Goodnight worked late in his office in the rear of his house. By the time he turned off the computer he had learned to use only with considerable effort, it was already night and the rest of the house lay in darkness.
He opened the French doors, stepped out onto his patio and took a seat so he could conveniently lean down and stroke Morris. He had tried to hold the cat on his lap several times in the past but the tom became anxious and wanted down at once, digging its claws through the fabric of Goodnight's pants in his haste. Goodnight could hear the distinctive beat of Latin music drifting into his backyard from a neighbor's house. It was Selena tonight. The clear, rich voice of the murdered Tejano singer emerging from the overly lush arrangement.
It had been difficult at first living in Phoenix, even though the city had been smaller and more western in character when he and Flo had first moved here. They had come from ranches and had found the city intimidating and unfriendly initially. The saying went that Arizona was divided into two parts: Phoenix and the rest of the state. The capital was so filled with recent mid-Western arrivals it had lost its distinctive Arizona character 20 years ago. Goodnight had come to accept the city but he had never liked it much.
At the quiet moments at day's end he missed his wife with a dull ache. He still wasn't certain that his decision to work out of his house when he retired from the Rangers had been such a good idea. But that was the way with all the National Insurance Crime Detection Institute investigators. The institute provided the personal computer and hooked it into its own and the insurance companies' data bases. They were supervised by telephone. Goodnight was the only NICDI investigator in the state and liked it that way. He had always worked alone and preferred it.
After turning on the house lights Goodnight prepared a sandwich he ate standing in his kitchen. It wasn't Friday night but he didn't want to stay home alone again. At the front door he slid the .44 Special Smith and Wesson into place, put on his jacket and placed the Stetson on his head. The walk to Rosa's Cantina was uncommonly pleasant this evening because someone was preparing tamales and the rich aroma filled his nostrils to the end of the block. Times like this he enjoyed having close neighbors.
Goodnight nodded his greeting to Arturo then ambled over to his customary stool. The bottle, shot glass and water arrived as he slid into his place. He extracted a H. Upmann Lonesdale from his suit jacket, bit off the end and lit the cigar slowly with his Zippo. Conchita smiled at him from across the room and when she approached he saw that she was attempting to hide a shiner with makeup.
“Did you walk into a door?” he asked lightly looking up from his cigar.
“No. You know,” she said lightly, smiling. Conchita could light a room with her dazzling smile, but Goodnight had noticed over the years that she used it to conceal her pain more often than not.
“I thought you got rid of Emilio?”
“I did. But he says I am still his woman.”
“You watch yourself. He's a mean son-of-a-bitch.” It was the first time Goodnight had ever offered an opinion about her macho boyfriend and it had an effect on her.
Conchita looked into his face hard then said, “I told him I won't take his shit anymore. I threw his things into the alley and the garbage man took them away.”
“Was that smart?”
She shrugged in a distinctly Latin way. “I bought most of them. So where's your date, Ranger?”
“Still looking for one as fine as you, chica.”
Conchita laughed, hit him playfully on the arm, and left to service a table. When she had started work at Rosa's Conchita had seen the tall ranger that first Friday. His wife had been dead a year by then and there was something sad about the man, the only Anglo in the bar. She had asked Arturo who he was.
Arturo had looked at her with surprise. “It is true? You really don't know him?”
“No.”
Arturo's looked down at the glass he was holding. “He's John Goodnight, the ranger who shot Angelo Delgado dead,” he said quietly then returned to drying beer glasses.
Conchita had looked again at the ranger. She knew that a ranger had a shootout at the Delgado house and had killed Angelo, his cousin, two brothers and the father. The story was a legend in the Latino community and there was even a song about it. It was said the ranger carried the heart of a Mexican beneath his Anglo skin. She had received the news at the time with satisfaction at the basic justice of it. The Delgados were a bad family – everyone knew that – and Angelo had murdered her sister and mother.
But until now Conchita had never heard the name of the man who did it. He was simply called El Comando Increible in the song and given the poetic license often used by minstrel singers, she had not even been certain a real ranger had done the shooting.
She looked at Goodnight with fresh candor that night and over the years had come to know him well. It was wrong for him to be alone, a double tragedy that his only son should be dead as well. A man such as he should have many children. But she had never said a word to him about who she was, or the obligation she believed she owed him.
Wednesday was the first busy night of the week at Rosa's and by ten o'clock there were more than 30 customers drinking, laughing and dancing to the jukebox. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of beer. Ranger spent his time nursing his bottle, slowly chain smoking his cigars, bantering with Conchita when she had a spare moment. When she asked what he was doing sitting there staring straight ahead he told her, “Cogitating.” When his father had sat on the front porch with a bottle Goodnight's mother would go out come bed time and say, “Now Mark, don't tell me you're still cogitating.” Conchita laughed, “You're crazy.”
Emilio came in loud and insolent with a friend just out of prison, gang tattoos spread down his biceps like graffiti. Conchita was laughing at one of the tables where two couples sat. One of the men was a distant cousin and her hand rested familiarly on his shoulder. He was very much in love with the pretty woman beside him and Conchita was teasing him about it while the girl blushed.
“What are you doing?” Emilio demanded as he swaggered up to her. He was a handsome man with fine faintly feminine features, thick sensual lips, and wavy, black hair he tended carefully. His companion was turning to fat and had served eight years for rape. Prison tattoos ran down his arms. Behind Emilio's back he eyed Conchita.
Arturo saw trouble coming and though he was nearly 80 years old moved quickly from behind the bar as Conchita turned to face her former lover. “I'm working.”
“Puta!” he sneered then shouted, “You're coming with me!” just as Arturo reached the men.
“Friends!” he beseeched them. “You don't want trouble. Emilio, you know I told you not to come here anymore. Now you and your friend leave. Por favor!”
“Fuck you, old man,” Emilio snarled. Then in a low threatening voice he said, “Stay out of this or I'll kill you.”
It was rumored that Emilio had once killed a man in a knife fight and any threat from him was to be taken seriously. He grabbed Conchita's arm but she pulled back, shouting for him to leave her alone. Her cousin stood up protesting and Emilio struck him in the face, smashing his nose. He fell hard to the floor, bright blood pouring out. His girlfriend screamed and threw herself onto him. Arturo moved towards Emilio and his massive companion seized the old man around the throat, holding him tightly, wringing his neck as if he was going to break it.
Conchita kicked Emilio which only enraged him further. He grabbed her other arm and jerked her off her feet as he swore. Arturo was thrown to the floor then kicked in the stomach by his smiling friend.
In all the years Goodnight had been coming here he had witnessed half a dozen fights, usually two or three blows between drunken friends. The worst had been a returned Viet Nam veteran, an Anglo, who took a knife to another white man. He had run out the door before anyone could react and it had been all the ranger could do to save the wounded man's life.
Goodnight was off his stool and in three bounds was beside Ar
turo. The ex-con turned towards the intruder with a grin and pulled his fist back. Before he did anything more Goodnight's heavy revolver was out of its holster and the barrel landed on the crown of the ex-con's head. He dropped as if he was dead.
Emilio turned to place the screaming Conchita in front of him as a shield while he fumbled in his pocket for a knife. Goodnight pistol whipped him across the face, blood flying out at once. Emilio released Conchita and screamed like a woman as the revolver came back across his face, removing a chunk of flesh from his cheek with the gun site.
Emilio back peddled, stumbled over his unconscious friend and fell to the floor. In a single step Goodnight was over him. “No more, Ranger!” the man shouted in English trying to protect himself with his arms.
Goodnight slashed the gun against him a third and last time. Two teeth flew from his mouth. Emilio grunted and rolled onto his side. Then slowly, and with great effort, he managed to pull himself up on all fours only to retch once there.
The gun was back in its holster as quickly as it had come out. Goodnight pulled Emilio to his feet as if he were lifting a baby from a crib and slammed him against the wall. Except for the jukebox there wasn't a sound in the place. In rapid Spanish he whispered fiercely into the once handsome man's ear. No one heard what he said but Emilio turned white and trembled along the length of his body.
Goodnight dropped the man back onto the floor, turned his back and helped Arturo to his feet. Emilio dragged his friend towards the front door and in a moment was gone. Conchita helped Arturo to a back room and Goodnight returned to his stool. His cigar was still lit. He drew in smoke from it then sipped bourbon from his shot glass. He was not even breathing hard.
In such a matter at Rosa's there was no thought of calling the police. Five minutes later it would not have been possible to tell there had ever been a fight. Conchita had wiped up the blood, her cousin had gone to the emergency room where he would say he had walked into the wall at his house and Arturo was back behind the bar, although holding his side. “Gracias, amigo mio,” he said to Goodnight.
“De nada.”
After midnight Conchita approached Goodnight timidly. “Thank you, Ranger.”
“It was nothing. My name's John by the way.”
She eyed him as if seeing Goodnight for the first time. “O.K. Thank you, John.” She sat on the stool beside him and didn't speak for a long time. “You better be careful,” she said at last. “Emilio is very vicious. And I think perhaps he is not too bright.”
Goodnight shook his head lightly. “He'd have to be stupid indeed to come back here or to bother you again. I doubt you'll be seeing anymore of him.” He lifted the glass of Bourbon and took a sip.
~
As Rosa's closed Goodnight argued with Arturo when he refused to accept payment for his drinks, but the owner would not hear of it. Goodnight suggested Arturo consider seeing a doctor as he looked the worse for wear. The old man replied that nothing was wrong with him that a good night's rest and some Tequila wouldn't fix. Outside the former ranger paused in the night air to purge his lungs of the smoke and smell of liquor. Someone moved in the shadows.
“Hello, John,” Conchita said quietly as she stepped toward him, a black lace shawl across her shoulders.
“It's time you went home,” he said.
“You live this way, don't you?” she said gesturing towards his house. Everyone in this part of the city knew where the ranger lived. “You can walk me that far.”
“If you like.”
They walked quietly down the main street which was no longer busy, then turned and strolled slowly towards his house. The sounds of Latin music could still be heard and young people were now sitting on porches or standing around their cars. Several nodded at the passing couple. By morning everyone in the barrio would know that Goodnight had been seen with Conchita Herrera the same night he pistol whipped her man.
It had been many years since Goodnight had walked with a beautiful woman on his arm. He felt awkward and ill at ease.
He and his wife, Flo, had often walked this way. More than once, during the beautiful, peaceful spring nights they had kept walking rather than have the time together end. Once they had walked arm in arm until after two in the morning.
Conchita paused at his gate. “I can take you the rest of the way,” he said quietly.
“I live over there,” she said with her warm smile, gesturing with her chin in the opposite direction, the other side of Rosa's. “But you know that.”
“I can still walk you.”
She leaned up against him. “I didn't come to your house so you could walk me back to mine. Let's go inside.” She had freshened up and he smelled the pleasant floral scent she used.
“I'll be 67 years old my next birthday,” he said.
“And I'm 38. Are you going to invite me in, or not?”
At the doorway Goodnight hung up his hat, removed his jacket, then slipped the holster and gun from his belt and placed them on the stand, watching Conchita walk slowly around the living room as she examined it closely.
“It's very nice,” she said when he was finished. “It still feels like your wife lives here.”
“She trained me well. I never saw any reason to change things.”
On the fireplace mantel was a picture of his son in military uniform, his head adorned with a short haircut, his father's clear black eyes staring frankly out, the chin and nose of his mother giving him a vaguely patrician air. “Your son?” She knew he had been killed somewhere in Iraq during the Gulf War. He had been the only casualty the city had suffered and everyone knew about him. War hero, only child of the legendary ranger.
“Yes. Would you like something to eat or drink?”
Conchita approached Goodnight then slipped her arms around his neck. She pulled him down towards her face and they kissed.
In the bedroom they removed their clothes slowly as if it were foreplay. Standing naked he held her against him and kissed her for a long time, stroking her body lightly, the memories of the tenderness and intimacy that was love making coming back to him in a rush.
It had been eight years since Goodnight had last made love. He had pushed this part of his life firmly, and he believed, finally from his mind so to capture it once again in the twilight years of his life made him feel once again as he had the summer when he was 15 years old and rode the desert range of his father's ranch with the vaqueros. Then he had been immortal and his life had stretched before him with unlimited years.
There was no hurry when they lay on the bed. It was as if neither of them wanted this to end. When he had explored every portion of her body with his fingers, lips and tongue, and she had done the same with him, they joined, the pleasure so exquisite that Goodnight trembled as he entered her fully. She moved her hips and quickly they established a rhythm, moving as one until finally, ecstasy engulfed them and for long moments they were no longer individuals but were one and it seemed to Goodnight that it should always have been like this.
“Querido!” Conchita cried. “Querido mio!”
THIRTEEN
The next morning Jack Swensen awoke early with a raging hangover and the urgent need to pee. He and Iverson had stayed outside in his Jacuzzi drinking red wine until almost three in the morning. The sunlight which streamed into the guest bedroom was blinding. After the bathroom he went into the kitchen where he drank a tall glass of water mixed with an equal part of ice, downed four aspirin then went to shower. When he finished he returned to the guest room, hesitated in front of the closet, then lay back naked on top of the crumpled bedspread and moaned.
“What's the matter, lover boy?” Iverson asked sleepily, her expanse of blond hair scattered on her face and across the crumpled pillow.
“That goddamned wine. I'd feel better if I'd punched that bitch out. Sitting there making sweet talk was enough to make me puck.”
“I was proud of you. You've got her thinking now. I told you last night that the third bottle was too much. Just a minu
te. I've got what you need.” She walked nude to the bathroom as Swensen's eyes followed her. Her naked body was a constant source of excitement to him and even though he felt like hell he still experienced the familiar tingle the sight of her inevitably stirred.
When Iverson returned she dug in her purse and extracted a tube of lubricant. Despite his hangover he experienced an immediate stirring. She smiled then crawled onto the bed. She felt like shit too but this was show time. At least Swensen wasn't some oily Italian gangster giving her a quick toss then spending the rest of the night telling her how great he'd been and her agreeing, working for that hundred dollar tip she didn't have to split with Willie. As she stroked Swensen's body he reached up and grabbed her breasts.
“Not so hard, sweetie. Easy now.”
Swensen licked his lips in anticipation, the hangover now banished from his thoughts. Iverson squeezed lubricant onto her fingers, watching him with amusement as he followed everything she did like a little boy waiting for his ice cream cone. She dropped the tube to the side of the bed, scooted lower so that when she leaned forward her face would be precisely positioned over his penis. With her free hand she dabbed at the pile of lubricant, then smoothed it over his growing erection, working her hand up and down until his shaft was covered and she could masturbate him freely.
At other times this alone could be enough to cause a climax but even then he would fight to hold it back. Today her manual stroking brought him to full arousal so that when she slipped the lubricant on her other hand into her mouth, leaned down and sucked him in he was ready.
The sensation of the warmth of her mouth, the cool slickness of the lubricant and her suction was something he had never experienced with anyone except Jodi Iverson. It didn't take her long before he was pounding his fists into the bed and screaming, “Oh baby!” over and over. When he came he felt as if it were the first orgasm he had ever experienced.
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