but you gotta pay her husband five dollars American if you want a throw.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
As Sands poured himself another, he asked, “So, what’s your story, Jack?”
“No big deal. I’m heading up to La Hermana to scatter the ashes of a friend.”
“Must have been some friend to come all the way out to this dump.”
Jack snorted. “Yeah, well, he didn’t quite describe the town like this. I guess back in the day it was a nice little part of the world.”
“It was as pretty as a postcard until five years ago. Illegal gold mining on El Gordo is what brought the shitstains you see around here now. Poor bastards go swarming down into the mine like carpenter ants. No training, no gear, except maybe a helmet and a hand pick. If they’re lucky they’ll scrape out a few ounces in a week or two, but most of them aren’t that lucky. The few that do get lucky are as likely to get a shiv between the ribs topside by a desperado too lazy or scared to brave the tunnels.”
“Why don’t the authorities stop it?”
“People busy digging for gold are too tired to riot and too distracted to start a revolution.” He took a sip of whiskey.
“Too bad. It’s beautiful country around here.”
“I used to run a little tour-guide service back in the day. There’s a lake that had the most gorgeous trout you’ve ever seen, but the mercury and other chemicals leaching into the water killed them off. I haven’t seen a tourist here in years, especially an American one. Kinda nice to hear a familiar accent.”
Jack’s eyes darted around the bar. He spotted a shot glass on a shelf behind Sands. It bore a familiar crest and a motto.
“‘Sua sponte,’” Jack said. “‘Of their own accord.’”
Sands frowned, surprised. “You were in the Seventy-fifth?”
“Me? No. I did my tour of duty in expensive private schools with Jesuits beating Latin into us like we were rented mules.”
That earned another chuckle from Sands.
“But you were a Ranger,” Jack said.
Sands’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you don’t look like a Shriner.” Jack nodded toward the shot glass.
“HUA,” Sands said. He eyed Jack again. “You weren’t in the Rangers, but you look like you served.”
“No, but I have friends who did, and my dad was a Marine. Where were you deployed?”
“Wherever they fuckin’ sent me.” Sands’s face clouded over, lost in a memory.
“I’ve got a friend who’s a retired Ranger. A real stand-up dude by the name of Jankowski.”
“Midas Jankowski?” Sands asked, incredulous.
Jack smiled, equally surprised. “Yeah.”
Sands ran a hand through his long hair. “Man, that young hoss pulled my bacon out of the fire more than once. How the hell is he?”
“Tough as ever, like every other Ranger I ever met.”
Well, except maybe you, Jack thought. He finished his beer.
Sands turned around and grabbed the Ranger shot glass from the shelf, wiped it out with a bar rag, and splashed whiskey into it. He pushed it over to Jack and lifted his own glass.
“To Midas.”
“To Midas.”
They tapped glasses and tossed back their whiskeys.
“Next time you see him, tell him . . .” Sands’s eyes glassed over.
“Tell him what?”
“Nothin’. Not a goddamn thing.”
Sands poured himself another one and downed it in one throw, slamming the shot glass back onto the bar, his mind lost in another time.
The beer and whiskey were hitting Jack pretty good on his empty stomach. Maybe it was the booze that made him sorry as hell for the broken-down Ranger standing in front of him. Something was eating Sands alive besides the liquor he was using to try and drown it. Some kind of sleepless guilt, Jack suspected, judging by the rings around his large, sad eyes.
A chill ran down Jack’s spine. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he was staring in a mirror at his future self.
“Another whiskey,” Jack said.
Sands snapped out of his stupor and poured him another one, then refilled his glass.
“So, I told you my story. What’s yours?” Jack asked.
“You didn’t tell me shit. Besides, the law of bartenders is sacrosanct. We listen, we don’t talk.” Sands tossed back his whiskey.
Jack glanced around the bar. “So, if tourism business is bad, why are you still hanging around this place?”
Sands shrugged. “Where else would I go? I ain’t got no people. Besides, one place is the same as another.”
Which was another way of saying you can’t run away from yourself, Jack thought.
Sands added, “Besides, I own the place, and a man’s place is his