“Whenever you are.”
We bounced down the washboarded dirt desert road, playing the part of two tourists. It was an awkward cover, half-assed, really. Within minutes, we were in the village, if you could call it that. More like a postindustrial-age apocalyptic vision. The bar made from a cut-open steel cargo container was still here, though it looked bigger. I saw a bartender and rode toward him, and per plan, the deputy continued forward into the rows of rusting, sun-faded, blue and red containers. Stacked two and three high, they formed a village like the drunken dream of an ex-maritime officer run aground. The deputy would scout out the village, then circle back and meet me at the bar.
The bar was changed, different than what I remembered. The steel rings welded to the wall that had held the girls’ chains were gone. Nothing left there but the weld scars. A large segment from the side of a steel container provided shade now for a handful of rusted tables and chairs that sat out front. The bar top, also made of steel and fabricated from scraps welded together, was longer and had a row of metal bar stools. I saw a lot of new steelwork and welds. Maybe an alcoholic welder had traded work for whiskey.
I leaned my bike against a rusted post as Ace Marks, the bartender, tried to place me. It didn’t take him long, and it was bad luck to get made so fast, but I’d known it was a possibility.
Marks was a big guy with prison muscles and still lifting, from the look of him. He wore sideburns from another century and a T-shirt that read Bastard Bar. He had the same tattoos but no new ones. He looked at my biking shorts and cleated shoes and closer at my face as the helmet came off.
“We’re not open yet,” he said.
“I’m here to talk to you, Ace.”
“I know you are, but I haven’t broken any laws since I last saw you. I don’t do drugs and I don’t trade them. I don’t drink. I don’t even have a girlfriend, though you look cute in your shorts.”
“Back at you—love those Civil War sideburns. I thought you went home.”
That seemed to reach him. His voice was slower when he spoke again.
“I did, I went home for a while, for a couple of years, but things had changed and it’s just too fucking cold in Minnesota.”
“You were complaining about the heat here.”
“Well, I didn’t know anybody at home anymore. They’ve all moved or gone back to prison. Can’t get a straight job once you’ve got the record.”
“Well, good to see you again. I’m not here to bother you. I’m looking for a guy.”
I reached around to the back middle pocket of my biking shirt, then started to unfold Nora’s sketch but stopped when Marks preempted me, saying, “Don’t bother, I don’t recognize him.”
“I haven’t showed him to you yet.”
“People come and go around here,” Marks said, but was focused on the helicopter floating above pale desert mountains to the southwest. “That helicopter with you?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether we can do this another way.”
“The drug fucks stick people in here every now and then, but I don’t listen to the talk, and so far I’ve avoided the money they push in my face. I’m living clean.”
“I wouldn’t be here over drugs.”
“Whatever you’re here for is bad news. That’s all I know.”
I let that be, but then because I’m always curious about people, said, “I can understand you not wanting to go back home, but I’m surprised you’re here.”
“I lost some weight and the heat doesn’t bother me the same way anymore. You want to chat me up with that thing flying around up there? Who is it you’re looking for?”
“Someone who might be hiding here. Does Coffina still own this bar?”
“This bar and about half of everything here. He only did about two years of his sentence and must have gotten to the money. I don’t know what he’s thinking. The first one of those dudes who gets out of prison will kill him.”
I had checked on all of them before coming here. The other three guys got thirty-year sentences, so Coffina didn’t have to worry for a while.
“Where is Coffina?”
“Don’t know.”
“He needs to be here if this is going to go well. This is what I suggest. Call him. Tell him it’s not about drugs or anybody other than one guy who has probably only been here four to six weeks. Tell him we’ll have to search container to container if he can’t help. You know how that can go. Things get found, people get arrested, there’s a lot of shouting and sirens. It would be a lot better for Coffina if he talked to me first.”
“Describe this guy you’re looking for.”