Patty is queen of
the morning.
Patty pointed toward the living room with her cup, saying, “Our guest is awake. I don’t
think she knows where she is, though.”
I poured two cups of coffee, then carried them into the living room. I stood, looking down at
the couch. Consuela was lying with the afghan pulled up to her chin. It wasn’t quite long enough,
and her bare feet stuck out the other end. Underneath the blanket, she was still wearing my jacket.
She seemed nervously aware of her partial nakedness.
“Who are you?” she asked, with a slur to her speech. Her eyes were unfocused, and her
thick black hair was matted and stuck to her cheek with saliva.
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“How much do you remember about last night?” I asked, setting the other cup on the coffee
table.
Her brow furrowed in a frown of attempted concentration. “Last night?” she repeated,
confused.
“Yes,” I urged. “Last night. The house. All those men.”
Remembrance and realization returned to her simultaneously. “Madre de Dios!” she cried.
“They were forcing me to...” Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “The pot,... the whisky.
They made me take my clothes off. They were going to...” She sat up, suddenly, the forgotten
blanket falling to the floor.
“Oh my God! Tomas! How could he?” Consuela doubled over, as she sat on the couch.
Patty appeared from the kitchen, picked up the fallen afghan, covering Consuela with it as she sat
next to her.
“What else do you remember?” I asked.
Consuela leaned heavily against Patty's proffered comforting shoulder, and frowned again.
“There was another man...” She looked up at me, sharply. “You!” she exclaimed. “You are the
one.”
“Yes,” Patty explained. “He’s the one who saved you. He brought you here, where you’re
safe.”
“Safe?” Consuela laughed, without humor. “There is no safe place.” She shook her head,
then stopped, a hand to each temple. “I feel so bad,” she said.
“Come,” Patty said, standing with her arm around Consuela. “Let me take you to where you
can get yourself together.” She led her to the bathroom.
“Yes,” Consuela agreed. “A shower would be good.”
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While Patty took charge of our guest, I started working in the kitchen, putting together some
breakfast. Patty's stove was an old one, with a griddle built into the middle. I got out some eggs,
sausage, a bag of mushrooms. As I was cutting up the mushrooms into small slivers before sautéing
them in butter, I heard the shower start running.
Patty came back into the room. “She’s going to be in there for a while,” she said.
“What do you think?” I asked, as I swirled the butter around in a small pan.
“About what?”
“How is she?”
“Oh.” Patty shrugged. “She’s strung out. Confused. In shock.” She looked at me. “How
would you be?”
I nodded. “Probably the same.”
Patty sat at the table, leaned back in her chair, and folded her arms across her chest. “I just
can’t believe it,” she said, shaking her head.
“What?” I asked.
“I can’t believe that there really are people like that in this world.”
I put the chopped mushrooms in the pan, with the butter. I turned down the heat under the
pan. I put some butter on the griddle to melt, then cracked four eggs onto the griddle, placing four
sausage patties next to the eggs.
“You’d better believe it,” I said. “They’re all around us, at the moment.”
Patty shivered. “They’re so... so cruel.”
“They’re bullies,” I pointed out.
“But, Hernandez and the others, I mean, aren’t they part of an organized criminal gang?”
“Yes,” I said. “They are. I suspect, however, that the gang is just a convenience for them.”
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“What do you mean?”
“I mean that people who bully other people have some need that their cruelty fulfills for
them. Organizing together just gives them a support system, allows them to operate on a wider
scale. If they weren’t part of a gang, they’d still be bullies. It just wouldn’t be as profitable for
them.”
“So they go to work for someone like Tony Luce?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I think that people like Luce just naturally attract people like Tomas
Hernandez. They’re both cruel, controlling people. Tony’s just got a bigger bankroll.”
“And Tomas?”
“He seems to be a natural leader. If his own personal resources were greater, he might be
running the gang, instead of Luce.” I flipped the eggs and sausage patties, then turned off the fire
under the mushrooms. “As it is, Hernandez is just as dangerous as Luce. As long as he has access to
Tony’s bankroll, he has the same resources.”
“So, even if Luce were out of the picture, you’d still have to deal with Tomas,” Patty said.
“Right,” I agreed. “Remember, Tomas, Victor, and the others attacked me in Gallup when I
had no connection with what’s been going on here. They did it for the simple pleasure of inflicting
pain on another human being. Money was a purely secondary consideration.”
I sighed. “Tomas Hernandez is one of the meanest, most dangerous men I’ve ever seen, or
even heard of, for that matter.”
“You are correct.”
Patty and I turned to see Consuela standing in the kitchen doorway, dressed in one of
Patty’s robes. I motioned for her to have a seat at the table. I set three places, and served up eggs,
sausages, and sautéed mushrooms for each of us.
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“What were you saying?” I asked Consuela.
“You were right in what you were saying about Tomas,” she said. “He is dangerous. He is
cruel. I didn’t realize how cruel he was, until now.”
“How's that?” Patty asked.
“Well, he was always rough, even in our lovemaking. I just thought it was his way. I loved
him, and I thought he loved me.” She shivered. “I never thought that he’d do anything like what he
did last night.”
“You mean the other men?”
“Yes.” She looked at me, then at Patty. “Could you share her with another man?” she asked.
“Could you even offer?”
“No,” I answered. “I love her. You don’t do that to someone you love.”
Her shoulders shook as she cried silently. Patty and I sat, quietly, waiting for it to pass.
After a few moments, Consuela sat up straight in her chair and wiped her eyes with a napkin.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s true.” A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips. “Tomas does not
love me.” A soft, sad smile of realization came to her eyes and lips. “He loves only power over
others. He wanted to show the other men that he had power over me.”
“How did that make you feel?” Patty asked.
A single tear trickled down her cheek. “Small. Unimportant,” she said. “That is very bad.
The one you love should make you feel important, as if you matter. Isn’t that right?” She looked to
Patty for an answer.
Patty smiled at her. “Absolutely,” she said.
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Consuela looked at Patty, then at me. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for rescuing me
last night. Thank you for your kindness today. I think that you are good people, not like Tomas and
the others.”
I was about to acknowledge Consuela’s thanks, when the phone rang. Patty answered it.
She listened for a few seconds, then handed the receiver to me.
“Who’s this?” I asked.
“James, this is Ralph Timmons,” the voice on the other end said.
I sighed. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”
“A couple of uniforms answered a disturbance call last night, over by Memorial Park.”
“And?”
“When they arrived at the scene, they found a house with the front door broken open. They
went in, and found a body. It was a Mexican male, shot once between the eyes.”
“Why are you telling me this, Timmons?”
“I thought you might know something about it, that’s why,” he answered.
“Suppose I did. And suppose I told you that the man was killed in self-defense. How much
difference would that make?” I asked.
“Look, James. The dead man was identified as Felipe Sandoval. We called the police in Los
Angeles, and he’s got a rap sheet longer than the runway at the Air Force Academy.”
“Okay,” I said. “So, answer the question.”
“James,” Timmons said. “Sandoval’s dying is a loss to no one. I’m certainly not going to
waste a lot of time pursuing it. Still,” he said, “I need information. I’ve got to write a report. What
do you know?”
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I thought for a second. “Timmons, what would you say if I told you that I might have a lead
on Luce’s gang? Someone with knowledge, first-hand knowledge, of some of their activities.”
“What? Who? James, if you know something...”
“Hold on a bit,” I said, placing my hand over the phone.
I looked at Consuela. She looked back at me.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“About what?”
“Would you be willing to talk to the police?”
She looked at me, not moving, for what seemed forever. One way or another, her decision
was going to cost her. As much as he deserved it, turning on Hernandez would exact an emotional
price on her. On the other hand, remaining loyal to him would not guarantee her safety.
Finally, she nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Yes,” she said. “For you, I will.”
“Thanks,” I said, softly.
Turning back to the phone, I said to Timmons, “I have with me the girl Hernandez was
living with. She’s willing to talk to you.”
“Damn,” Timmons breathed. “Do you want me to come there, or are you coming here?”
I thought for a second. “We’ll come to you. Give us about an hour or so.”
“Alright.” Timmons hung up.
I looked at Consuela. “Are you okay?”
She looked at me. “I will be.”
Patty said, “Consuela, I just want to say how courageous I think you are to act in this way.”
She stood up, went around the table, and placed her arms around the other girl’s neck. “I want to
thank you, myself.”
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“No thanks are necessary,” Consuela said. “Just go on caring for each other. I wish to
continue to believe in love.” Tears streamed from her already reddened eyes.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It was more like an hour and a half before Consuela and I were in the 4-Runner, heading for
Timmons’ office. Like Patty, Consuela took the time allotted, and then some, to get ready to leave.
Patty loaned her a dress to wear to the police station.
Patty had asked if I wanted her to come along, but I didn’t see any need for her to be
involved any more than she already was. After assuring her that I would see her that afternoon, I
kissed her and we left.
It was only a five-minute drive to the police station, especially since I was in a hurry, due to
our late start. I hate being late. When we got there, the officer manning the desk said that Timmons
had given up on us, and left to look after some of his other cases. He had left a message, however,
saying that he would be back in his office around eleven o’clock.
I looked at my watch. Seeing it was about ten-fifteen, I asked Consuela, “Do you feel like
taking a walk? Maybe we can talk a little more.” She agreed.
As we set out, walking north on Nevada, Consuela asked, “What do you want to talk
about?”
“Well,” I said, “did Tomas ever mention me?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“Tomas hates you, Mr. James,” she said. “He said that he was going to kill you.”
“Did he say why he hates me so much?”
“He said that it was because of your interference in his and Mr. Luce’s plans, but I think
there’s more to it than that.”
“Such as,...” I prompted.
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Consuela stopped walking and looked at me. “I think he hates you for beating him when
you fought against each other that night, outside the bar.” She sighed. “That night, he was so angry
when Julio and Luis brought him home. I was trying to care for him, but he hit me and told me to
leave him alone. I think that he was especially angry that you beat him in front of the others, and
that I saw him in that condition.”
“Did he say anything about either Mick O’Brien or Maude Embree?”
“Tomas said that they got what they deserved for getting in his and Mr. Luce’s way,” she
said.
We started walking again, turning right on to Boulder. We walked in silence, each occupied
with our own private thoughts. As we turned south again on to El Paso St., Consuela stopped again.
Grabbing my arm, and turning to face me, she said, “Mr. James, be very careful. Tomas will
not stop until you are dead. Now that you have taken me from him, he will not be able to bear the
insult.”
As she was speaking, I saw a maroon, late-model sedan pull up to the curb, across the street
from where we were standing. I grabbed Consuela by the shoulders, pushing her away from me, as
two men got out of the car. Both of them were armed with a small revolver.
Too late, I realized that they were pointing their weapons at Consuela, not at me. As I pulled
the Browning from inside my jacket, they opened up on Consuela. I fired twice at the man closest
to her. Seeing him fly back against the car and losing his gun, as two large red areas appeared on
the front of his shirt, I turned my attention to the other one.
His gun clicked twice, empty. He dropped it on the sidewalk. Realizing that he was too far
away from the car to be successful in escaping, he put his hands in the air. He shrugged, grinning
sheepishly at me. I turned from him to check on Consuela, but, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a
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flash of sunlight on metal, from his direction. I turned back toward him, just as I felt a tug at my
jacket and heard the sound of a shot.
He pulled a small caliber derringer from somewhere. He fired his last shot, as,
simultaneously, I shot him in the face. He left a red and gray smear on the white speed-limit sign
behind him, as the back of his head exploded against it.
I looked around for more shooters. Seeing none, I became slowly aware that there was a
woman standing at the corner a few feet away from the car my attackers had driven up in.
She was screaming nonstop, “Help! Police! Oh, God!” and pointing at me with my gun.
Putting my gun away, I turned back to where Consuela was slumped on the concrete. There was a
widening red blotch on the front of her borrowed dress. I leaned over her, and could see her chest
rising and falling, albeit irregularly.
I reached down, picking her up in my arms. There was a sign a few feet away, with an
arrow. It read: HOSPITAL. I then realized that we were only two blocks away from St. Francis
Hospital. Pulling Consuela tighter against my chest, I started moving in that direction. Although
she was a small girl, the best I could manage with my burden was a slow, lurching trot.
At that pace, it took me about four or five minutes before I was entering the glass doors to
the emergency ward. All along the way, people stopped and stared.
I rushed, out of breath, up to the reception area. “I need a doctor!” I yelled. The woman
behind the desk sat and stared at me. I brushed past her, through the double doors, and into the
ward. At the first empty examination room that I came to, I laid Consuela down on the table, and
turned back into the hallway.
Seeing a man with a white tunic, I asked him in a half-scream, “Are you a doctor?”
“Why, yes,” he started to say. “I,...”
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I grabbed him by the front of his tunic, and propelled him into the room where I left
Consuela. He took one look at her and moved to the door leading to the hallway. “Emergency team,
Room 21. Stat!”
Turning back to me, he said, “Sir, my team and I will do the best we can for your friend, but
you’ll have to leave.”
“Good,” I said. “Fine. Just take care of her.” With that, I left the room, and went out into the
hallway, leaning against the wall. A group of people, dressed in white, rushed past me, entering the
room I just left.
I suddenly remembered that something tugged at my jacket in the middle of the battle in the
street. I looked down at my clothes. Pulling my jacket away from my body, I found a hole in the
front of it. I took it off. There was another hole in the back. I looked myself over. Nothing. When I
turned back toward the second gunman, my jacket must have flared away from my body. The bullet
had gone through the material, missing me. What was that saying? ‘Better to be lucky than good.’
I leaned back against the wall. My entire body was drenched in sweat. How long could I
count on such luck? It seemed to me it was surely about to run out. Luck had run out for Consuela.
I thought about the events of the last day and a half. The moment that I decided to intervene
in Consuela’s life, as noble as my motives might have been, I’d become at least partially
responsible for her.
I looked toward the room where the doctors were trying to save her life. I should have
known that they would have tracked us down, and followed us. I should have known that they
wouldn’t let Consuela go free.
Hmph, I thought. Some rescuer.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I’d been leaning on that hospital wall for a while before I realized that I had to get moving. I
couldn’t keep going along as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. First, Hernandez and his
friends had tried to silence Consuela. Now, they would be seriously trying to hunt me down and kill
me.
I couldn’t afford to stay in one place for too long. They may still have had someone
following me. God, I thought, they might be outside, waiting for me to come out so they could
finish the job!
With that thought in mind, I pushed away from the wall and headed down the hallway. I
found a linen closet a few doors down the hall. Inside, I found a shelf lined with green disposable
emergency room tunics, and pants to match.
I took off my jacket, which was smeared with Consuela’s blood anyway, and stuffed it into
a hamper. I put on two sets of the hospital garb, hoping that it would make me look a little heavier
than I really was. I found shoe covers, and a surgical cap and mask. Donning them, I went back out
into the hallway.
Walking toward the exit, I spotted a phone booth, the kind with a door for privacy. Looking
around first, I went inside and closed the door. Pulling down the mask, I dialed Charlie O’Hara’s
number.
“Hello,” Charlie answered.
“Charlie, this is Ryan.”
“What’s up?” he asked.
Quickly, I told him about my taking Tomas Hernandez’ girlfriend away from him, and
about the shooting that had just occurred.
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“Sounds like you’re in some deep shit,” he observed.
“The deepest,” I agreed.
“What can I do to help?” he offered.
“I can’t think of anything at the moment,” I said. “Right now, I’m heading for the mountain
until this thing is over.”
“Are you expecting it to be over soon?”
“Well,” I said, “things seem to be coming to a head real fast. ‘Course, I’ve been wrong
about just about everything else, but I don’t foresee Luce and Hernandez dragging this out. They’ve
taken some pretty drastic action in the last few hours.”
“How do I get hold of you, if I need you?” he asked.
I thought for a second, about how much to tell Charlie. I was beginning to find it hard to
trust anyone. And, how did Luce’s people always seem to know where to find me?
“I’m going to drive exactly seventeen miles up toward the Peak, and then hide in the
woods,” I said. “If you need to see me, drive to the same place, park, and then fire three shots into
the air. I’ll come out to meet you. Okay?”
“Alright. Take care of yourself. For Patty’s sake.” He hung up.
I peered out of the phone booth, then walked back down the hallway, around a couple of
corners, and out the rear exit. Outside, near the emergency power generation plant, I removed my
disguise, and disposed of it in a nearby trash dumpster.
I decided not to walk back the way I’d come. Instead, I went south on Institute Ave, then
turned west on Costilla St. to where my car was parked. All the way, I looked behind me
constantly, to see if anyone was following.
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I drove over to Lombardi’s to see Nick. Ever since I started working out at the gym, I kept a
few things in a locker, just in case. At this point, I didn’t dare go to my apartment, not even just to
change clothes.
When I walked into the gym, Nick saw me and walked over. He took one look at the blood
on my clothing, and asked, “What happened?”
"Luce’s boys," I explained.
Nick didn't hesitate. “What do you need?” he asked.
“Patty’s at school. She doesn’t know about the fight I just got into. She’s expecting to see
me this afternoon, but I don’t think that's wise. As a matter of fact, I’d really appreciate it if you’d
go get her out of class and take her somewhere and stash her there until this is over.”
“Can do. Are you sure there’s nothing else?”
“Yeah, Nick,” I said. “I just need some room to move. Not having to worry about Patty’s
safety will help.”
“Okay,” he said. “You’ve got it. Need anything else?”
“I’m just going to get a few things out of my locker,” I said.
“I’ll watch to see if anybody comes in after you,” he said.
I went downstairs. I opened my locker, and examined the contents. There were a new pair
of button-fly jeans, a denim shirt, and a pair of military surplus lace-up boots. I called them my
‘swamp boots’. There was also a complete change of underwear, including a pair of thick cotton
boot-socks.
Looking at all those clean clothes, I felt too dirty to put them on, so I took off all my
clothes, and showered. Nick always kept the place supplied with soap and towels.
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In the shower, I suddenly started to feel dizzy, as though I might gray out. I leaned against
the wall, letting the nausea take its’ course. I bent over and threw up on the floor of the shower
stall. Then, I leaned against the wall for a little longer before showering. I finished by using the
high-pressure spray to clean the stall.
Afterwards, I changed into my new duds, threw the old ones in the trash, and then went
back upstairs.
Nick was at the front counter when I got to the top of the stairs. He crossed over to me and
said, “No one new came in while you were downstairs.”
“Good,” I said.
He looked me over appraisingly. “Well, your face is a little pale, but you look better than
you did when you first came in here,” he said.
“The shower helped,” I acknowledged.
Nick reached up to brush a strand of thinning gray hair out of his eyes. “So, now what?”
“I’ve got to stay on the move,” I said.
“What about a place to stay?” he asked.
“I can’t chance a motel,” I said. “They’ll be watching every place in town.”
“So, what then?”
“The mountain,” I said.
“What do you mean, ‘the mountain’?”
“Just that,” I said. “Pike’s Peak.”
“Come on,” Nick said. “What do you know about living in the fucking mountains?”
I shrugged. “Probably not as much as I should,” I said, “but I’m not really planning on
living there. If I’m right, this will all be over in a day or two.”
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Nick shook his head. “You don’t even have a coat,” he said.
“I’ll get one on my way out of town,” I said.
“Wait here,” he said, and walked into his office. He came out in a minute with something
draped over his arm that looked like the hide from a large buffalo.
“Here,” he said, handing it to me. “Use this.”
It was an old Army greatcoat, like they wore during the Korean War. It buttoned up the
front, and had a thick belt that tied in the front. I tried it on. I felt like George Washington at Valley
Forge, but it fit.
Nick clapped me on the shoulder. “Now you look like a real soldier,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.” I shrugged out of the coat’s heaviness.
As I walked toward the door with the greatcoat over my arm, Nick followed me.
“Don’t stay up there too long, Ry. It gets pretty cold at night, even this time of year.”
I turned at the door, and said, “Don’t worry, Nick. I got a feelin’ that this thing will be over
pretty quick, one way or the other.”
“Why’s that?” he asked. “Aren’t ya goin’ up there to get away from them?”
“No. I’m not.”
“Wha-a-at?” he asked, shocked. “Why in the hell not?”
I sighed. “Because they won’t quit until I’m dead.”
“You think that they’ll follow you into the woods?”
“Yeah.”
“What makes you think that?”
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“Well,” I explained, “they’ve been able to stay one step ahead of me, up ‘til now. Some
how or other, they’ve been able to know all along where I am, and what I’m doing. This probably
won’t be any different.”
“Then why are you going up there?” Nick asked, perplexed.
“Von Clausewitz,” I answered.
“Huh?”
“The famous military tactician.”
“What about him?”
“Von Clausewitz stated that one of the most important rules of engagement is to get the
enemy to meet you on the field of your choice,” I explained.
“The mountain?” he asked.
“Right.”
“So, you’re gonna trick them into following you into the woods, then pick them off, one by
one.”
“Something like that,” I said.
“So, you think that someone is tellin’ them what you’re up to, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Probably.”
“Any ideas as to who that might be?” he asked.
“Yeah, but I’d rather not say, just yet.”
“It’s not me, you know,” he said.
“Yeah, Nick,” I said. “I know it’s not you.”
“Good,” he said, relieved.
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Nick stood, arms folded, looking at me through a shock of gray hair that had partially
obscured his vision.
“Von Clausewitz, huh?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.”
He shook his head. “You know more shit that doesn’t really matter than anybody I ever met
in my life.”
“Maybe,” I said. “This pursuit, however, isn’t trivial.”
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CHAPTER THIRTY
I was sitting in the driver's seat of the 4-Runner, drinking lukewarm coffee out of a thermos
that Nick had insisted I take with me. My stomach was empty, so I’d stopped at a Red Top on the
way out of town, and bought half a dozen of their enormous double cheeseburgers. I’d eaten one
about two hours earlier, and was starting to eye the bag hungrily. I shook my head. I needed to
exercise restraint.
After driving for exactly seventeen miles, like I told Charlie I would, I found a place to pull
off of the road. It was one of those turnouts that the Forest Service puts in every so often, so that
tourists can sit in the middle of the pines and soak up the atmosphere.
Starting from the turnout, I was able to back the four-wheeler up through the woods into a
space between two trees, where I couldn't be seen from the road. On the other hand, I had an
excellent view of the road, for about fifty yards in each direction. I'd been there for about four
hours, watching the road, and trying to ignore the smell of cooked hamburger and melted cheese.
It was starting to get dark. The shadows cast by the pines had been reaching further and
further out toward the road, but now, with the diminishing light, they were beginning to disappear. I
sipped more coffee and tried to discipline myself against having another double cheeseburger
before nightfall.
I failed. Who was I trying to kid with the mountain man act? Kit Carson, I'm not. As the
first stars were making themselves visible in the early twilight, I sat, munching happily, as I gave
more consideration to my situation.
There were too many things about Charlie that bothered me. He seemed to be the major
power broker in Colorado Springs. Any time that anyone wanted or needed something out of the
ordinary, Charlie was able to oblige. He obviously had a lot of influence over some of the
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wealthiest men in town. At least two of the men I met at Mick's wake, Bill Stewart and Rusty
Hanners, were on the city council.
Charlie seemed to have access to every kind of information. His ties with the IRA scared
the piss out of me. I wondered who else he might be doing business with. I sincerely doubted that
he was merely the small-town lawyer he wanted everyone to believe. That's why I decided to
entrust Patty's safety to Nick, instead of Charlie.
As for me, I wondered if I was ever going to be able to go about the business of writing my
book. It seemed like years, not merely days, since I had come to the Springs. I'd been so busy just
trying to continue living that I hadn't had time to start my new life.
It was about eight-thirty when I heard the sound of an engine, far off in the distance. I got
out of the car, went around to the back, and opened up the tailgate.
I got out the shotgun that Sean O’Hara had given me. I loaded it and laid it back down. I
opened up the suitcase containing the ammunition, and took out the two extra clips for the
Browning. I loaded them as well. I put the clips in the pouch Sean had provided, unbuckled my
belt, and attached the pouch, letting it hang on my right side.
The temperature had dropped by about thirty degrees since I left town, so I put on Nick's
greatcoat and tied the belt securely. The coat had enormous pockets, so I filled up the left one with
shells for the shotgun. Sly Stallone, eat your heart out. I finished by inserting my flashlight into the
belt of the greatcoat.
By this time, the engine sounds were getting a lot closer, so I picked up the shotgun, closed
the tailgate, and moved back toward the front of the car, where I could see better. With all the extra
weight I was now carrying, I moved a lot slower than I would have preferred. Better remember that,
I thought.
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Within a few minutes, headlights were visible, coming around the bend in the road. The car
slowed, then pulled off at the same turnout I'd used. Leaving the lights on, whoever it was got out
and stood in front of the car, clearly silhouetted in the headlights. Stupid.
After a few seconds, three shots rang out clearly in the stillness of the forest night.
Showtime.
I reached in the open window of the 4-Runner and turned on the headlights. I backed off
slowly, keeping the other car in front of me, and letting the forest envelope me. When I was about
thirty or forty yards away from the car, I crouched behind a large rock and waited. I didn't have
long to wait.
“James! Where are you?” The voice came from the direction of my car. It wasn't Charlie's
voice. I stayed behind my rock, in silence.
The silence continued for a few minutes, then there was a flaring of light from the interior
of the 4-Runner. Suddenly, there was a loud whoosh!, and the car lifted a few inches off of the
ground. Flames shot fifty feet in the air, lighting up the forest all around. Maybe twenty or thirty
seconds later, the remaining ammunition in the suitcase in the back of the car cooked off,
showering the area with 9MM shells and 000 buck pellets. I lay on my stomach, behind the rock.
So much for planning, I thought. Now I was on foot, in the forest, with no food, and my
enemies all around. Bastards! At least I'd been right about Charlie. That he'd called Luce was
obvious. As to why he'd done it, I'd have to worry about that a little later. I was going to be too
busy for contemplation.
After a few minutes, I got to my knees, still behind the shelter of the rock. Looking over the
top, I couldn't see anyone close by, so I picked up the shotgun and melted back into the woods.
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When I was about halfway to the road, I stopped behind a tree, and looked back toward my
car. It was completely engulfed in the flames, along with the two trees I'd parked it between.
Someone would be out soon to have a look at this.
I continued walking toward the road. The other car was still parked in the turnout, its' lights
still on. Perversely, I walked around to the front of the car and fired the shotgun once. Instantly, the
darkness closed in around me. I pulled the Browning from its' holster and walked around the car.
Four shots later, one for each tire, my opponents were in the same situation as me. I walked across
the road, and slipped into the trees.
I walked maybe two hundred feet into the forest, then sat down under a tree to wait. Except
for the noise made by the fire, all was silent for about forty minutes. I heard the sound of a large
engine, then a Forest Service truck came down the road and stopped behind the disabled car. The
night was filled with the sound of shouting men as they piled out of the truck and went about the
business of putting out the fire.
As I hunkered down close to my tree, I could catch bits and pieces of their conversation. I
heard someone say something about “...bullet holes...” and “... burnt to a crisp…”
A little later, after the fire was out, and the ensuing noise level was down, I heard someone
report the discovery of two bodies. It sounded like someone had been too close to the 4-Runner
when all that ammunition started going off. Served them right for burning up my car, my food, and
my Sanborn tapes.
Within three hours, the forestry crew had left, presumably taking with them the bodies that
they'd found. It was quiet again. I stood up, chilled to the bone and stiff as a board. I pushed the
button that lit up my watch. It was just after midnight.
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I needed a better place to spend the remainder of the night. I didn’t know how many others
were in the party that had come after me, nor how many more might be on the way. It was time to
move.
I worked my way slowly back into the forest on the side of the road opposite from where
the fire had been. Although it was late at night, there was enough subdued moonlight available for
me to be able to move through the trees. After a short time, I found a place where a tree had been
felled by lightning and come to rest across a pile of rocks.
I crouched at the juncture of the tree and rocks. Shielding the light with my body, I took a
chance and turned on the flashlight, focusing it on the area under the tree for a couple of seconds
before turning it off again to save the batteries and avoid discovery.
As far as I could tell, there were no animals taking shelter under the fallen tree. It appeared
to be dry, as well. I crawled underneath, finding that there was still more space, further back among
the rocks, where I could conceal myself. I was able to lean back against one rock, with another on
each side. Laying the shotgun beside me, I made do with the shelter I had. Surprisingly, I slept.
I woke to the early morning light filtering faintly trough the branches of my makeshift
shelter. I looked at my watch. It was about five-thirty. I shifted my weight, stretching to get the
kinks out of my frame.
I was tired. I was hungry. I tried not to think of the bag of hamburgers that had been
incinerated along with my torched car. Uncertain as to what to do next, I stayed under the fallen
tree. It was a good thing I did.
I heard voices. They were coming closer.
Peering through the leaves and branches surrounding me, I saw Tony Luce and Julio
walking toward my improvised hideout. Where was Tomas Hernandez?
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Julio was saying, “The bastard killed Luis and Jorge, ‘mano! I want him. I want to do him,
myself.”
Stopping right next to my tree, not five feet away, Luce said, “When we catch him, you can
kill him, but not before I’ve had my way with him.”
They started to move on again. I crawled out from under the tree. Standing erect, I raised
the shotgun level with my belt.
I called out, “Is now soon enough?”
I heard a metallic sound behind me, and then a voice said, “Your timing is perfect, amigo.”
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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Whirling, I pulled the trigger on the shotgun. It clicked. A man was standing before me with
a small semi-automatic in his hand. It wasn’t Hernandez. I’d never seen this guy before. He
laughed at the sound that my gun made. His mistake was in thinking that it was empty. He gestured
widely with his gun hand, saying, “Well, hombre?”
I pumped another round into the chamber, and blew him apart. At a distance of less than
four feet, that's the only way to describe what the 000 buckshot did to him. He fell, his eyes wide in
surprise. I turned back the other way in time to see Tony and Julio diving in opposite directions,
into the undergrowth. I slipped back into the foliage, as well.
I was mad at myself. I'd not taken the time to check my loads while I was still safe under the
tree. It had almost cost me my life. I did so now. After reloading the shotgun, I took the partially
empty magazine out of the Browning, and replaced it with a full one, returning the old clip to the
pouch on my belt, to be used as a backup. If I got into any more fire-fights, I wanted a full gun.
Jacking a round up into the chamber, I returned the Browning to its’ place under my arm.
Picking up the shotgun, I moved, crouching, through the trees. So Luis was dead, I thought.
The opposition was thinning out. For the first time, I was beginning to believe that I might actually
win this thing.
I found a spot where two young trees were growing up from the same place, forming a “V”
about three feet off of the ground. Behind them, was a group of boulders, about five feet high. I
squeezed in between the rocks and the trees.
The place in which I was hidden afforded a view of my back-trail, while effectively
concealing me from all angles of approach. I decided to wait for some sign of Tony and Julio.
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I waited, hunched down, wondering how I’d managed to come to this place. It was hard to
believe, but only a year ago, I’d been a bored executive, with a failed marriage. I had been living a
safe, normal life.
I’d been a lonely man. Even in marriage, I never found a relief to that loneliness. I always
spent the majority of my time by myself, yearning for a soul mate with which to share my
aspirations. I refused to believe that Linda wasn’t that person. After all, she was my wife. We’d
pledged ourselves to each other. What a waste!
Now, here I was, fighting for my very life in the middle of the Rocky Mountains. I’d met a
woman who, in a very short time, had fallen in love with me, and I loved her, as well. Patty was
willing to share my dream, instead of belittling it like Linda had. I’d found a new life, but even as I
thought of these things, there were men trying to end that life before it could start.
How had I gotten tied up in this battle for power that was being fought in the mountains?
True, I felt a certain responsibility for the deaths of Mick O'Brien and Maude Embree, even though
Mick had been engaged in his own battle with Luce before I ever got to town.
Crouched behind the wood and rock of the forest, I realized that it had been a long time
since I’d had anything to believe in. I’d lived my former life without faith or belief in a cause.
There had been no passion, no spark to move me into action. Here, I was engaged in a cause so
basic that not to believe was to die. It was a desperate, lonely impulse that drove me to act. The
action made me believe. The belief gave me life.
I heard a noise. It was faint, almost beyond the range of human hearing. I identified it as the
sound of cloth brushing against the surrounding undergrowth. They were coming. I placed the
shortened barrel of the shotgun into the crook formed by the joining of the two trunks. I strained to
see where the sound was coming from.
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Suddenly, I heard a scraping noise behind me. I turned just in time to have a gun explode in
close proximity. Something hit me in the face, cutting me below the eye. I fell backwards against
the trees, still clutching the shotgun. Julio was standing on the other side of the boulders, leaning
over with his gun. His shot had glanced off of an edge of the rocks I’d used as a barricade,
showering my little alcove with fragments, one of which cut my cheek.
Julio looked through the trees behind me, proclaiming triumphantly to Luce, “I got him! I
got him!”
I braced the shotgun on the ground underneath me, and pulled the trigger. Half of Julio’s
face disappeared. He fell behind the boulders again, out of sight. Knowing that Luce had to be close
behind me, I wiggled and squirmed, forcing myself upright.
My eyes came level with the fork in the trees just as Tony pushed his gun through it, against
my forehead. Instinctively, I shoved the shotgun barrel forward. It hit him full in the face. He
dropped his gun onto the ground beside me, but as he fell, he grabbed at the shotgun, pulling it
from my grasp.
I scrambled around the trees. The shotgun had gone flying away from Luce, but up from the
ground he came, clutching a knife in his right hand. Before I could draw the Browning from its’
shoulder holster, he was on me, slashing and stabbing.
I backed away from him as he continued to thrust wildly about him. His attack wreaked
havoc on my borrowed greatcoat, slashing the arms and front of it, as I tried to deflect his blows. So
far, the thickness of the over-sized coat was protecting me from any real injury, although I had no
faith in that continuing to be the case.
“I’m gonna cut you into little pieces, asshole,” Tony gasped, stabbing at my face.
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I didn’t respond verbally. I was too busy trying to ward off a series of cuts and thrusts that I
couldn’t find any pattern to.
As I continued to give ground before Luce, I tripped on a root, and went down backwards,
with my attacker on top of me. We hit the ground simultaneously. Tony was temporarily distracted
as his knife hand was occupied in bearing his weight. I was partially underneath him, but my right
hand was free. He was on my left side, blocking access to my gun, so I hit him, as hard as I could,
on the left temple. Instead of stopping him, it seemed to infuriate him. He lurched at me, trying to
drive the knife into my chest with both of his hands. I was just barely able to catch his wrists in
both of my hands.
I was forced to lay, head-down, on a slight incline, backwards. Blood from my cut cheek
was getting in my left eye, blinding me. Tony was quick to press his momentary advantage, shifting
his weight to increase the rate at which my own blood was betraying me.
Suddenly, I lunged upward, slamming my forehead against his. The spot where I hit him
earlier with the shotgun barrel erupted, spraying both of us with his blood. Luce’s grip on the knife
slackened slightly, and I turned to the right, throwing him off of me. I lurched to my feet, drawing
my gun. Tony came to his feet at the same time.
He lunged at me, rage contorting his features. As he started to swing his knife hand in a
wide, horizontal arc, I pulled the trigger repeatedly, as fast as I could.
Luce came to rest against me, his eyes blazing in their fury. Slowly, he started to slide down
the length of my body toward the ground. His eyes remained locked on mine in a malignant gaze
that endured after he lay, supine, on the ground.
I stood over him, looking down on the bloody front of his shirt. His breath came
stertorously. His lips were flecked with saliva and blood.
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“I don’t understand it,” he said, hoarsely. “You just keep on winning!”
“Haven’t you heard the news?” I asked, still looking down into his eyes.
“What?” he asked, painfully. “What do you know?”
“Crime doesn’t pay,” I answered.
“Fuck you,” he said, laughing. His laugh dissolved into a rasping cough. It faded, and then
he lay still, eyes staring up into the treetops.
I stood up straight for a few seconds, then collapsed to the ground, coming to rest in a
sitting position. My stomach heaved, and I turned over on my side to keep from vomiting all over
myself. I continued to lay there, my system voiding itself until there was nothing left to lose.
I lay still a little longer and then, slowly, I turned over and rose to my knees. I gathered my
strength, stood up, and almost fell over again. I untied the belt on my coat, undid the buttons, and
let it fall to the ground. Drawing air, gratefully, into my lungs, I stood for a few seconds more.
Eventually, I reached down and grabbed hold of my coat. Dragging it along behind me, I
walked over near Luce’s body. I found his knife, picked it up, and continued to walk back the way
I’d originally come. It wasn’t hard to find the way. The grass and bushes were pretty torn and
trampled.
After I’d been walking for a little while, I passed the fallen tree I slept under the night
before. I kept walking. I came upon a small stream, running parallel to the way I’d come the night
before. I’d been so intent on finding a place to hide, I’d completely missed it. Hmph. Some
woodsman I am.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I sat beside the stream for awhile, washing the blood and dirt and vomit from my face and
hands. It seemed to take an inordinately long time.
I cut out some of the lining of the greatcoat, and used it to staunch the flow of blood from
my cut cheek. Eventually, I was again able to see out of my left eye. I sat, staring down the stream,
watching a magpie that was busily searching for worms. It worked at the edge of the water, pecking
at the mud until, finally, it flew off with a prize specimen held in its’ beak.
“Hot damn,” I observed. “I’m still alive.”
I stood up again and started walking back toward the road. I was too tired to make much
headway, so it took me over an hour and a half to get back to the highway. I walked out on the
pavement, into the bright sunlight. Only then did I look at my watch. It was only eight-thirty in the
morning. Where was Hernandez?
I started walking down the highway, toward town. I came to an abrupt stop, realizing that I
no longer had either the Browning or the shotgun. Oh, well. I sure wasn’t going to go back after
them. I started walking once again.
I’d been walking for about forty-five minutes, when an El Paso County Sheriff's
Department patrol car pulled up alongside me. I stopped and looked in. Ralph Timmons was seated
behind the wheel.
“Get in,” he said.
I opened the door, and got in. Timmons put the car in gear, and he drove away. He drove on
in silence for several minutes. During this time, Timmons looked over at me several times, but he
didn’t say anything, at first.
Finally, he said, “You look like shit.”
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“Yeah,” I said, “I know.”
“You had anything to eat?”
“I’m not hungry.”
He let a couple of minutes go by before saying, “We found your car back up there in the
trees.”
“Uh-huh.”
“There were a couple of bodies, as well,” he said.
“I know.”
“Tony Luce up there somewhere, too?”
“Yep.”
“Any others?”
“Yeah. Two.”
“You kill them?” he asked.
I sighed. “Yeah, but not the two at the car.”
“That’s how we figured it. Looked like they torched your car. How much ammo was in
there? All the trees round about were full of lead.”
“I dunno. A lot.”
“It showed.”
We drove on, wordlessly, for a while. I was leaning against the door in exhaustion. I hurt
all over my body. I just sat there, absorbed in the post-combat letdown.
Timmons shook his head. “So, you took out all three of them.” He shook his head, again. “I
never would have believed it.”
I turned my head on the seatback to look at him.
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“You got a problem with that?” I asked.
He waited a few seconds to answer, “M-mm, nah. I don’t think we’ll pursue that issue, too
far.”
I looked at him, questioningly. “Issue? What fucking issue? I’ve killed six people in the last
two or three days!”
Timmons raised his eyebrows, saying, “So what? It was self defense, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said, sagging back against the door. “Self defense.”
A few minutes later, I looked back at him. “So it’s that easy, huh?”
“What?”
“Killing six people. Pleading self-defense. Forgetting the whole thing.”
Timmons stepped on the brakes, stopping the car. “Christ, James. What do you want me to
say?” He sat there, shaking his head. “Okay. You offed some guys that nobody’s gonna miss. Sure,
I had my doubts about you at first. Real doubts.”
“You mean, now that I’m guilty of multiple homicides, you don’t have any more doubts?”
“Shit, man. You don’t give anybody a chance to like you, do you?” he asked.
“S’pose not,” I admitted.
He turned on the seat to face me. “Look,” he said. “You may be a first-class pain in the ass,
but you’re not as bad as you think you are. Now, Luce and his buddies, they're bad!”
“Were,” I corrected him.
“Yeah. Were.”
I sighed. “So, where do we go from here?”
He shrugged. “Shit. I don’t know. Do what you do. Go where you go. Don’t ask me. The
El Paso County Sheriff’s Department is not responsible for you.”
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Timmons started the car moving again.
“Have you seen Tomas Hernandez?” I asked.
“No. You mean he wasn’t one of the three you aced up there?”
“No,” I said. “Damn.”
“So,” he asked, “where do you want to go?”
“You know where Lombardi’s Gym is?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Drop me off there.”
He turned off of the highway, heading toward Nick’s.
“You know,” I said, “Charlie O’Hara told them where to find me. I don’t know why.”
Timmons held one hand up, rubbing the thumb and fingers together.
“They bought him off?” I asked.
“Well, that explains some of it,” Timmons mused.
“What else is there?”
“Charlie O’Hara’s dead.”
I sat up. “What? How?”
“Bullet to the front of his head. There was a note.”
“The front of his head?” I asked. “That wasn’t a suicide.”
“Nope. The note said, ‘My pleasure, Sean’.”
I laughed, humorlessly. “Sean.”
“Who’s Sean?” Timmons asked.
“Well,” I said, “you might as well know, now. Sean is IRA. He claimed to be Charlie’s
cousin.”
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“Damn,” Timmons breathed. “IRA? I always thought that Charlie was into too many things
that seemed questionable. That where you got the guns?”
“Yeah.”
“Nice of you to inform the duly constituted authority of these things,” he observed.
I decided to ignore his remark, considering that he was absolutely right.
“But, why would they kill Charlie?” I asked.
He thought for a minute. “Well, most of those groups will do almost anything for money.
They’ll steal, commit murder, smuggle dope or guns. The one thing they won’t put up with for a
minute, however, is if they feel like they’re being used. Our friend Sean must have caught on to the
fact that Charlie was playing on both sides of the fence.”
Timmons pulled the patrol car in front of Lombardi’s, and stopped.
“Here we are, sport. Get out.”
I got out and looked back into the car. “Thanks, Ralph.”
“Forget it,” he said. “Life is good. Get on with it. You’ll live to see the sun come up,
tomorrow. What else can you say?”
“Luce won’t,” I said.
“Good point,” he said, and drove away.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I walked up to the door. It opened, and Nick waved me in. I went in, closing the door
behind me. The place was empty. Empty? That wasn’t right.
“Come in, James. Come right on in!”
I turned to look. It was Tomas Hernandez. He was wearing a white undershirt, and a pair of
bleached jeans. Patty was standing next to him, in a pink top and denim shorts. Hernandez had a
gun pressed into her side.
“Sorry, Ryan,” Nick said. “He didn’t leave me any choice.”
“It’s okay, Nick. I should have known.”
Hernandez had a smirk on his face. “Well, James. Here we are at last.” He snickered. “I
assume that the fact that you’re here means that Tony failed.” He shook his head in amazement.
“You’re quite a resourceful hombre, James.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m a real dream.”
His smile disappeared. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that you’re also a pain in the ass.”
“It’s been said,” I agreed.
For a little while, things were real quiet. I looked at Tomas. He looked at me. His left arm
was around Patty’s waist. The gun was in his right hand. Patty stood there, looking nervous and
afraid. Nick stood next to me, hands in his back pockets, looking down at the toes of his shoes.
Tomas said, “You’ve been a real thorn in my side, James. Do you know that?”
“It’s been my pleasure,” I said.
“Yeah? Well, I don’t appreciate you having your fun at my expense,” he fumed. “I don’t
like it when people try to make me look like a fool.”
“Don't worry,” I said. “With you, it’s only a part-time job.”
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Hernandez glared at me. “You think you’re a stitch, don’t you? Well, I’ve got a joke for
you.”
“Really? What’s that?”
The glaring in his eyes turned to a gleam. “You’ll see,” he said. “Get down on your face, on
the floor.” He looked over at Nick. “You too, viejo.”
Nick lay down on the floor. I stood for a moment, looking at Tomas.
He pressed the gun harder into Patty’s side. “I said, ‘Get down’, gringo!” he yelled. I
dropped to a prone position.
I heard the sound of cloth tearing.
Tomas said, “Never mind. I want you to see this. Turn over.” I did as he said.
Hernandez had torn the front of Patty's blouse away, and pulled down her bra, exposing her
full breasts. She had a look of unbelieving despair on her face.
“You remember what you interrupted the other night, James?” Tomas asked.
“Yeah,” I said, dully, painfully, as I realized what he was intending. “I remember.”
“Well, I’m gonna finish the job,” he said. “Only your pretty piece of ass, here, is going to
stand in for Consuela.”
“Don’t be stupid, Tomas,” I warned. “If you harm her in any way, I’ll kill you, myself.”
Tomas gestured with the gun. “How you gonna do that, James? Huh?” He asked. “You’re
gonna be dead, too. Now, shut up and watch. Personally, I’m going to have a great time.”
He released his grip on Patty’s waist, and grabbed her by the hair, pulling her face close to
his.
“Tell me, James. Is she as good as she looks?” he asked. “I’ll bet she is.” He laughed.
Patty cried, “Ryan, I...”
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“Shut up, bitch,” Tomas said, slapping her and knocking her to the floor.
“So help me, Hernandez,….” I started to rise.
He turned back toward me, pointing his gun at my face.
“What?” he asked. “What are you gonna do, tough guy?”
Suddenly, his face contorted, and he let out a yell. Patty had crawled back over to him,
grabbed his leg, pulled up his pants leg, and bitten into his calf.
As he turned back to deal with her, I leaped from the floor. He must have seen me out of the
corner of his eye, because he started to turn back toward me. I hit him, head-on, just as he was in
mid-turn.
Together, we crashed into the counter. Patty fell to one side. He brought the gun around,
trying to bring it to bear on me. I slammed his hand down on the edge of the countertop. The gun
fell behind the counter.
Tomas hit me in the face with his elbow, opening the cut under my eye, again. I countered
with a punch to his midsection, followed by a left hook to the cheek. He stumbled away from me.
“No,” he said, touching the back of his hand to his face, and then looking for any sign of
blood. “I was wrong. I will kill you first, and then take my time with the girl!”
He came at me, shuffling in a gliding martial arts stance. He leaped into a scissoring kick,
that I was able to slip. When he landed, however, he turned adroitly, and kicked with the opposite
leg. The blow caught me in the same spot in the ribs where I'd gotten kicked in the parking lot in
Gallup. This time, I felt a rib crack, and my breathing was immediately effected.
I bent over, seeing white spots before my eyes. I felt nauseous. Tomas came at me again,
and I was barely able to avoid him, stumbling as I moved. I turned to keep track of where he was.
Calmly, he walked over to a corner where Nick kept a stack of six-foot-long wooden poles. They
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were about two inches in diameter. They were supposed to be placed across the top of the
shoulders, and the person working out would then do torso-twists, using the pole as leverage.
Tomas picked and chose among them until he found one that suited him.
Hefting the pole like a master of kendo, he approached me with a measured step. As he
passed the counter, Patty stood up, pointing his own, discarded gun at him. He reacted, striking her
hands, with lightning speed, with the pole. She cried out, dropping the gun, and holding her hands
against her bare breasts, in pain.
Tomas turned back toward me. “You know,” he said, “I’ve really enjoyed this, James. With
all the trouble you’ve been, it just means that destroying you will be that more pleasurable.”
He fainted with the pole, as if to strike me on the right side, then landed another blow on the
left, further abusing my battered ribs. I gasped in pain.
“James, I almost wish you were better at this sort of thing. I enjoy the exercise.”
“What about the other night?” Nick asked from across the room. “Ryan beat the crap out of
you!”
Hernandez shrugged. “I got careless,” he replied. “It was a lesson I won’t forget. It won’t
happen again.”
He took a couple of steps toward me, and swung the pole at my head as I stood, bent over at
the waist. Taking a slow, deep breath against the pain in my side, I straightened, grabbing the pole
with both hands. Using Tomas’ own momentum against him, I maneuvered him away from me.
He slammed against the wall, and I tore the pole from his grasp. Grabbing a handful of hair, I
banged his head against the wall, and then pushed him away.
He was stunned for a moment, but I just didn't have the strength to take advantage of it. I
stood there, half bent over, holding my left forearm against my ribs.
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“Kill him!” Patty screamed at me, uncharacteristically. I stared at her, surprised. That was
the second time that this gentle girl had asked me to kill someone. She held her forearms together
in front of her, hands over her face, and sobbed, nonplussed.
Tomas shook his head, clearing it, then he came at me once more. This time, there were no
martial arts tricks involved in his attack. He came straight at me. He threw a good left jab, stinging
my ear as I turned away from it. He took his time, measuring the distance before starting to deliver
a sweeping roundhouse right. I stepped into him, inside his punch, and came up from the floor with
a desperation right hand. It was a real haymaker.
It caught him in almost the same place on his left side where I had been hurt. He grunted in
pain. I rocked back, and hit him again in the same place with the same punch. There was an audible
cracking sound. He evacuated all of his air in one loud exhalation. The effort of throwing that
second punch turned me half around.
Now, we were even. We stood, hunched over, facing each other. For a moment or two, the
only sound was of our labored breathing. Then, Hernandez came back with one last try. We both
forced ourselves to stand erect. There was no attempt on either of our parts at fainting or deception.
We stood, toe to toe, each of us venting ourselves upon the other.
He hit me on the side of the head. I landed a score on his cheekbone. He connected with a
blow to my mouth. I delivered a left to his jaw. On and on it went. I know that Patty and Nick were
looking on, but I have no conscious memory of their presence, or of their actions at the time. All I
saw was Tomas' face before me. All of my concentration was tied up in trying to connect with that
tauntingly persevering visage.
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My shirt was torn half away from my body. I was drenched in sweat, and I hurt from each
of the several cuts I’d received. My ribs were killing me. My upper lip and one eye were starting to
swell, but I was getting my second wind.
Tomas’ shirt was gone, and he had a darkening bruise where I’d broken his ribs. He had
another bruise beginning to show along the line of his jaw, and his cheek was cut and bleeding.
Sweat stained his designer jeans. Gone was his cockiness, his swagger. It had just dawned on him
that he was fighting for his life, as well.
It wasn’t something he was accustomed to. He was used to bullying others. He expected
that people would always do what he wanted, out of fear. Fear of him. Fear of the violence that
was his only tool; his only claim to importance and power. He was losing that power and, without
it, he had nothing.
Hernandez swung a roundhouse right that connected with my left temple. For an instant, I
was stunned. My head swam and my vision was impaired. Quickly, he moved to press his
advantage. He took a wild swing with his left, trying to connect with the other side of my head. It
missed, sliding along the back of my neck, instead. As my sight cleared, I held my left hand out in
front of my face, to protect it.
Tomas moved slightly to his left, in order to get a better shot at me. I jabbed with my right
hand, just hoping to connect with some part of his face, so I could have a moment to regain my
equilibrium. My blow struck him squarely in the Adam's apple.
I stepped back. He stopped moving, both hands reaching for his throat. He opened his
mouth as though to speak, but he could only make a croaking sound. He tried breathing through his
nose, but the effort caused him to gag.
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As I stood there, shocked into inaction, Tomas' eyes fell upon his gun, laying on the floor
where Patty had dropped it. Affording me one last look of hatred, he lunged awkwardly toward the
gun. I took one step back, then two steps forward, finally launching myself with both feet in the air,
as Tomas brought himself erect, gun in hand.
The gun fired as I hit him with a full-body tackle. My shoulder caught him in the
midsection, a split second after the bullet creased the top of it. I fell to the floor, unable to get up.
I lay there for a moment, then turned over to see where Hernandez was. From my position,
all I could see was the top step leading down to the locker room. The only sound I heard was of
Patty’s soft crying.
I pulled myself around and crawled to the top of the stairway, peering cautiously
downstairs. Tomas was laying at the bottom of the stairs, his foot resting on the bottom step. He
still had the gun in his hand, but his neck was twisted at an impossibly unnatural angle. His eyes
held a look of shock and surprise. His mouth was open and round, as if frozen in the last expression
of wonderment at being bested.
I rolled over onto my back, crying out when my weight bore down on my wounded
shoulder. I reached to touch it and my hand came away bloody. I let my hand fall to my side.
The next thing I knew, Patty was kneeling over me. Tears were streaming down her cheeks
as she pushed my hair back from my eyes.
“Oh, Ryan,” she cried. “You’re bleeding!”
As the shock began to take over, and the world started to turn gray, I heard myself say,
“You should see the other guy!”
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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I sat on the black leather-grained vinyl of a booth at Mick's Place. It was a week since I’d
fought and killed Tomas Hernandez. Patty had reopened Mick’s, and the place was full.
My left arm was in a sling, to ease the strain on my shoulder. The cut on my cheek was
healing, and the bruises were starting to fade. My ribs were still taped up, but the tape would
probably be off in a few days.
Unfortunately, I was temporarily without a car of my own. The company that carried my
automobile insurance had balked at paying for the 4-Runner, considering the suspicious
circumstances under which it had burned. Anything that had been in the car was also a total loss.
Sorry, Mr. Sanborn.
Consuela Valdez was still in the hospital, but her surgery had apparently been a success,
and she was expected to make a full recovery, at least physically. I suspected that the emotional
scars would take a lot longer to heal, if they ever did.
Victor was in jail, charged with the murder of Mick O'Brien. According to Ralph Timmons,
the evidence had mounted against him to the point where a conviction was a virtual certainty. In
Colorado, the best he could hope for was life without benefit of parole.
Without the fear of Hernandez and Luce to intimidate them, the small Hispanic community
in Colorado Springs had come forward with a lot of information concerning the activities of Luce’s
gang. Several of the group that had been with Tomas the night I took Consuela from them had been
arrested on a variety of charges, ranging from possession of a controlled substance to assault and
attempted rape.
I was surprised to find out that I hadn't been charged with any crime, not even a
misdemeanor. The papers said that the police had been tipped by “an anonymous informant”, and
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that the suspects had been killed in a shoot-out with police. Charlie O’Hara's death was labeled a
suicide. My name wasn’t mentioned anywhere.
The funny thing was, everywhere I’d gone for the last week, various people had come up to
shake my hand. Even though I was new in town, my dealings with Tony Luce and his associates
had been common knowledge. I’d been accepted into the fold, and Colorado Springs was taking
care of its’ own.
The members of the ‘inner circle’, who had offered to hire me, now avoided me like the
plague. The check for ten thousand dollars came in the mail, as promised, but it was the last and
only contact forthcoming.
At first, I had trouble, getting Patty to accept the money, but I was finally able to persuade
her that it was evidence of the respect that Mick had enjoyed among his peers. She finally agreed to
put the money into a fund that would enable her to keep Mick’s Place open, while she finished her
education.
As far as Patty’s emotional state was concerned, she was coping. She was learning to live
life without Mick around and, while it was hard, she was a strong girl. She was bouncing back
from her experience with Tomas Hernandez, although, every now and again, I’d catch her staring
off into the distance, with a haunted expression on her face.
As I sat in my booth, sipping on a Guinness, and nursing a sandwich, I tried to look at the
direction my life was going. After a couple of weeks in town, I had done little to get a solid start on
the new life I’d promised myself. True, I had an apartment. Even more important, I’d found a new
love to share my life with. But, what life? I hadn’t done a thing, as far as making a living was
concerned. I had a business license, and a license as a private investigator, but that had merely been
a means to an end. I didn’t take it seriously.
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No. I came here to write. I had enough money to last me a couple of years, if I was careful,
but if I used it to live on, there would then be nothing left. The dream was still there, but it was up
to me to turn the dream into a reality.
I took a final bite out of my sandwich, finished my beer, and got up, leaving enough money
on the table for the meal and a tip. I walked toward the stairs leading up to my apartment. Patty saw
me, and waved, affording me one of her patented, knowing smiles.
I walked up the stairs, and entered my apartment. In the living room, sitting on the desk,
waiting to greet me, was a new word-processor, like the one I used to have in my office, back in
Los Angeles. I’d purchased it that afternoon.
I took off my sling, sat down at the desk, turned on the computer, and thought for a minute.
I started typing. As I became more and more involved in my work, the room seemed to close in
around me, creating a small, insulated capsule of my own creative energy. The time passed without
making any impact on my conscious attention. The words flowed, out of my need to write them,
like the opening of a pressure-relief valve. For the first time in years, I felt like I was doing what I
had been put on this earth to do.
Sometime later, after what probably was hours of being hunched over the keyboard, I
leaned back in my chair to ease my tired back and shoulders. Suddenly, I sensed that I wasn’t
alone in the room. I whirled around. Patty was sitting on the couch, smiling at me.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Just a few minutes,” she said, standing up and coming over to me. “I was enjoying
watching you write.”
I stood up.
“Is the bar closed?” I asked.
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“Oh, yes,” she said. “About an hour ago. I got lonely.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wanted to get started on my book.”
Patty put her arms around me, saying, “Don’t be sorry. It’s time for you to get on with your
dream.”
I looked at her. “You really understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course,” she said. “Everyone has dreams. I do.”
“Oh, really?” I asked, “What are you dreaming about?”
Patty smiled at me. She didn’t say anything, just put her arms around my neck, pulled my
head down, and kissed me deeply, with her lips slightly parted.
As our lips parted, but only by a micro-inch, I said, “Oh.”
She melted against me for a few moments, then pulled away.
“I’d better let you alone, so you can finish,” she said.
“No,” I said. “I’m about through for tonight. Just let me turn off the computer. Can you
stay the night?”
She smiled devilishly. “That’d be wonderful!”
Patty moved over toward the desk. “How’s it going?” she asked.
I moved over next to her. “Well, it’s not quite what I’d planned on.”
“How's that?”
“I’m not working on a book of Colorado history,” I explained.
“Really?” she asked. “What are you working on?”
“Before I turn this thing off, take a look,” I offered.
Together, we leaned over the desk, looking at the monitor. It read:
205
CHAPTER ONE
Gallup, New Mexico can best be described, I think, as the insult
added to the injury done by the White Man to the Indian. When I drove
into town,.…

Posted in: ENGLISH NOVEL