Death at the Black Bull (6 page)

I
t was a little after ten when Virgil pulled into the parking lot of the Black Bull. Early for a Saturday night, but looking around at the packed lot he knew he wouldn't die of loneliness once he got inside. His pickup rolled to a stop at the end of a long line of pickups. Virgil couldn't help noting that his truck was one of the oldest and one of the least attractive. He never competed with the good ole boys who saw horsepower or condition as a measure of their masculinity. In reality, he had never really fit in with that group and on this night, in any event, he was hoping for as much anonymity as possible. That's why he was here in his civvies and driving his old beater.

He pulled down the brim of the sweat-stained Stetson as he walked toward the front door, which was intermittently lit by the flashing oversized bull on the roof. The bull was still short one ear, which had been shot off ten years or so before, by a woman who was aiming at her husband after she'd found him giving mouth-to-mouth to an unknown young lady in the parking lot. Virgil remembered her comment after the incident that she was sorry about the bull, but she had stepped in a hole in the dark and had missed her mark.

Virgil had some history with the place from his late adolescence, but for the last decade or so it was mostly in his official capacity that he came here. The place had changed hands three or four times, but it always thrived. This was more a testament to a lack of competition and the enduring thirst of the locals than any marketing savvy on the part of the series of owners.

The crunch of stone under his boot coupled with the light from the one-eared bull on the roof brought a momentary reflection of his not-too-misspent youth.

“Careful there, Sheriff. You don't want to trip on that step.”

Virgil glanced in the direction of the voice. Sitting on one of the rails that lined the porch, on the end of a lit cigarette, was Wade Travis. So much for anonymity.

“Thanks for the warning, Wade.” By the time Virgil reached the top step and his boot made contact with the wood floor of the porch, Wade had slipped off the railing and was waiting for him.

“Little bit off the beaten path aren't you, Sheriff? Or is this a line-of-duty visit?”

“No, Wade. Unofficial. Just thought I'd step out for a beer or two.”

“Just like a regular fella. Whaddya know. Enjoy yourself.”

He stepped away and lit another cigarette as Virgil reached for the door.

“Just make sure when you leave, Sheriff, that you're able to walk that line. You know we don't tolerate drinking and driving in this county.”

“Glad you reminded me, Wade. Hope you do the same.”

“Don't you worry about me, Sheriff. I got a little designated driver just inside there. She takes good care of me.”

Virgil nodded, pulled on the door, then stepped inside.

The place looked pretty much like he remembered. The building actually had some history to it. It had been built in the early 1800s as a trading post and a way station along an old stagecoach route. Time had given it a certain cachet, so even though it was kind of remote from the center of town, the last roadhouse owner decided to incorporate as much of the original building as he could into his modernization. He actually went out of his way to construct the new as close as he could to the old. For his efforts, in the final act of construction, one of the ponderosa pine logs that hadn't been firmly set fell on him, knocking him senseless. Virgil heard he spent the next two years sitting on the front porch in a rocking chair trying to remember his first name.

The interior was laid out basically as one huge room divided in two by one of the largest horseshoe bars in the state. To the left of the door, tables lined the log walls around a black mechanical bull. On the opposite side of the horseshoe bar the large open area was filled with tables. In the center stood the original fireplace, while at the rear of the room there was an open dance area with a raised platform for a band. Virgil hesitated for a second or two, then took a seat at a small table.

“Well, cowboy . . . What can I get you?”

Virgil looked up to see a dark-haired woman and a smile.

“Guess I got you before you even got a boot in the stirrup.”

“You could say,” Virgil said. “Maybe a nice cold bottle of Sierra if you got it.”

“Can do. Only one minor problem.”

“What's that?”

“Well, on the weekends if we get people that just want to drink, we'd kinda like them to sit at the bar or at one of the tables over there by the bull. We try to keep this side for people who want to eat something. It's mostly a little crowd-control thing. People eating and listening to music or dancing tend to not get as rowdy as the people on the other side of the bar.”

“Makes sense. Well, I can always eat. How about you bring me a burger and a mess of fries to go along with that Sierra. Then I'll just sit quiet and listen to the music.”

“Perfect. Be back before the band starts up. They're on a break now.”

Virgil looked after her as she walked away. True to her word, she came back as the music trio was filing in from the back door.

“Don't think I've ever seen you in here before,” she said as she set the plate in front of Virgil.

“It's been a while. I don't get out much.”

“Wife got you on a short leash?”

“No wife, just busy.”

“Well, I'm Ruby. If you need anything more, just give a wave.”

“Okay. By the way, I'm Virgil.”

“Nice to meet you, Virgil.”

She turned and walked away. Virgil sat for a moment, the untasted beer in his hand, wondering why he'd just offered his name to the waitress.

For the next half hour, Virgil ate while he listened to the music. From the table he'd chosen, he had a good vantage point for most of the room. He could even see an occasional fool trying to be a ten-second hero, spinning around on top of the bull. One who tried and failed was lurching toward the men's room, ready to give up as much as he had drunk.

He could see why the place was popular. The atmosphere was nice. The burger was as good as he'd ever had and the music was a nice mix. A blend of country and modern, which surprised Virgil. He sat over a second beer, noting the steady stream of new customers. He saw more than a few locals that he'd interacted with over the years, both positively and negatively. Buddy Hinton would have been pretty comfortable here, he decided.

As he put the last of the beer to his lips, he saw the door open and Carlos Castillo walk in with two other men. Virgil didn't know the men, but he thought he recognized one of them from the trucking office where he'd last talked to Carlos. He was kind of surprised to see Carlos quickly look away after their eyes met, then head directly to the bar.

“You ready for another?”

“I just might.”

He saw the seat at the bar next to Carlos become vacant.

“Maybe I'll give up this table,” he said. “I see quite a few couples coming to dance. Give you a chance to make a little more money than you'll get from me. This place always this busy?”

“Always on weekends.”

“What about on weekdays?”

“Well, we have our regulars. Then of course there's always every other Thursday.”

“Why every other Thursday?”

“Payday at Hayward Trucking. That's our biggest two days of every month.”

After she left, Virgil put the empty glass down, then wove his way around the tables until he reached the empty barstool next to Carlos. Carlos was talking to the man on his left and didn't notice Virgil. Virgil waited for a break in their conversation and for Carlos to put his glass to his lips.

“Hey, Carlos,” he said. “We don't run into one another in months then twice in a couple of days. Go figure.”

Carlos glanced quickly around the room before returning his attention to Virgil.

“Yeah. Like they say, it's a small world.”

He drained the last of the beer, said something to the man to his left, and stood up. “Well, I gotta get home before the wife starts looking for a replacement. See ya, Sheriff.”

Before Virgil could say anything else, Carlos was gone. Virgil hesitated just a moment, then headed after Carlos. He caught up with him just as Carlos closed the door of his pickup.

“Carlos.”

The look on Carlos's face told him his instincts were not wrong.

“I gotta get down the road,” Carlos said.

“Talk to me, Carlos.”

Carlos glanced anxiously around the parking lot.

“Let's just say it's been suggested that we not talk to the law,” Carlos said. “Virgil, you know I got a wife, three kids, and a mother-in-law who won't quit. I can't jeopardize everything, not in this economy.”

Virgil stood in the small dust cloud, watching Carlos's taillights until they disappeared in the dark. When he turned, he was jolted to see Jimmy standing next to him. Then he saw the patrol car parked on the perimeter of the lot.

“Jeez, you must be part Indian to sneak up on me like that.”

“Could be. I know my family tree ain't exactly filled with aristocrats. But I didn't want to intrude on your conversation, Virgil.”

“What's up, Officer?”

“Well, me and Abby were fishing off the bridge when I got to thinking about what you said, about going back to the beginning. So when I came on duty, while it was still light, I thought I'd come out here and have a look around to see if we missed anything.”

“Not a bad idea. So I guess you must have found something if you came looking for me.”

“Well during patrol I stopped by the ranch first. The old man told me I'd find you here, so when I got out this way again I decided to stop by.”

“Old man's got a name, Jimmy. Remember, he's as good as you or me and better than most by a long shot. Don't forget I'm half-blood myself.”

Jimmy squirmed a little inside, caught in his prejudice. Because of Virgil's influence, he'd worked hard to overcome the legacy that he'd grown up with. In his eyes Virgil stood in a separate place from all other men. When he got even the hint of a rebuke from Virgil, it cut right to the core. He cleared his throat.

“Well, Cesar told me you'd be here. Actually, he said this was as close to a night out for you as you'd had in a long time.”

“Okay. So what have you got?”

“Just this.”

Jimmy held out a small, brightly colored, sturdy bag with a Hayward Ranch logo and a picture of a pecan tree underneath.

“I found this down at the bottom of the ravine. I guess it's not much, seeing as how Buddy worked for Hayward Trucking, but I remember how you said sometimes you're looking at evidence and you don't even realize it.”

Virgil took the bag from Jimmy's outstretched hand. “Good, Jimmy. I'll hold on to this. You better get back out on the road. Be careful. Remember, it's Saturday night.”

“I will.”

He started to walk toward the cruiser, then stopped.

“Oh, Sheriff,” he said, smiling. “Cesar said one more thing. He hoped you'd get lucky.”

Virgil waved Jimmy on. He was tempted to get in his truck and go home, but didn't want to listen to the “old man,” so he headed back into the roadhouse. He reclaimed his seat at the end of the bar. The house lights had softened and the lyrics of a George Strait song were coming from a girl with a guitar on the platform at the end of the room.

“I thought I'd seen the last of you.”

Virgil swung around in his seat to see his former waitress behind the bar.

“Well, I figured I was old enough to stay out late and listen to some music over a beer.”

She walked to the tap and brought back a beer. She set it on the bar.

“You wearing two hats tonight?” Virgil said.

“Oh, I'm usually behind the bar, but tonight one of the waitresses was late so I jumped in.”

“The place looks good. The music is nice.” Virgil's words sounded a little forced to his own ear. “It's Ruby, right?”