BA Tortuga - Seashores of Old Mexico.pdf - B. A. Tortuga - chillipi

Seashores of Old Mexico

by BA Tortuga

Torquere Press

www.torquerepress.com

First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2007

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Seashores of Old Mexico

by BA Tortuga

Okay. Okay. Okay.

He was cool.

See him?

See him be cool.

Oh, fuck him raw, he was screwed and tattooed.

Except, not, because that dude at the tattoo parlor had

great big gold shark teeth and shit and, hell.

Hell.

Not even when he'd had a dime to his name, damn it.

Which he didn't now, but Clint'd swept the parking lot of

the little beach bar and gathered up enough pesos to get him

a cerveza, maybe. Or some guacamole. Maybe he'd ask for a

shift washing dishes for a little dinero.

He spent a second thinking of Momma's cobbler and

brisket on the grill. Potato salad in that big old yellow bowl

and a glass plate of pickles. Damn, being in trouble with the

law was hell.

The bar was pretty deserted inside, just a few old barflies

scattered about, some gringo, some not. The place looked

crazy as all get out, all palm tree lights and alligator heads,

one of the booths made out of the front end of an old Chevy

truck. The guy behind the bar, though, he looked like home,

with a deep tanned face and a straw Stetson, grinning and

chatting with some old-timer.

He walked up slow and easy, trying not to look like a

drifter living too close to the bone. He settled on a barstool,

the seat tilting a little. Maybe he could afford two beers.

Seashores of Old Mexico

by BA Tortuga

"Well, hey there, son. What can I get you?" The bartender

came on down, smiling at him just the same as he had at the

other guy, not a bit of the fake he'd get at the touristy places

that he couldn't afford anyway.

"Just a cold one, thanks. I ain't picky." He smiled back,

nodded, keeping his hat pulled down just a little, more out of

habit than need.

He got a look, not so much curious as knowing. "You look

thirsty. It's happy hour, son. The cheap draft is two for one."

Oh, praise Jesus. "Looks like my luck's holding today, then.

What do I owe you?"

"Well, it's a buck fifty, which I think is about sixteen pesos,

give or take." Bright brown eyes shone under that hat, not

real dark, more gold. Those smile lines deepened. "But I'll

take what you can give and be happy."

Sixteen. He dug out what he'd picked up and counted.

Twenty. Okay. There was even a tip. "Here goes."

Jesus. He was gonna have to drink slow.

"That'll keep you for a bit, son. Here, have some pretzels."

Grinning, the guy slid a whole basket of goodies down to him.

"Thanks." He tried to eat slow, knowing he'd end up

tossing if he dumped a bunch of food in him. Still, the beer

was gonna hit him like a ton of bricks if he didn't get

something in him.

Lord have mercy, he was tired. It'd been three weeks that

he'd been running. Three weeks after a fight had gone from

one thing to another and one man'd ended up dead and

another one saying it was him that did the doing, whether or

not it was true.

Seashores of Old Mexico

by BA Tortuga

The bruises were all faded now, though, and the truck had

been dumped in McAllen for $230 and he was...

Somewhere.

Lord.

"Here's your beer, son. You want some water, too? I ain't

gonna charge you for bottled, bad as the local stuff is."

It was almost too much, that friendly voice.

"Yeah? That'd be a kindness. Thank you kindly." He drank

most of that first one in a few gulps, the beer hitting his

stomach with a splash.

A bottle of water landed next to his mostly empty glass.

"I'll get you the next when you've had some water."

The guy moved off, giving him a minute to sit and blink.

He finished the pretzels and the water and the beer, eyes on

his hands there on the bar. They looked like his daddy's,

sorta. Couple of scars, couple of rope marks, veins on the

back sticking up a little. Working man's hands. A good man's

hands. Shit, he sure hoped he could call himself a good man

when all this happy crap was said and done. Clint rolled his

eyes at himself. Quit all that shit, man. You get your other

beer and move on and find a place to nap where you won't

get eat up.

"Here you go." His second beer joined the other glass on

the bar. "You look like you got the weight of the world on

your shoulders."

"Thank you, sir. Just been a long day or three." He'd get it

figured. He didn't just fall off the turnip truck. Although that

last hombre that give him a ride was hauling grapefruits.

BA Tortuga - Seashores of Old Mexico.pdf

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