Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [31]
“I’m in Venezuela, Ducks. Merry Christmas.”
The phone is ringing less than five seconds after I hang up. As I step into the eatery, I’m feeling quite pleased with myself.
It’s dark inside, which is a defining characteristic of all even mildly disreputable establishments. It is late afternoon, maybe an hour past the end of siesta, and the bar is sparsely populated. Two old men sit at a table in the far corner, nursing bottles of Maltin and smoking Marlboros. They look up as I enter. The dark is a comforting grayness that mixes with smells both familiar and odd.
My crew has gone to the teakwood bar, where the man on the other side—a large, serious-looking local whose face rings a bell—raises an eyebrow as I join them. Almost before I have claimed a seat, he supplies me with a Maltin. I pull out my wallet and extract several bolivars, going on the hunch that Reese’s credit card won’t see much use here. When I place the money on the bar, I see the bartender eyeing me with more than cursory interest. He knows he’s seen me before. There’s a sixth sense that all good bartenders have: they never forget a face. But he grabs the money without a word and then disappears into the kitchen.
“What were you doing out there?” Esperanza asks. She has a glass of ice water in front of her and stands with one shoe resting on the brass foot rail.
“I called a friend.”
She nods and looks away. In a minute the bartender emerges from the back, his arms and hands laden with plates.
“I ordered for you,” Espy says.
The food inventory yields two pizzas, a large basket of tortilla chips, a platter of burgers, and one order of nachos, which the unsmiling ogre of a man places in front of me.
“Thanks,” I say, belatedly hoping that both the bartender and Esperanza infer the expansive nature of the sentiment.
“Don’t thank me. You’re paying for it.”
There’s a general silence as we eat. Romero’s men are content to enjoy the free food and let either Esperanza or myself direct them. Espy and I, though, exist in some odd détente in which the past is sublimated but still very real. There is something forced in the dialogue, even in the way we stand.
It reminds me of the last time I spoke with her all those years ago. It was just before I left for Egypt. I thought I would be gone for at least a year. After that, who knew where my job would take me? It was a conscious choice to leave Espy behind—to make pursuing peer accolades my primary goal. Oh, I threw other reasons out there too, but the crux of it was the insatiable pride of youth.
The last of the nachos disappear and I’m stuffed and riding the carbohydrate high that will eventually send me into a semicatatonic state. That’s probably why the sudden feel of cold metal against my neck does not provoke the reaction normally associated with mortal danger, save for the shiver that travels the length of my spine.
“You owe me money.”
It’s certainly possible. I owe a lot of people money. It’s one of my many faults. Practicing archaeologists, even successful ones, don’t make a great deal. Grants barely cover the costs associated with an excavation. Still, I pride myself in seldom owing money to more than one person in any single geographical area.
“Hello, Henry,” I say.
It’s taken Esperanza and the rest of the crew a few seconds to sort out what’s happening. Espy looks past me and I can tell that she sees the gun positioned just behind my left ear. I give her a wink, just to keep her calm. The others remain still. This isn’t their argument.
“By my recollection, you still owe me seventy-five dollars.”
Esperanza’s reaction is one for the ages. There is a morphing of emotions on her face, taking her from the initial nervousness, to confusion, on through anger, and, finally, disgust.
“Seventy-five dollars?” she snaps. “You skipped out on seventy-five dollars?”
“And eighty-three cents,” Henry adds.
I shrug, and the gun tickles my neck. “Let’s be reasonable,” I say. I take a napkin from a