by Gavin Reese
“Hey, Johnny, you a’ight?” Billy asked, after having noticed Jonathan had drifted off elsewhere, and not to a place of peace.
The truck and its desert surroundings blazed back into Jonathan’s vision, graciously supplanting the combat-filled Baghdad intersection like sunlight rapidly melting through a submissive fog. Jonathan blinked hard, forcing the last bit of reality back into his conscious mind.
“Yeah…the music…it just reminded me of someone, I, uh, I used to know.” Jonathan’s body language and short answer conveyed he didn’t want to discuss it further.
By the slight illumination offered from a few functional dashboard lights, Jonathan looked around and examined the rundown truck’s threadbare interior to keep himself focused on the present. The factory bench seat had long ago succumbed to decades of wear, and had been ensconced by a green-and-white saddle blanket bench seat cover. Its door panels were mostly broken or gone, and only the window rollers, interior door handles, and small cracked vinyl arm rests remained of that original equipment. Torn remnants of a sun bleached, tan dash mat, held in place by greasy hand tools, concealed only portions of the original, cracked dashboard. A plastic soda bottle, which rested in an aftermarket cup holder suspended from the driver’s window frame, was half-filled with what appeared to be a wretched mix of tobacco spit and empty sunflower seed shells. A collage of dusty, empty plastic bottles, crushed beers cans, empty whiskey pint bottles, and convenience store food bags hid most of the floorboard from view. The truck, which had no air conditioning system, smelled of dirt, gasoline, tobacco, whiskey, and sweat. It’s a worthless piece of shit to everyone but Billy.
Billy slapped the top of the dashboard above the cassette player when a speaker wire shorted-out and momentarily stopped the electric temper tantrum from assaulting Jonathan’s ears. He looked at Jonathan and pointed to the cassette player. “WHITE RAGE!” Billy yelled to be heard above the ruckus. “MY FAVORITE BAND! GONNA SEE ‘EM PLAY TONOPAH IN SEPTEMBER!”
Jonathan found the band’s performance almost insufferable. How shitty does a band have to be to book a gig in Tonopah?
Finally slowing as he turned a blind-right corner, Billy piloted the jalopy into a parking lot on the west side of the road. Jonathan saw a red-and-white neon sign above that proclaimed it to be called “The Wate n Ho Sal on.”
“Really, Billy? The Wait’n Ho?”
“Naw, brother, it’s ‘The Watering Hole Saloon,’ but there’s been a couple, uh, mishaps, you might say, in the parking lot that’s done some pricey damage to the neon. It ain’t been right for at least five-to-seven.’
Jonathan shook his head, disbelief evident in his smirk. He’s just never been that far from the prison yard, it’s even in his speech. ‘Five-to-seven’ is a prison sentence, not a time estimate. Looking around the front of the structure, Jonathan felt assured he was in for a very classy night. Great, he thought, a double-wide trailer-turned-bar in the fuckin’ middle of Tonopah. He had always associated Tonopah’s residents with ranches, farms, dairies, and those who chose not to live under the thumb of municipal government, code-enforcement, or homeowners’ associations. This place, he thought, appears to be where the anti-social come together to attempt to socialize.
“You sure this place isn’t called ‘The Island of Misfit Toys?’”
Billy ignored Jonathan’s question and instead focused on getting the truck stopped without striking the row of cruisers parked near the front door. As Billy parked, Jonathan saw The Watering Hole Saloon/double-wide trailer sported an attached, covered porch that ran the length of the building’s front, east side. He had heard tales of The Watering Hole over the years growing up in Dry Creek, but had never actually seen it before. Jonathan’s grapevine understanding was that the bar’s transient patrons ranged from weekend biker-wannabes, dairy workers, local residents of all socioeconomic backgrounds, and legitimate outlaw motorcycle gang members. The parking lot looked to Jonathan more like that of a salvage yard than a bar, and he immediately felt this could be a dangerous place. Despite having never set foot inside, he believed the loud southern rock emanating from the open doors, the rust-bucket pickups, Confederate flags, and red-and-white stickered Harley Davidsons told him all he needed to know. I bet I could get stabbed in there, and no one’d even consider calling the cops.
“Welcome to The Watering Hole, big brother,” Billy proudly exclaimed, “this is the best bar around, and I promise you’ll enjoy ya-self.” He paused and appeared to choose his next words carefully. “Couple things you outta know though, the bar’s got a code of conduct, called The Rules. The owner and bouncers make sure every man’s responsible for his actions, and punishment can be, uh, well, decided by the victim. ‘Dealer’s choice,’ they call it.” He paused, again searching for words. “Can be, uh, swift and brutal, if ya know what I mean.”
“What the fuck, Billy? If you wanted to kick my ass, you could have brought some friends and we coulda squared off in the front yard.” Jonathan remained seated in the truck, seatbelt still on, door still locked. “No need to bring me all the way out here to do it.”
“Nonsense, brother, we’re just going in here for a friendly drink. You leave them alone, they’ll leave you alone. Try to lighten up and have fun for a change, might help keep you from killin’ ya-self.”
“I’m not going to kill myself, Billy.”
“Every time the reporters talk about you vets, it’s always about how fucked up or suicidal you are, so I kinda had to assume, so my apologies. Come on, hang with me tonight and I’ll get your Eagle Scout ass back home before the sun comes up.”
“Fuck you, Billy.” Jonathan reluctantly unlatched the seatbelt, opened the door, and slid out of the truck. One beer, he thought, keep it to just one beer and leave before some chickenshit biker mob kicks my teeth in.
“Alll-right, that’s the spirit, big brother. Try not to act like a pussy in here, though, ‘cuz these guys’ll smell that a mile away and have to decide whether to fight ya or fuck ya. It’s best not to leave that decision up to them. ‘Dealer’s choice,’ as it were.”
“Thanks, I guess I should have brought a bigger strap-on in case anyone asked to measure it.”
“See there, Boy Scout, sense of humor is coming back, things are already lookin’ up.” Billy got out of the truck, slammed the creaky door, and led Jonathan up onto the porch and through the double doors. Jonathan walked through the doorway and stale cigarette smoke immediately assaulted his nostrils. He saw The Watering Hole’s interior, lit only by neon beer signs hung from the walls and low wooden ceiling, presently held about two-dozen patrons; mostly men and all white, they sat scattered among a few rickety wooden tables and several stools at the bar. Safe to assume he’s a regular, Jonathan thought as several patrons greeted Billy, it’s like watching Norm’s convict brother walking onto the Cheers prison yard. Jonathan noticed most of the customers at least glanced at him, and the body language of several clearly conveyed an instant disliking for the stranger. Billy led him deeper into the bar toward a dark, narrow breezeway that soon revealed another, darker, room with several pool tables and a dart board. And, Jonathan told himself, more potential felons, but at least there’s another door back here. That red exit sign’s the best thing I’ve seen so far.
After following Billy to a pool table in the back corner, Jonathan saw three white guys with shaved heads, white t-shirts, red suspenders, and tall Doc Martin boots who seemed to be guarding their favorite pool table from invading players. After seeing all three men had similar Viking-themed tattoos that covered most of their arms, disappeared under their white shirts, and protruded out onto their necks, Jonathan reached a logical conclusion. Fucking great, he thought, Billy’s friends are skinheads, and his truck is my only way home. He knew Billy had always been a little racist, but Jonathan never thought his dislike of minorities ran this deep.
“Fellas, this is my big brother, Mr. Jonathan Michael Patrick McDougal, this is Paul, Mikey, and, Cleveland.
” Jonathan met their eyes and shook hands as Billy introduced them. What the fuck am I doing here, he wondered, and how the fuck do I get out of being here without leaving on a stretcher?
“Just Jonathan is fine.” Be cool to them, they might be cool to you, he told himself.
The biggest one, Cleveland, spoke first. “Well, Just Jonathan, Billy’s kin’s our kin. Anybody gives you problems, you let me know.”
“I’m good, not expecting any problems, but maybe I should since I’ve been warned so many times in the last few minutes.” Slightly offended by their quick, unsolicited offer to defend his honor, Jonathan wondered if he looked too out-of-place to be safe there. “What’re you drinking, Billy?”
“Coors draft is always good for me, the big one if you’re buying.”
“Yeah, I got it.” It’d be common courtesy to offer a round to his friends, Jonathan thought, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna buy drinks for these assholes. As he turned toward the bar, he noticed the three men immediately encircle Billy and begin a hushed conversation with him. Probably don’t wanna know what that’s about.
Grateful to have uneventfully reached the bar, Jonathan stood behind a worn black vinyl stool that he saw had once displayed a Harley Davidson logo, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on the bar top. From his right, and behind the bar counter, a chrome metal cooler door swung open and a bent-over female figure clad in black, form-fitting leather pants and a black tee backed out from behind it. As she lifted a cardboard box of bottled beer and turned toward him, Jonathan saw the bartender was quite pretty. Maybe too pretty for this place, he thought, she’d be stunning if not for the circus-blue hair and face piercings. The bartender briefly met Jonathan’s eyes, said nothing, and continued past him. After dropping the box on a nearby chest cooler, she unenthusiastically sauntered over for his order. Jonathan saw a series of “old school” tattoos covered her right arm and disappeared beneath the sleeve of her black, faded Sex Pistols t-shirt.
“Two Coors drafts, the big ones, ‘cuz I’m buying.”
“You a cop?”
The question surprised and concerned Jonathan, but also told him a lot about her; although he hadn’t been called a ‘narc’ since high school, he understood how square the morally flexible had always seen him.
“No, why would you think that? Are you a cop?” Jonathan recognized the allegation might have uncomfortable consequences and tried to ensure their conversation remained somewhat private, all while growing even less appreciative of Billy’s invitation for a night out. Sure, he thought, take me out and show me a good time with your stupid fucking friends. I wonder if I’ll need stitches or a tourniquet first?
“You have to tell me if you are, you know that, right?” Her hands rested on her side of the bar top, arms locked in an apparent effort to remain close enough to hear him over the other patrons, but far enough away to demonstrate her apathy for him and his draft beers. Neither of them broke eye contact as they silently stood, each assessing the other. The bartender hadn’t moved a muscle toward filling his order, which told Jonathan the significance of his “cop/non-cop” status outweighed both his thirst and her tip.
Jonathan chuckled, momentarily looked away to survey the other patrons, and tried to lighten the mood. “Alright, I’ll play your stupid fuckin’ game. I’m an unemployed Army vet with a powerful thirst. Do I get to spend money in your fine establishment, or do I have to take my pesos elsewhere?” He mirrored her passive-aggressive body language, met her gaze, and tried his best to exude potentially-criminal bravado.
She slowly looked him up and down before finally sauntering over toward to the pull taps. Jonathan watched her fill two oversize pint glasses with Schlitz, rather than the requested Coors draft, and then abandon them near the taps. She really doesn’t give a fuck, he thought.
Six
The Watering Hole Saloon parking lot. Tonopah, Arizona.
With the sun having just set behind a nameless Sonoran desert mountain in front of him, Drug Enforcement Administration Special Agent Donnie Williams sat alone in the driver’s seat of a beat-up, black Dodge Durango parked in a turnout across an empty, two-lane highway from The Watering Hole Saloon. Donnie had followed his target, a white male who went by “Cleveland,” to the isolated desert dive bar, and had had to exercise extreme operational precautions while doing so. The nearly absent vehicle traffic in the area had forced him to keep an unusually distant stand-off from Cleveland’s Ford Bronco, which had meant that he drove past the bar just in time to see Cleveland saunter in through its swinging front doors. Checking his watch, Donnie realized that ten minutes had now passed since he’d U-turned and found the wide shoulder along the east side of the highway that allowed him to watch the bar’s parking lot without actually driving into it. He hoped to identify the man’s associates and, if luck shined on him tonight, confirm or dispel Cleveland & Company’s involvement with an interstate drug trafficking operation currently under DEA investigation. Donnie and his partner, Nick Xyphos, had both been surprised, and a bit confused, when they learned of Cleveland’s white supremacist beliefs; considering the other targets in their investigation were Mexican nationals working for the Santa Lina cartel, Donnie had to assume that Cleveland’s love of money outweighed his professed, racist principles. Or, he’s not our guy and we can go back to square one.
Finally, Donnie saw Nick’s blue Ford F150 pull in to The Watering Hole’s lot and park a few cars north of the entrance. Entering the bar alone with only one back-up agent was dangerous, maybe even reckless, but doing so before Nick arrived would have been downright suicidal.
booop booop
Donnie heard his cellphone’s walkie-talkie application alert him to a new message, which he immediately played, and heard Nick’s frustrated apology. “Sorry, Donnie, got lost on these fuckin’ farm roads. This place is dead-fuckin’-center in the middle of nowhere.”
Pressing the digital record icon on the application’s screen, Donnie spoke his message back to Nick. “No worries, you can make it up to me at Third Watch and buy the first pitcher.” He released the icon to send his message, and had to wait only a few seconds for Nick’s reply to arrive.
booop booop
“Copy that. First one’s on me, but you’ll have to win the second one at the dartboard.” With Nick now in place, Donnie got out of the Durango, strode across the deserted highway and into the parking lot, and entered The Watering Hole. I only need to stay long enough to ID these assholes, order and drink most of a draft beer, and leave before Cleveland or his buddies take an interest in me. Once inside, Donnie had a moment of doubt as Cleveland was nowhere in sight. He also took almost immediate notice of another white guy leaning on the bar. Button-down camp shirt, close crop haircut, and the dude looks like he can handle himself. He’s either a cop or a square. The less-cool brother, ‘Charles Sheen?’ Donnie chewed on that possibility for a moment. Wonder if someone else is looking into Cleveland? Gotta run him through MadCap again to make sure we don’t get a blue-on-blue. As he watched Charles Sheen from the corner of his eye, Donnie saw the man seemed to know he didn’t fit in. Clearly not comfortable here. Yep, gotta be a cop, unless he’s banging a chick that hangs out here.
Donnie ambled up to the bar, stayed a good distance from Charles Sheen, just in case, and ordered a Schlitz from the bartender, whom he immediately nicknamed “Freaky Blue.” While waiting on the Schlitz, he took up a stool and tried to nonchalantly determine where Cleveland had gone. Is he in the shitter? What about a backdoor? Did he make our tail and split? A text message interrupted his thought process. Lifting his government smartphone from his left front pants pocket, he saw it was from Nick: “u good”. Donnie replied with a simple “4” and returned the phone to his pocket.
Donnie saw Freaky Blue walking back toward him. “I was ‘sposed to meet a friend here, but I don’t see him,” he said as Freaky Blue placed the hop-heavy draft in front of him, “big white guy, usually in a white shirt and red suspenders
?”
“That’s about half the bar.” She looked past him and didn’t make eye contact. Donnie thought he could actually see apathy stream from her pores. “You try the back?” Her gaze slowly drifted to meet his, but Donnie saw not an ounce of concern in it.
“There’s a back?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes rolled to her left, as though to both indicate a direction and her unending lack of interest in his problem. “In the back, genius.”
Donnie lifted his pint glass and rose from the cheap vinyl barstool without another word. No sense getting unwanted attention from an argument with the lady, he thought. As he walked deeper into the room, he saw what he had assumed to be a dark hallway was actually the entrance to the other half of the double-wide. As he neared the doorway, he immediately recognized Cleveland standing across the narrow room beneath a neon Coors Light sign accompanied by two other white supremacists and an unknown male. Maybe the other guy’s just a hang-around, Donnie thought, and hasn’t yet made the full ‘neck-tattoo’ commitment to the Club.
Donnie found a darker, isolated corner in the front room from which to watch the other barflies without drawing attention himself. While seated there, he watched Charles Sheen leave the bar with two beers and walk straight over to Cleveland and his group. Donnie saw them apparently joking with Charles, whom Donnie believed looked a little nervous and incredibly out of place in his surroundings. Man, that dude’s gotta be a cop, but, fuck, if he is, they have to know he’s a cop. Maybe he’s their P-O and doesn’t give a fuck about the rules? After staying in place only long enough to memorize the five men’s physical descriptions, he quietly left without drawing attention to himself or his lonely departure. Strolling down The Watering Hole’s front steps, he detoured north through the parking lot past Nick’s unmarked Ford work truck to ensure no one followed him out of the bar. Once blanketed by darkness, Donnie purposefully strode southeast across Old US 80 to retrieve his Durango and wait for the five men to leave the bar.
