THE SAME HEAPS WERE PARKED in the same spots in front of Art’s Bar. Only difference, a headache rack had been welded onto Perry’s dented Ford. Carl rode for years on tires with no tread, just aired ’em up daily. Those who crossed the creek had mud-splattered bumpers, those who lived in town had spotless hubcaps. Plush dice hung from Terry Lyn’s rearview mirror. Seemed like Moni was still hauling the same two years’ worth of trash in the back of his pickup, his brain or his vehicle incapable of following directions to the dump. And there at the end, Owen Plank’s spiffy Toyota Tundra, so clean you’d never guess he drove it every day over all sorts of terrain for a living.
Art’s gathered a collection of down-and-outs, five o’clock happy hour patrons, rowdy ranch hands, well-behaved alcoholics drinking to maintain and women who went for one or all of the above. In a town of 396 residents, this meant about a dozen regulars and a fluctuating flow of customers, depending on the season. In the fall, hunters packed the place. During the winter, the odd truck driver took a lonely seat at the bar. Spring attracted those itching to get out of the house and summers were steady, with tourists adding a touch of awkward sophistication to the scene. Once a month, Art shoved the chairs and tables against the walls and couples scooted across the worn wood floor to the No Name Band’s rendition of classic country, the evening incomplete without at least a couple of brawls interrupting the two-stepping, women fighting as hard as the men.
Walker snuck in with downcast eyes, ready to burst into laughter and shake hands, squeeze the old boys’ shoulders and pat the ladies’ bottoms.
“You all watch yourselves,” Art yelled. “Don’t turn your back. A hardened criminal has entered our midst.”
Walker made the rounds, some happy to see him, others turning away, and found Jo at the far end of the bar, face partially hidden by a puff of frizzy red hair, a half-full Manhattan in front of her. Expensive date.
“Get off that chair, gorgeous, so I can swing you around.”
She cocked her head.
“And risk you tripping over a chair? I got osteoporosis.”
“Nice welcome,” he said.
She traced the rim of her cocktail glass with her finger and broke into a big smile that wrinkled her face.
“Shit, Walker, you know I’m damn glad to see you. I’m so happy I’ll buy the first round.”
“No way, darlin’. It’s against my principles to have a woman buy me a drink.”
“You don’t have principles.”
“Speaking of which,” he leaned close and breathed in her ear. “Let’s get out of here for half an hour, if you know what I mean.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and rested her hand on his wrist.
“Oh, I hear you,” she said. “But you don’t hardly rate a D in the lovemaking department. That little pecker of yours is broke, or asleep, or dead, and you know it. Let’s not embarrass ourselves.”
He straightened and shoved his shoulders back.
“It worked good enough to produce two kids.”
“Twenty years ago. With a hot, young wife.”
Danielle.
“I guess Lee Ann told you she’s back,” Jo continued. “Living in a trailer on Ross Plank’s ranch.”
“Shit. No.” The very land he aimed to turn.
“Maybe she didn’t want to be around for your reaction.”
“I’d have found out sooner or later,” he said.
“Later’s always better.”
He took the stool next to her, signaling two fingers to Art.
“Fill me in,” he said, lighting a cigarette, taking a drag, and placing it between her lips.
But a small crowd had migrated toward him, gathering behind his back, asking questions. He turned around and launched into tales of prison life, how minimum-security incarceration was just that, but jail nonetheless. Hell, no, he wouldn’t have run the risk of walking away. Yeah, he’d made some good buddies, actually read a book about life in Mongolia. Nah, there were no riots. Lots of bitching, though. The food was about what you’d expect, maybe worse. Yeah, his cellmate, Pat, was pretty cool. Yeah, they got along. Did he repent? He’d have to think about that one.