Slow Kill - Michael Mcgarrity [126]
He waited for Johnny at the small bar in an alcove near the entrance. As the lone customer at the bar, Kerney spent his time sipping an herbal iced tea and watching the bartender mix drink orders placed by the servers. He looked at his wristwatch, noting that Johnny was ten minutes overdue. But Johnny had always been one to stage flashy, late entrances. Thirty-some years ago, Johnny’s show-off antics had been amusing, but Kerney wasn’t about to cool his heels much longer. He’d give it five more minutes before blowing the whole thing off and heading home.
The thought had no more than crossed his mind than Kerney felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder. He turned to find Johnny smiling at him. His face was a bit fuller, but his wiry, small-boned frame was lean, and his restless brown eyes still danced with mischief. No more than five foot seven, he wore his light brown hair cut short. Lizard-skin cowboy boots added an inch to his height, and the belt cinched around his waist was secured by a championship rodeo buckle.
“Looks like you’re hitting the hard stuff,” Johnny said as he glanced at Kerney’s iced tea and took a seat. “It’s been a long time, Kerney.”
“That it has,” Kerney replied, not expecting an apology from Johnny for his lateness. “You look well.”
“So do you.” Johnny glanced up and down the length of the almost empty bar. “Where are all the good-looking Santa Fe women? Do you have your cops lock them up at night?”
“No, but we do try to keep them safe. Are you still chasing skirts, Johnny?”
“Not me. I’m a happily married man. But I sure do like to look.” He gestured to the bartender and ordered a whiskey. “Not drinking tonight or on the wagon?”
“Not in the mood,” Kerney replied.
Johnny raised an eyebrow. “That’s no fun. I hear you got hitched some time back.”
“I did,” Kerney replied. “Who told you?”
“Dale Jennings,” Johnny replied. “Says you’ve got yourself a beautiful wife and a fine young son.”
Dale was Kerney’s best friend from his boyhood days on the Jornada. Together with Johnny they rodeoed in high school. In their senior year, Johnny had taken the state all-round title, while Kerney and Dale won the team calf-roping buckle. Dale still lived on the family ranch with his wife, Barbara, and their two daughters.
“I do,” Kerney replied. “Sara and Patrick. How about you? Any children?”
Johnny shook his head as the bartender handed him his whiskey. “Not a one.”
“When did you talk to Dale?”
“I’ll fill you in later.” He knocked back the drink and waved the empty glass at the bartender.
“You’re not driving, are you?” Kerney asked, as the bartender approached with the whiskey bottle.
“Hell, yes, I am,” Johnny said as he slid his fresh drink closer. “Stop sounding like a cop. I never figured you for one back in the old days.”
“It’s an honorable profession,” Kerney said. “Tell me what you’ve been doing since you stopped rodeoing.”
Johnny swirled the ice in the glass, deliberately took a small sip, and smiled. “There, is that better? Don’t want to get in trouble with the police chief.”
He put the glass on the bar. “Hell, I didn’t want to stop saddle bronc riding. I was in my prime on the circuit. But after I got kicked in the head for the sixth time, the doctors said if I had one more head trauma it could kill or paralyze me. I had to quit.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Kerney said.
Johnny shrugged and downed his whiskey. “Back then, twenty-five, thirty years ago, nobody wore protective gear. Nowadays, all the boys wear vests and some are wearing helmets. If that had happened in my day, we would have laughed them out of the arena. Those boys with the helmets look like they should be riding motorcycles, not bulls and bucking horses. But times change, and it’s a damn hard sport on a