Dove Season (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) by Shaw Johnny Read Free Book Online

holding up two fingers, and then ducked his head into his chin in a ridiculous effort to look inconspicuous.
    The one face I did recognize was Mr. Morales. I probably looked completely different. He looked exactly the same. A short, powerful man with massive forearms and a barrel chest, Mr. Morales was built like a Pemex oil drum. A bushy mustache and deep crevices made up the terrain of his face. I’d never once seen him smile. But I’d also never seen him angry. A good neighbor, I’d known him since I was a kid. I remember walking across the street, and for a quarter plus the deposit, I would buy a bottle of 7-Up. Mr. Morales would put salt on the rim of the bottle, a detail I could only appreciate in hindsight.
    Morales Bar didn’t have beer on tap. Mr. Morales would buy cases of beer in Mexicali and then sell them by the bottle. When you have to piss in a hole out back, why bother with a liquor license.
    “What’ll it be, Jimmy?” Mr. Morales said, as if I had been in just the other night rather than twelve years ago. He pulled a weathered half of a cigar out of the breast pocket of his checkered short-sleeve shirt and lit it. Not the only bar in California that you can smoke in, but probably the only one that doesn’t know it’s against the law.
    “Four beers. Gracias , sir.”
    He dug his bare hands deep into the ice bucket behind the bar. “How’s Big Jack doing?”
    “Could be better. You know.”
    Mr. Morales set four wet beers on the counter, his dark arms burned red from the ice water. “Jack’s a tough son of a bitch, don’t you worry. Never seen him lose a fight in the fifty years I’ve known him. A few he didn’t win maybe, but he never lost. Anyone kick cancer’s ass, it’s him. You need anything, you ask.”
    I nodded, having no interest in getting further into the conversation. If only the optimism of an old Mexican could cure cancer.
    I held up a ten. Mr. Morales shook it off. “It’s good you came back down.”
    He squinted past me, spotting Bobby against the wall. Bobby caught Mr. Morales’s eye line and quickly looked in the opposite direction at nothing. Mr. Morales cursed softly to himself in Spanish, and then he looked at me with his stern stare. “You tell that Maves boy the only reason I’m letting him in here is because he’s with you. Remind him I got a shotgun behind the bar.”
    “Bobby said there had been some trouble.”
    “That what he said?”
    “Three, four years ago though. That’s a long time.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Maybe he’s changed. People change. I’ve changed.”
    “I doubt it,” he replied.
    I nodded and then began to ask whether he was talking about Bobby or me or both of us. But Mr. Morales was already on his way to the other end of the bar, getting a couple of beers for one of the letterman jackets.
    I brought the four beers over to Bobby, two in each hand. Bobby finished leveling the table with a folded napkin. He gave the table a shake, satisfied with its stability, and reached out, grabbing his two beers. He quickly drained half of one by the time I sat down.
    “Mr. Morales still seems a little miffed at you,” I said. “What happened?”
    “Things just got a little out of hand, that’s all,” Bobby said. “You remember Tomás?”
    I nodded. “Tomás Morales? Mr. Morales’s grandson? Yeah. Last time I saw him he was maybe fourteen. He’s like four, five years younger, but we hung out a lot. The only two out here. Good kid. You get in a fight with him?”
    “No. I was trying to change the subject.” Bobby smiled. “Trying to get back to business. We’re here for the dying father whore hunt, remember?”
    “Very tactful, Bobby. What does Tomás got to do with it?”
    “Tomás is in his twenties now. Obviously. That’s how time works,” Bobby said. “Anyway, he seems to have built a bit of a border business. Last time I was here, he was the guy who brought the girls from Chicali. Girls like Yolanda. Bar girls, strippers,