An elderly woman’s face flashed on the screen before the image blurred. After a moment, Seth focused on a man wearing a baseball cap pulled down low. His eyes were shaded by mirrored amber glasses. He had a thick mustache that would rival any 1970s porn star. His teeth were stained brown from the thick piece of chew that bulged in his front lip. He wore a heavy denim jacket and a felted red plaid shirt. Barton shook his hand and introduced himself. The man looked at the floor in a gesture that Barton assumed was shyness.
“Do you mind if I get your name?” Barton asked in a kind voice.
“It’s Lefty Van Zant,” the man said. “You Federales?”
The man’s eyes flicked to the camera. That’s what had caught Seth’s attention. “Lefty” is the name of a character in the song “Pancho and Lefty” written by Townes Van Zant and made famous by Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard. Barton was too young to know the song so he didn’t catch it.
“No, sir,” Barton said. “I’m a reporter with Westword. Detective O’Malley asked me to help with the interviews.”
“Jus’ came in from the desert,” the man said. “Things are a little . . .”
The camera lost focus for a moment and then zoomed in on the man’s face. Seth leaned forward.
“Weird,” the man finished his statement with a nod.
“Would you like to share your story with Detective O’Malley?” Barton asked.
“Jes,” the man said. He went on to tell a wild story about mutilations and aliens. The story got so big and so weird that even Barton could tell he was making it up. Barton kindly closed the interview. The man looked at the camera, shrugged, and said, “If the great detective wants to get in touch with me, he knows how.”
Thinking the man was crazy, Barton nodded and smiled. The man turned in place and wandered off. Before the next person, Barton leaned forward.
“Reeked of weed,” Barton said to the camera.
The camera went blurry before the next person came up, and Barton greeted them.
Seth watched the short interview three more times. He checked his watch. It was nearly ten. He bit his lip and looked up at the ceiling.
The guy looked like Rick Lopez.
One night, when Seth was supposed to be at the incredibly boring Southwestern Detectives’ Banquet, crazy Emily, Seth’s soon to be ex-wife, had called Rick when she was looking for Seth. Not thinking anything about it, Rick had told her the truth—Seth was playing sing-a-long at a piano bar in Tucson with Mitch. This small act of friend betrayal earned him the title of Lefty to Seth’s Pancho. His betrayal was rewarded with a trip to Denver where Lefty had the pleasure of testifying to Pancho’s unreliability in his divorce proceedings.
Seth rewound and watched the tape again. That had to be Rick Lopez. His face was different in some way that Seth couldn’t define, but his gestures and voice were all Lopez.
Seth tapped his head. Rick Lopez was supposed to have died from a bullet in the brain. Seth and Mitch had gone to his funeral just before Mitch died. Seth racked his mind for how he’d gotten a hold of Rick in the past.
Telephone? Seth thought for a moment and dialed the number he’d used for Rick Lopez. Out of service.
Email? No, Lopez was dead and buried before Seth could bring himself to write his first email.
“If the great detective wants to get in touch with me, he knows how.” That’s what this “Lefty” had said to Barton in San Luis.
Then it occurred to him. When Rick was alive, Seth and Mitch would usually find him in some dive Mexican restaurant sucking down bottles of cheap tequila, if it was nighttime, or coffee, if it was morning. Seth picked up the telephone and called the front desk.
“What’s the diviest Mexican restaurant in Alamosa?” Seth asked.
“The diviest, Mr. O’Malley?” the desk clerk’s effeminate voice chuckled.
“Yeah, I guess that’s a word,” Seth said.
“For tonight, we’ll make it a word,” the desk clerk said. “Your agent told me specifically not to let you leave the hotel.”
“That’s interesting,” Seth said.
“I thought so, too,” the desk clerk said. “How much do you pay him?”
“A lot,” Seth chuckled.
“That’s what I thought,” the desk clerk said. “Looking for a place to drink?”
“I’m looking for a friend,” Seth said.
“A friend . . .” the desk clerk’s voice faded. “You mean like the girls who are waiting here on the off chance that you’ll want a friend?”
“Like an old friend who told me that I could find him at a Mexican place in town and that I would know it because it was a dive.”
“Oh,” the desk clerk said. “No girls?”
“No girls,” Seth said.
“Boys?” The desk clerk’s voice lifted with the possibility.
“Not my thing,” Seth said.
“I wondered, ’cuz you’re traveling with that gorgeous Barton,” the desk clerk said.
“Mmm,” Seth said.
“There’s a few dive Mexican restaurants in town. I mean, it is a college town.” Clearly embarrassed, the desk clerk’s words came out fast.
“So it is,” Seth said.
“I’d say that the one about a half block down is the diviest,” the desk clerk said. “Yeah. On a scale of dive to extremely dive, the one down the street is extremely dive to the one downtown that’s just dive.”
“Can you write the addresses down for me?” Seth asked.
“You don’t want to come out here,” the desk clerk said.
“Why?”
“Girls?”
“Good point,” Seth said.
“I can give you the addresses, and you can find them on your GPS,” the desk clerk said.
Seth scowled. He’d left his fancy phone at home.
“You know what?”
“What?”
“Why don’t you try the one down the street?” the desk clerk asked. “You can always call me if that’s not it.”
“I’ll do it,” Seth said.
“It’s about a half block down on the opposite side of the street,” the desk clerk said.
“Thanks,” Seth said.
“Your friend? The reporter?” The desk clerk asked. “Is he single?”
“As far as I know,” Seth said.
“Good.” The desk clerk’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s coming down the hall right now. Should I go for it?”
“Why not?” Seth said. He added, “Have fun,” and hung up the phone.
He pulled a fleece sweater over his T-shirt. While he had a license to carry the handgun, Seth figured he’d better not take it to a dive bar. He went down the backstairs to the truck. From the truck, he could see Barton talking to the desk clerk. Grinning, Seth grabbed a thin wool skullcap and a newspaper. He pulled the cap over his shock of salt and pepper hair, stuck the paper in his back pocket, and started down the road. He crossed at the light and ducked into the Mexican restaurant.