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I guess he and Matt’s dad have known each other for years.”
    “And Matt left after that?”
    “Yep. And the chase was on.” She smiled and pointed at the single window that faced the highway, most of the glass area taken up by the bright neon tubes of the beer logo. “We saw the red lights.” The smile faded. “And then later the ambulance went by, and then the tow truck. Was that Matt? I assumed that it was when I saw you walk in.”
    I nodded. “They’re all right. There were three of them in the car. No big deal.” I was sure that none of the teenagers would have agreed with my assessment. I turned to see Victor Sanchez emerge through the kitchen’s swinging door. Wiping his hands on his apron, he ambled up behind the bar, pausing to say something to each one of the patrons. But I knew exactly where he was headed.
    Christine Prescott saw him too, but didn’t make a show of being busy, and didn’t step away.
    “Victor,” I said by way of greeting.
    He stood for a minute regarding me, hands locked in the folds of his much-used apron.
    “What you doing, drinking that stuff this time of night?” he asked, and jerked his chin at the coffee. “You ought to take something to help you sleep.” I knew that it was as close to humor as Victor Sanchez was apt to drift.
    I laughed and pushed the remains of the burrito to one side. “That was good, by the way.”
    “Sure it was good,” Victor said. He was a squat, homely man with heavy facial features to match his rounded, muscular shoulders and thick waist. He brought the faint, cloying aroma of the greasy kitchen with him.
    “You want to know about Matt Baca, you go ask Matt Baca,” he said.
    “There’s not much I need to know about him, Victor,” I said. “I know he stopped by here not too long ago, and was refused service. Either he was intoxicated, or underage, or both. It doesn’t matter.”
    “Did he get hurt, or what?”
    “No, he’s all right,” I said. “No big deal.”
    He rested a beefy hand on the bar. “You guys can put a man out of business,” he said.
    “Not likely, Victor. You’ve been here, what, thirty years?”
    “Sure. But now we got your man sitting up the road there, all the time. Hell, he might as well sit his ass right in the parking lot, you know? Bad for business.” He shook his head slowly. “Bad for business.”
    I knew that Undersheriff Robert Torrez’s pet peeve was drunks. He had lost a younger brother to one years before, and I knew that on occasion, as he had this night, he prowled within easy reach of intoxicated saloon patrons as they staggered out into the parking lot. Counting the four establishments in the village of Posadas that sold liquor, there were nine licensed hot spots in all of Posadas County. In the course of a month, I listened to enough radio traffic to know that Torrez didn’t single out the Broken Spur Saloon as his prime target. But there was no point in arguing statistics with Victor Sanchez.
    “Cheer up, Victor,” I said, and fished a ten-dollar bill out of my wallet. “After the election in another couple of days, Bob will be too busy to sit on his ass anywhere.”
    “How come you didn’t run?” Sanchez asked, and the question caught me by surprise. I didn’t figure Victor for the type who would get away from his diced onions and chicken tenders long enough to concern himself with politics. I couldn’t imagine that he cared one way or another why I had chosen to retire.
    I handed the ten bucks to Christine Prescott and waved away the change. “Because I’m old and tired, Victor. That burrito and coffee will give me just enough energy to get home and into bed.”
    I zipped up my jacket and thrust my hands into its pockets. “The undersheriff is a good man, Victor. He’ll do a good job.”
    “We’ll see about that,” Victor said.

Chapter Four
    When I left, the Broken Spur was shutting down for the night. I should have shut down too, but my system had other ideas. Sosimo