Showdown in West Texas. Amanda Stevens

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      “Okay. Where’s that?”

      “Nearest one is in Redford. That’s twenty miles east of here. I’m heading over there first thing in the morning for some brake pads. I can pick up a hose for you then if you want me to.”

      “That won’t do me much good,” Cage said. “I need to be in El Paso no later than five o’clock today.”

      Lester shook his head. “Sorry, mister, but you won’t be going anywhere with that busted radiator hose.”

      He was right about that.

      Mentally, Cage tallied up the cash he had on hand. “How much will it take to persuade you to make that trip to Redford today instead of in the morning?”

      Lester seemed to consider the proposition for a moment, then shook his head. “I’d like to help you out, but I’m right in the middle of a transmission overhaul.”

      “Fifty dollars,” Cage said. “That’ll pay your gas and then some for a trip you’re going to have to make anyway.”

      “Like I said, I’d like to help you out and all, but I just don’t see how—”

      “A hundred bucks.” That would take a big bite out of his wallet, but Cage didn’t see any other way around it. Besides, he had a company credit card he could always fall back on.

      “All right. You got yourself a deal.” Lester tossed the rag into a rusted-out barrel and waited patiently while Cage counted out the money.

      “Fifty now, fifty when you get back,” he said. “That okay with you?”

      “Fair enough, I guess.” Lester stuffed the money in the back pocket of his coveralls. “Where can I find you when I get back?”

      “You know of a place called Del Fuego’s?”

      “Just down the street a ways. Not much to look at, but the beer’s always cold.”

      “That’s what I hear,” Cage said.

      

      BUT DEL FUEGO’S WENT well beyond not much to look at.

      Hole in the wall was Cage’s first impression. The squat building with a flat roof and sagging wooden door reminded him of the places in Saigon his old man used to talk about.

      Walk in for a drink, lucky you didn’t leave with your damn throat slit.

      For all Cage knew, that story was just a load of crap like all the rest of the lies the old man used to spew. He probably hadn’t even left stateside during the Vietnam era.

      Cage might have wondered if his father had actually been in the service, but he’d seen pictures of him in uniform. A handsome, smiling guy with sparkling white teeth and a full head of hair.

      The man in those photographs bore little resemblance to the washed-up drunk who’d deserted his family when Cage was barely thirteen.

      After a while, his mother had put away all those old pictures, but Cage had once heard her tell her sister that she still sometimes dreamed about his father, the way he’d been before Vietnam had turned him into a stranger. She still secretly hoped that man would someday come back to her.

      His mother’s confession had stunned Cage. It was hard for him to reconcile the romantic dreamer pining for her first love with the downtrodden cynic Darleen had become. But then, there were things about his own life that Cage couldn’t reconcile.

      A fly buzzed around his face as he stepped through the door and stood for a moment glancing around. A bar to his left ran the length of the place, but the five or six patrons were all seated around a table in the back. The light was so dim, Cage could barely make out their features, but he knew he had their attention. He heard a mutter in Spanish, followed by a mocking guffaw.

      Ignoring the stares, he slid onto a stool and placed his phone on the bar.

      After a moment, the bartender threw a towel over his shoulder and sidled over to Cage. “What can I get for you?”

      “Cerveza,” Cage said. “Whatever you’ve got that’s cold.”

      “A man with discerning tastes, I see.” The bartender reached for a chilled mug.

      “Discerning, no,” Cage said. “Parched, yes.”

      The bartender gave him a curious glance. “Haven’t seen you in here before.”

      “Never been in before, but you come highly recommended.” Cage picked up the beer and took a thirsty swallow. “Damn, that’s good.”

      “You sound surprised.”

      “No, just appreciative.”

      “Well, it’s always nice to be appreciated. I’m Frank Grimes, by the way.”

      “Cage Nichols.”

      “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Cage.”

      They shook hands.

      “Likewise.”

      Frank Grimes was a tall, slender man of about fifty with longish gray hair and dancing blue eyes. His faded jeans and madras shirt looked straight out of the sixties, as did the silver peace sign he wore on a black cord around his neck.

      He had the look of an artist, Cage decided. The kind that spent his spare time painting coyotes silhouetted against sunsets.

      “So, what brings you to our fair town?” Frank folded his arms and leaned against the bar.

      “Car trouble,” Cage said.

      Frank nodded. “A story with which I’m intimately familiar. I was on my way to Juarez when my fuel pump went out just south of town. I had to wait overnight for a part that never came in, and I’ve been here ever since. That was three years ago.”

      Cage grimaced. “Well, I hope to have a little better luck than you. I need to be in El Paso by five.”

      Frank’s brows rose. “Five o’clock today?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Life or death?”

      “More or less.”

      “That stinks for you, then.”

      “Tell me about it. I’m still holding out some hope I’ll be able to make it on time,” Cage said as he took another drink of his beer. “The mechanic at the garage is on his way to Redford now to pick up a part for me.”

      “You mean Lester?”

      “Yeah, that’s him.”

      Frank’s eyes twinkled. “How much did you have to pay him?”

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