How do you survive being shot and left for dead in the Chihuahuan Desert? By being found by a beautiful wildlife photographer willing to risk her life to save yours.
A bitter ex-cop fights for his life after he runs to the sound of gunfire on the Ri...
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The Starlight Club was exactly what Mendocino envisioned. A sprawling metal building with cedar board and batten siding across the front, a white shale and gravel parking lot the size of the sky. A big neon sign blinked near the road, a giant blue star twinkling with flashing lights, the marquee underneath.
By the time Mendocino and Tillie arrived, the parking lot was a sea of pickup trucks. They had to park way off, taking their place in a line of couples waiting to get in. At last, they paid, got their hands stamped, and Tillie took Mendocino's hand, leading as she wove through the throng, smiling or saying hello to one person or another as they threaded through. This wasn't the time or place to make introductions, but she sure knew her way around.
Abilene had the Ponderosa. Llano had the Rambling Rose. Same places. Different names. Mendocino misspent many young nights dancing, drinking, and chasing girls in dance halls like this one. The music was loud, and the lights were dim. His eyes had to adjust. Light came from the stage way off, at the rear of the big building, and from a well-lit bar across the front.
This dance floor was the size of a small house, deep in sawdust. Railings lined two sides, with openings spaced here and there for couples to move to and from the dance floor. Tables were spaced along the railings and walls. The stage and band were several feet above the floor, at the very back of the building.
A well-lit pool room ran along the east wall. Its ceiling was lower than the main room, a shed off, an add-on, who knew how many years ago. Long rectangular billiard lamps hung over each table. If a fight broke out, it would almost certainly start in there.
Years earlier, he'd been with his uncle, when he almost started a brawl in the Winchester Club in Houston. It was over a bet on a pool game. His uncle Don's opponent refused to pay when he lost, claiming Don didn't shoot fair. Later, when a waitress brought a full pitcher of beer to the opponent's table, Don walked over, grabbed their pitcher, and carried it back to his table. The man and his friends encircled Don's table, still accusing him of not playing fair.
"Let me ask you something." His uncle gestured at the back door of the club. "If we go outside and fight over this pitcher of beer, are you going to fight fair?"
"Of course," the defeated opponent said proudly.
"Then I advise you to sit back down." Don pointed to the man's table. "I fight to win. And if I have to pack a sack lunch, I'll stay 'til I do." His uncle kept his pitcher of beer.
The band struck up Charlie Daniels' "The Devil Came Down to Georgia,"the raucous crowd roaring approval, an already-drunk woman somewhere way off yelled Yee-haw. It had been a long time since Mendocino was in a place like this.
Tillie stood on tiptoes, yelling in his ear, "Amos and Yvonne will be in the back left corner, near the stage." She pointed.
He nodded, leaning over, his mouth near her ear, her hair brushing his face. "Do you want something to drink before we find them?"
