"We haven't had the pleasure of your company for quite some time, my friend," boomed Lord Bozworth. Even in the heat, Bozworth wore his grey, fleece-lined winter jacket. MacFarland could only imagine what it smelled like. He decided not to get too close to the man.
"I was in Mexico for about two weeks," explained MacFarland. The news didn't seem to surprise Bozworth. MacFarland suspected that Bozworth probably even knew in which room in Delgado's house he had slept. The man had an uncanny information network.
"A delightful country. Alas, I have not had the joy of visiting that country. Was your trip there for business or the pursuit of pleasure?"
"Business, I guess. I was looking for a girl who had been kidnapped."
"Ah, yes, the Mason girl!"
"You've heard about that? I didn't realize it had made the news."
"There is news, and there is news, my friend. Everyone in the pot community knows what has befallen one of the largest suppliers of God's gift to mankind."
"Be that as it may, I was able to save her from her kidnappers. Unfortunately, although she returned to Denver, she is missing again."
"A very slippery girl."
MacFarland laughed. "You could describe her that way. In any case, I was wondering if you had heard anything about her on the street."
Bozworth's white teeth gleamed against his black skin. "No, nothing about her specifically, my friend."
MacFarland frowned. "If she's not on the streets, I wonder where she could be."
Bozworth laughed loudly. "You give me far more credit than I deserve. I do not know everything that happens on the streets of Denver."
"Hmmm," grunted MacFarland. He decided to try another tact. "Remember that guy I asked you about, Gabrio Torres?"
"Who could forget Señor Torres?" said Bozworth, his eyes twinkling.
"I need to locate him."
"I am afraid he has abandoned his last place of abode," said Bozworth. "It seems that events conspired to force him to go underground."
MacFarland was puzzled. "What events?"
"Like most of us, Señor Torres is but a bit player in the play of life. It would seem that a more critical actor decided that Torres was spending too much time on the stage."
"Are you saying he was killed?"
"Not as of this moment," said Bozworth, "though given Señor Torres' temperament and intellectual faculties, I do not foresee a very long lifetime for him. He seems to have made some very powerful enemies."
"Do you know who is after him?"
"I think you already know the answer to that, my foul weather friend."
"I do? You mean the Cartel?"
"Surely Denver's Finest would not permit cartels to operate in Denver."
"From what I've seen of cartels, they can operate pretty much wherever they want."
Bozworth nodded. "In point of fact, there has been some indication that Central American and Mexican cartels are moving into the Queen City. And while I don't know exactly where Señor Torres is, I have heard that he has a pretty gringa in his company. I would not be surprised if she is the same young lady you are seeking."
MacFarland looked at Bozworth in surprise. "Why didn't you tell me this when I asked if you had seen her?"
"Primarily because I did not associate the young lady you were looking for with the young lady in the company of Gabrio Torres. Even at this point, my conjecture is purely speculative in nature, my friend."
"Lord Bozworth, your conjectures are often more valid than most people's facts."
"A very kind thing for you to say, Mr. MacFarland. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
MacFarland sighed deeply. "You don't happen to know where Torres and his gringa were last seen, do you?"
"I have been told that they frequent a small restaurant up near Gold Hill," said Bozworth, smiling broadly. "If I am not mistaken, Mr. Mason has a marijuana farm up there. Of course, the buildings are abandoned, since he has relocated his operations to Denver. Boulder's loss, Denver's gain, I suppose."
MacFarland was about to head back to his truck when he stopped. "Lord Bozworth, why did you call me a foul weather friend?"
Bozworth's mouth was set in a determined frown. "Mac, we both have been on the streets, me a lot longer than you. Despite your current good fortune and your apparent rise on the social ladder, I still consider you one of my charges. Yet you pay me no respect."
"Sure I do," protested MacFarland. "I always refer to you by your title, don't I?"
"A man is more than his titles, my young friend. I mean, you only pay attention to me when you need something. Information, usually. I am pleased to give it to you, since I regard you as one of the good guys. But if you only come to me when the weather is foul and you need an umbrella, what else am I to assume other than you are simply a foul weather friend?"
MacFarland looked chagrinned. "I guess I never thought of that, Lord Bozworth."
"Don't get me wrong, son. As they say, a friend in need is a friend indeed. I would much rather have friends who need me than no friends at all. But a man likes to think that he is more than just a fount of useless information. He likes to think that he has merits that go beyond circumstantial need. Now go, my friend. Your quarry awaits you in Gold Hill."
As MacFarland climbed back into his truck, he began to wonder just what kind of a friend he was.