Endangered Species: PART 1 Read Online Free PDF

generations of body odors and cooking
grease. There was an earthy smell that reminded Christie of
mushrooms. Must be dry rot, he thought. Fungi are fungi; the smell
is the same. He was grateful for New Mexico’s ban on smoking in
public places, including bars. The room was long and narrow with
the bar on the left and booths on the right. Both men blinked a
couple of times trying to adjust to the dim light, most of it
produced by neon signs covering the walls and advertising a variety
of beers. A few tubes had burned out in a couple of them, making
for an occasional odd turn of a phrase. The place looked like it
had been there for a long time. The furnishings were old and
scarred. The barstools and booth benches were covered in Naugahyde.
Several had been patched with duct tape. The wooden floor was well
worn by the shoes and boots of generations of patrons.
    A small group of men were clustered near the
middle of the bar. They were drinking beer and watching a sports
show on a flat screen TV mounted on the wall behind the bar. The
barkeeper was leaning against the bar glancing back and forth
between the TV and the men’s glasses. Christie recognized it as
universal bartender behavior. Keep a close eye on the patrons’
drinks. When there’s only a swallow or two left in the glass, be
quick offer a refill before the drinker can think about calling it
a night. Christie likened it the behavior to the speedy strike of a
rattlesnake. The more drinks the higher the tab; the higher the
tab, the bigger the tip. Christie, ever the cop, quickly sized up
the men at the bar. They didn’t look like big tippers. One was
wearing a postal worker’s uniform. Another had on a jacket with a
delivery service’s logo. The clothes worn by the others suggested
construction work.
    Burkhardt led Christie to a
booth opposite the group of drinkers. The bartender watched them.
He had an unhappy look. Probably wishes
we’d gone to the bar and saved him having to walk over
here , Christie thought. As if to emphasize
his displeasure, the bartender ignored the two men for several
minutes. Finally, Burkhardt yelled at the man. “Hey, can we get a
coupla’ drinks over here?”
    All of the men at the bar turned in unison
and looked at them. They knew cops when the saw cops. Again in
unison, they turned back to the TV screen. The bartender sighed and
threw his cleaning rag on the bar. He sized up the two cops as he
approached their booth. One was younger and looked like he spent a
lot of time in the weight room. His suit was still crisp looking
and wrinkle free this late in the day, his hair short and neatly
parted. A pretty boy, he thought. Probably banging every broad in
the Sheriff’s department. The other guy didn’t look too good, kind
of pasty faced and bent over like he wasn’t well. His clothes
looked like he had stolen them from a homeless person; a homeless
person who was a size or two larger. For a cop he had a messy,
unkempt appearance. His hair, which was receding, looked like it
was overdue for an oil change. It was obvious that he hadn’t had a
date with his razor in a couple of days. The bartender didn’t like
cops, but grudgingly admitted they were a necessity in his line of
work. There were those occasions when fights went beyond his
ability to quell them with the sap or baseball bat he kept behind
the bar.
    He nodded at Burkhardt. “Whatcha’ havin’,
Mac?”
    “ A shot of Patron Silver
and a beer.”
    “ What kind of
beer?”
    Something about the man’s attitude irritated
Burkhardt. “I don’t give a fuck as long as it’s cold.” It came out
in a semi-growl.
    The bartender played stare-down with
Burkhardt for a couple of seconds then turned to Christie. “What
about you, Chief?”
    Christie was very conscious of his volcanic
stomach. Almost any food or beverage contributed to an eruption.
“Do you have cream or half-and-half?”
    “ What’s this look like, a
fuckin’ Starbucks?”
    With surprising speed, Christie