The place Longarm found wasn’t far from the hotel. As he and Padgett and Mercer passed through the arched entrance into the cooler dimness of the interior, Longarm paused to let his eyes adjust to the change in light.
This was a typical Southwestern cantina, with tables scattered around the big main room on a hard-packed dirt floor. A bar made of wide planks nailed onto empty barrels ran across part of the rear wall. At the end of the bar was another arched doorway, this one covered with a curtain of beads. The air was heavy with the odors of tobacco smoke, stale beer, tequila, and unwashed human flesh. A couple of men stood at the bar, while three more sat at a table. They were the only customers. A stout Mexican in a dirty white shirt and apron was behind the bar pouring the shots of tequila being downed by the two men standing there. The three men at the table were passing around a bucket of beer. A lush-bodied woman with a mass of curly black hair leaned an elbow against the bar. Her figure was displayed to its best advantage in a low-cut peasant blouse decorated with fancy embroidery and a skirt that hugged her hips before flaring out around her legs. Looking around the place, Longarm thought the word “squalid” came to mind. From the expression on Leon Mercer’s face, complete with frown-creased forehead and pursed lips, Mercer agreed. Senator Padgett seemed to be impressed by what he saw, however.
“My God, this is positively … earthy,” Padgett said. “And so colorful.”
Longarm didn’t see anything particularly colorful about the cantina. The woman’s skirt was bright red, but that was just about the only spot of color he noticed. But there was no point in arguing with Padgett about the matter. Longarm just wanted them to have a drink and then get out of there.
He eyed the customers as he and his two companions crossed the room. He didn’t want a repeat of what had happened back in El Paso. The three men at the table were white and looked like cowboys, no doubt from one of the nearby ranches. The pair at the bar wore sombreros and charro jackets, and they wore their guns low and tied down. They were bad hombres—or at least thought they were. Longarm didn’t recognize either of them, though, so he could at least hope that they didn’t know him from somewhere else. And hope, as well, that they wouldn’t start shooting at him.
The woman perked up a little as the newcomers approached the bar. “Hola, senores. What can Lupe do for you?” She batted her eyelashes in what she obviously considered a seductive manner as she asked the question.
“Tequila,” Padgett said, grinning broadly at her. “For me and my friends. No, on second thought, tequila for everyone!”
One of the cowboys at the table called out, “Hey, much obliged, mister! That’s mighty generous of you.”
“Muchas gracias,” said one of the thin-lipped gents at the bar. He gave Padgett a curt nod.
The bartender refilled the glasses of the two Mexicans, then poured drinks for Longarm, Padgett, and Mercer. He finished by pouring three shots for the cowboys and placing the glasses on a tray so that Lupe could carry them over to the table. As she did so, Padgett’s eyes followed her swaying hips hungrily.
“A fine-looking woman, wouldn’t you say?” he muttered to Longarm. Without waiting for the marshal to respond, he went on. “I’ve never had a little chile pepper like that. I imagine they’re pretty spicy.”
His voice was loud enough so that the other two men at the bar might be able to hear it. Longarm said quietly, “I’d be careful about talk like that if I was you. Some folks get a mite touchy.”
“Why, I didn’t mean any offense.” Padgett seemed startled that Longarm would have even suggested such a thing. “Sorry, Marshal. I’ll try not to upset the greasers.”
Longarm winced. He hadn’t particularly wanted it known that he was a lawman, just in case any of the gents in here were on the dodge, and Padgett’s comment about “greasers” might just make the situation worse. From the corner of his eye, he saw how the other two men at the bar stiffened. Neither of them had drunk the tequila Padgett had bought for them, and now they pushed the glasses away.
“Pour that out, Pablo,” one of them said to the bartender. “We will not drink anything bought by filthy gringo coins.”
“Wait just a minute, sir,” Padgett said, turning toward the two charros. “I’ve already pointed out that I meant no offense by my comment about the young lady. I was just admiring her beauty.”
One of the men spat a curse in Spanish. “Lupe needs no compliments from the likes of you.”
The object of the discussion had delivered the drinks to the table. Now she hurried back over to the bar, looking as nervous as the bartender, and said quickly, “There is no need to argue, mi amigos. My honor is not insulted.”
“A worthless puta like you has no honor,” snapped one of the Mexicans. “But this dog of a gringo had insulted us by calling us greasers.”
Leon Mercer let out a low moan of sheer terror. His drink was untouched on the bar. Suddenly he snatched up the glass and gulped down the fiery tequila, as if to fortify himself for the trouble he seemed certain was coming.
Longarm also figured things were about to go from bad to worse. He had known that Padgett could be crass and crude at times, and he’d figured that came from being a politician. It had to be difficult to hide your true feelings all the time and only tell people what you thought they wanted to hear. But he had certainly never expected the senator to come in here and provoke trouble so quickly and effortlessly. It was almost like Padgett wanted to start a fight.
That thought could have done with some more pondering, but there was no time for it. The untouched drinks still sat in front of the two Mexicans, and Padgett pointed at them as he said loudly, “Now I’m going to be insulted if you don’t drink those. There’s nothing wrong with them, and where I come from a man doesn’t dishonor another man by turning down a drink.”
“What does a dog know of honor?”
Longarm reached for Padgett’s arm. It was time for that better part of valor he’d heard tell of. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going back to the hotel.”
Padgett jerked his arm free. “Not yet. Not until these men do something with those drinks.”
The two Mexicans did something, all right. They picked up the glasses and splashed the tequila all over the front of Padgett’s suit. The senator gaped down at the wet mess in astonishment, then shouted, “By God, I won’t stand for that!” He lunged at the nearest of the Mexicans, swinging a fist at the man’s head.
