1950s as well. Near the door, the cash register sat at one end of the long Formica counter, with a row of stools, each covered with a patron. Booths with red vinyl seats ran along the wall nearest the parking lot, ending in a large corner booth filled with a boisterous group of teenagers laughing and talking to and over one another. The booths continued along the back wall, and in the middle of it all was a row of tables, also filled to capacity. Unlike many of the retro places that only appeared authentic, this restaurant was the real deal. The chrome edging the counter and booths looked well-used, but also well cared for, and the linoleum on the floor was faded and scuffed with the passage of thousands of shoes and boots.
Bolan entered into a bustle of activity: waitresses carrying trays piled-high with food, diners entering and leaving, and above all, that welcome smell of delicious, home-cooked food. The soldier caught the traditional aromas of cooking oil, bread and spices, but also sniffed what smelled like burning mesquite wood, which made his mouth water. He dutifully took his place at the end of the line and waited his turn.
The conversation level in the place was muted, and Bolan noticed that many men and women kept their heads down, and at least once he thought he saw a woman come out of the washroom with red, mascara-streaked eyes. Although there seemed to be a lot of regulars, with headgear on the men split evenly between Stetsons and gimme caps, there were also plenty of people who had just come to eat, and the stools turned over quickly. Bolan was able to take a seat after just a few minutes.
“Coffee?”
“That’d be fine.” Bolan scanned the menu, which had a decided Tex-Mex flair that caught him by surprise. Although the carne asada tacos looked good, he decided to stick with the kid’s recommendation. “Chicken-fried steak, please.”
“Gravy on your potatoes, too?” the middle-aged waitress asked.
Bolan glanced down at his taut midsection and decided to double-down on his arteries. “Sure.”
“Green beans, salad, or a cup of soup?”
“Beans will be fine.”
“That’ll be up in a few minutes.”
“Thank you.” Bolan sipped his coffee, served in a thick-walled ceramic mug he hadn’t seen in years, and found it very good. For a few seconds, he relaxed in the anonymity of the moment—just another casual traveler grabbing lunch on his way to wherever. His reality couldn’t have been more different.
He was giving the rotating dessert carousel a twice over, debating whether to have the cherry pie or the apple tart afterward, when the low conversations throughout the restaurant suddenly died. Bolan looked over to see what was causing the disturbance and saw a group of four well-dressed Hispanics, accompanied by a lone Anglo girl, cut to the front of the line and saunter into the restaurant. They were dressed in formfitting jeans, hand-tooled, silver-edged cowboy boots, and soft, shapeless, button-down designer shirts, with expensive sunglasses covering their eyes or perched on their heads. Their short black hair shone in the overhead lights. The eyes of the locals either followed the group or looked away. No one made a move to stop them.
Not even glancing at the line of waiting customers, the group headed toward the large corner booth, where the kids there scrambled to get out of the way. Their leader stood in front of the booth, staring over his glasses at the dirty dishes left in the group’s wake. Dead silence filled the restaurant, punctuated by the sizzle of grease on the grill and the tap-tap-tap of the young man’s foot on the floor.
The busboy scurried out and cleared the table, but apparently not fast enough. Although Bolan couldn’t see exactly what happened, he saw the boy carrying the plastic container of dishes stagger and go down with a crash of breaking dishes. His gaze darkened.
The group sat down, and conversation began around them again, even quieter now. Bolan looked up to catch his waitress staring daggers at the corner booth. “Who’re they?”
She glanced at him and blushed. “Don’t mind me. The one struttin’ around like he owns the place is Everado De Cavallos.” She drew the name out in a derisive drawl. “The other ones are his flunkies, a cousin and other friends from south of the border. He’s the son of one of the big shots at Cristobal, so he thinks this town owes him whatever he wants. Plus he never leaves a damn tip either.”
“Hmm.” Bolan sipped his coffee again, then turned his head just enough to watch the group out of the corner of his eye. They were huddled together, awaiting their drinks, apparently, which were just arriving. The waitress set the glasses down and turned to go, but not before one of the boys on the end smacked her behind. A man with iron-gray hair in a bristle cut who was watching started to rise from his chair, but was restrained by his lunch companion, a woman with curly red hair, who shook her head. Still glowering at the group, the man sat down again, staring hard at the young men, who just as studiously ignored him.
That’s two, Bolan thought, easing back on his stool as he kept an eye on the table.
“He does that again, he’ll have me to deal with, Cristobal or no Cristobal,” the waitress, whose name tag read Elaine, grumbled.
“Those boys might learn their lesson sooner than you think,” Bolan said. The comment earned an odd look from the counter waitress before the cook called, “Order up!”
His blue-plate special arrived, and Bolan dug in, finding it as good as promised. As he ate, he kept an eye on the corner booth, waiting for them to act up again. But when it happened, it came from within the group itself.
“Goddamn it, Everado, I said knock it the hell off!” The shout was punctuated by the crack of a hand on skin. The next thing Bolan knew, the blonde girl burst from the booth and stalked off. The boys stayed behind for a few seconds, then their leader stood up and walked out, followed by the rest of the group, all of whom were still sniggering. Halfway through, he turned and glared at them, and the laughter died in their throats. They walked out to a gleaming midnight blue Mercedes-Benz convertible, where the girl was waiting with her arms crossed.
Bolan forked up another bite of his steak and turned to see the conversation get heated, with the girl and the guy both starting to gesticulate. She seemed unaware of the potential danger she was in, with the other boys starting to crowd around the couple.
That’s three, Bolan thought, tossing a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and heading for the door. Once outside, he didn’t even have to look over to see which way the argument was heading.
“—damn it, Everado, you don’t paw me in public like I’m some piece of meat. I’m not one of those Mexican whores you can just fuck and forget!”
“Chica, just get in the car and we’ll go somewhere quiet and talk about this,” the young man said. He sounded reasonable, but his voice was pitched low.
“Fuck you, just take me home!”
Bolan shook his head. This girl really didn’t realize the fire she was playing with. He’d heard that kind of tone in a man’s voice more times than he cared to count. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, violence was sure to follow.
Sure enough, the young man’s hand came up, the girl’s expression turning from anger to incredulousness to fear in a second. Bolan gave it a one-count, then said, “Hey.” He’d pitched his voice at the exact same timbre, just loud enough to carry to the youth’s ears, but not to attract any attention outside the six of them.
Everado’s hand froze, and he whirled, as did his friends, everyone staring at the interloper.
“Where
