Deadly Gamble

Chapter 9 (Part 1)

[[Author's note: Happy summer! I hope you are enjoying Deadly Gamble so far!]]

Chapter 9

"Who are you?" The secretary stood directly in front of the desk with arms folded. If her blue power suit and short masculine hairstyle were designed to intimidate, they sure worked.

"This computer isn't down," I said, clicking the few necessary keys to sign off.

"Excuse me?"

"You didn't place a service call to IBM?" I stood, gathering my coat around me, slinging my purse's shoulder strap into place.

"No, we did not." Her voice was pointed, and not the least bit friendly.

"Well, then someone gave me wrong information," I said, pretending to consult some paperwork in my purse. "Sorry to have troubled you." I headed for the door.

"Wait, let me see that work order," she said.

I pretended not to hear her. My feet didn't slow down until I reached my car. My heart didn't slow down until I was six blocks away.

The sun was low over the volcanoes by now. There wouldn't be a fabulous sunset tonight though. This morning's thin clouds had spread and the wind picked up. Tumbleweeds skipped across the road, lodging against the white block Tanoan wall on my right. I took Wyoming south to Lomas. The worst of the go-home traffic had dissipated, but it still took nearly twenty-five minutes to find Penguin's bar.

It was one of those small neighborhood places, the kind with its own set of regulars who probably come by for a beer every night of the week and stay late on Mondays for football. The kind where a strange face sticks out like a bum at the country club. I figured this out when no fewer than fourteen heads turned to stare as I walked in the door. Ninety percent of the crowd was male. In my wool slacks and sweater that had seemed casual at Tanoan, I suddenly felt overdressed here.

Penguin's was one room, squarish. A third of the space at the far end was filled by two pool tables. A lamp hung over each, a poor plastic imitation of stained glass. Both tables were in use, encircled by men in work clothes with patches over the breast pocket disclosing their names. The bar was directly in front of me, with the intervening space filled by a dozen or so square Formica topped tables flanked by four chairs each.

Few tables were occupied, but the bar was crowded. Since I wanted to talk to the bartender, I squeezed through to the one empty stool.

"Yes, ma'am?" The bartender was forty-something, medium height, skinny, with a dark hairline that had receded in a large inverted W. His sharp facial features were softened by age. There was a tiredness around eyes that had seen too much, jowls that sagged from a lack of smiling.

"I'll have a white w....," I glanced down the bar at the other patrons' drinks. "Make that a Bud Light."

He shoved a large mug under the tap without a word. Meanwhile, I felt other eyes upon me, and looked up at the man beside me, a big guy in his mid-fifties wearing a blue work shirt and pants. He turned to stare into his beer when I sent a little smile his way. I planned to sip my beer slowly and hoped the crowd would clear out a little so I could speak to the bartender without twenty other sets of ears picking up the whole thing. Since I'm not a beer drinker, this should not prove difficult.

Other conversations began to pick up again. The TV set in the corner carried the news and I remembered that football season was over. Within twenty minutes, several of the men at the bar left. I took another sip and bided my time. By seven o'clock there were only five or six people scattered around the room. The man next to me hadn't budged.