pulled around behind the garage, passing Geoff and Trista, who were exiting the shower on the way. Rosita waved them along, and soon they climbed into the Bronco.
“What happened?” Trista asked.
“Someone's in town. You all wait right here,” Axl said, sliding the Colt into his belt and heading for the bar.
“Do you want the shotgun?” Geoff asked.
“Nah, that's a little hard to conceal. Hold onto it. You may need it,” Axl said, walking around the garage.
He crept along the side of the bar and peeked, seeing Esteban's Mercedes. It looked like hell, beaten to pieces and dirty. He slowly walked on into the bar but saw only Mark inside. Even the old Mexicans were gone, and Axl had thought they were a permanent fixture.
“He's in back,” Mark said, indicating a back room that Axl was familiar with. “Go on in.”
Axl nodded and walked on into the back room, seeing Esteban seated at the one table, a duffle bag in front of him. Esteban looked worse than the Mercedes. He was wearing a golf shirt and slacks, but both were ripped and dusty. His hair was greasy, and he looked like he hadn't bathed in days.
“Esteban, so nice to meet you,” Axl said.
Esteban drew a pistol, but Axl was faster, the Colt in Esteban's face before he could aim at Axl. “Don't. Now put the gun down.”
Esteban and Axl both used the weird moment to examine one another's pistols. Both were nickel-plated with pearl handles, but where Axl's was a .357 revolver Esteban's was a .45 automatic.
“Eh, jefe, I have to admire your taste in handguns,” Esteban said, still not lowering his gun.
“Yeah. Listen, I'm not with anyone that's after you, I'm here to help,” Axl said, still making things up as he went along.
“What do you mean?” Esteban asked, obviously leery.
“Your wife hired me to help you out,” Axl said, happy he was doing such a good job of improvisation.
“My wife?”
“Yes, Trista is here. I got her, your sister and the pool boy out of the house,” Axl said, wanting to add after your sorry ass left them there to die.
Esteban brightened. “Señor, I owe you more than I can say! If you help me, I can give you money. What is your name?” Esteban slid the gun back into his pants, seeming to buy the story. He wasn't that bright, after all.
“Axl Dane, P.I.”
“Axl Dane. I have heard of you. Your name is well known in Diablo Vista. With you on my side, we may make it out of this yet. Tell me, señor, how much do you know of my little predicament?”
“I hear you screwed the Cartels, the Yakuza, and the Kingsnakes.”
“Si, si. When I fuck up, I fuck up big, no?”
“Yeah you could say that. Which Cartel are you working for?
“Which Cartel?” Esteban asked, confused.
“Yes, which one?”
“THE Cartel,” Esteban said, as if Axl was the stupid one.
Axl wondered if Esteban was screwing with him, but he didn't crack a smile. “You don't know which Cartel you were dealing with, do you?”
“Señor, there is just the Mexican Drug Cartel, that is all. This isn't the American NFL, where there are many teams,” Esteban said laughing. Axl wondered if Esteban could be the most stupid person he'd ever met. Esteban was making Geoff look like a MENSA member.
“What happened?” Trista asked.
“Someone's in town. You all wait right here,” Axl said, sliding the Colt into his belt and heading for the bar.
“Do you want the shotgun?” Geoff asked.
“Nah, that's a little hard to conceal. Hold onto it. You may need it,” Axl said, walking around the garage.
He crept along the side of the bar and peeked, seeing Esteban's Mercedes. It looked like hell, beaten to pieces and dirty. He slowly walked on into the bar but saw only Mark inside. Even the old Mexicans were gone, and Axl had thought they were a permanent fixture.
“He's in back,” Mark said, indicating a back room that Axl was familiar with. “Go on in.”
Axl nodded and walked on into the back room, seeing Esteban seated at the one table, a duffle bag in front of him. Esteban looked worse than the Mercedes. He was wearing a golf shirt and slacks, but both were ripped and dusty. His hair was greasy, and he looked like he hadn't bathed in days.
“Esteban, so nice to meet you,” Axl said.
Esteban drew a pistol, but Axl was faster, the Colt in Esteban's face before he could aim at Axl. “Don't. Now put the gun down.”
Esteban and Axl both used the weird moment to examine one another's pistols. Both were nickel-plated with pearl handles, but where Axl's was a .357 revolver Esteban's was a .45 automatic.
“Eh, jefe, I have to admire your taste in handguns,” Esteban said, still not lowering his gun.
“Yeah. Listen, I'm not with anyone that's after you, I'm here to help,” Axl said, still making things up as he went along.
“What do you mean?” Esteban asked, obviously leery.
“Your wife hired me to help you out,” Axl said, happy he was doing such a good job of improvisation.
“My wife?”
“Yes, Trista is here. I got her, your sister and the pool boy out of the house,” Axl said, wanting to add after your sorry ass left them there to die.
Esteban brightened. “Señor, I owe you more than I can say! If you help me, I can give you money. What is your name?” Esteban slid the gun back into his pants, seeming to buy the story. He wasn't that bright, after all.
“Axl Dane, P.I.”
“Axl Dane. I have heard of you. Your name is well known in Diablo Vista. With you on my side, we may make it out of this yet. Tell me, señor, how much do you know of my little predicament?”
“I hear you screwed the Cartels, the Yakuza, and the Kingsnakes.”
“Si, si. When I fuck up, I fuck up big, no?”
“Yeah you could say that. Which Cartel are you working for?
“Which Cartel?” Esteban asked, confused.
“Yes, which one?”
“THE Cartel,” Esteban said, as if Axl was the stupid one.
Axl wondered if Esteban was screwing with him, but he didn't crack a smile. “You don't know which Cartel you were dealing with, do you?”
“Señor, there is just the Mexican Drug Cartel, that is all. This isn't the American NFL, where there are many teams,” Esteban said laughing. Axl wondered if Esteban could be the most stupid person he'd ever met. Esteban was making Geoff look like a MENSA member.
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