The Slab by Jeffrey J. Mariotte

Author:Jeffrey J. Mariotte [Mariotte, Jeffrey J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 1932382070
Publisher: ILT Publishing
Published: 2003-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Jorge, Raul, and Diego stopped off in a bar before heading home. The sun was slipping behind the western hills. It would be dark soon, and they’d been crammed into Diego’s truck all day long and nothing had come of it. Diego pulled the truck into the parking lot of The Rig (“OUR WELL NEVER RUNS DRY”) and stopped it between a cream colored Toyota Tercel hatchback and a Datsun B-210 that had once been dark blue but now was kind of a glazed-white from sun and oxidation. A field worker in a mud-caked T-shirt and a baseball cap too big for his skinny head leaned against a low half-wall edging the parking lot, smoking a cigarette and bopping to a tune only he could hear.

The bar was dark inside, and cooler than out, with ceiling fans that turned lazily overhead, fluttering the red white and blue bunting that had been strewn almost haphazardly around the room’s interior. Besides the bartender, a stocky Hispanic in a white wife-beater T that showed off the multiple tattoos on his arms and shoulders, the joint was nearly empty, with one barstool occupied by a sad-looking Anglo drunk bent over a glass of tequila, and a blonde woman sitting alone at a table, spinning her empty bottle between her palms. She looked up expectantly when the men entered, as if hoping to see whoever would be buying her next drink come in. She tossed them a toothy smile, which Jorge returned. Diego just scowled at her and beelined for the bar. His mood had turned increasingly foul during the afternoon and the last thing he wanted was some barroom skank gluing herself to them.

“Cerveza,” he ordered.

The bartender met his eyes briefly and then turned away, setting down the glass he’d been toweling off and reaching for a clean beer mug. At the same time, the man at the bar clicked his tequila glass on the counter, hard. “Hit me again, Pablo,” he said.

The bartender glanced at Diego again and showed some gold teeth in what was probably, Diego figured, supposed to be a friendly grin. “My name ain’t even Pablo,” he said. “S’Isidro.”

“I give a fuck?” Diego said. “Get me a beer.” He flicked his thumbs toward Raul and Jorge. “Three beers.”

The drunk at the end of the bar slammed his glass down, louder than before. “I said hit me,” he said.

“I’ll hit you, madrone,” Diego offered.

The drunk spun slowly on his stool and eyed Diego, letting his rheumy gaze slide briefly over Jorge and Raul as well. He looked like he’d been sitting there long enough to have become part of the barstool itself. But except for his typical barroom pallor, he seemed healthy enough, with muscles that rippled beneath his tight T-shirt and strong, bandy legs straining the pants of his jeans. Steel-toed work boots were hooked over the rail of the stool’s footrest.

“You say something to me?” he asked. “Pablo, I’m a regular customer and I asked for another drink.

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