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The Outpost Restaurant was on top of a small rise; surrounded by an oasis of green foliage Frank figured was goosing the water bill to the max. Kind of thoughts a one-time barkeep with ideas of acquiring his own bar gets.

The restaurant was a low-slung ranch-style structure of dark green painted timber with a slightly peaked roof the color of sand. More western than southwestern. More Old West than Old Mexico.

The inside was simple, basic and elegant in an understated way: Wooden tables with white linen tablecloths. Cylindrical candles burning. Sterling silver flatware. Coffee cups as thick as your hand.

Leaning back in a sturdy wooden chair and taking it all in, Frank was thinking he’d made the right decision. The round of golf went better than he’d anticipated. Some of the weight from the past seemed off his shoulders. Today’s fun wasn’t exactly the type of thing the characters in Kerouac’s book had done—definitely more upscale and mainstream here—but it was something Frank would never have experienced if he’d gotten back on the road.

So he felt he’d done justice to his desires—at least temporarily—and was ready for an enjoyable but light hitting night on the town.

If he stayed disciplined and drank conservatively he’d still be in good shape to hit the highway.

One day’s drive and he’d be in California.

The thought made his gut jump.

He looked around the darkened interior of the restaurant for someone to take a drink order.

He caught the eye of a waitress dressed in black jeans and cowboy boots and a white, Western-style shirt.

Cook, Parker and Larry ordered Stoli martinis. Frank requested a bottle of Dos Equis. “I’m sorry, sir,” the waitress said. “We don’t carry Dos Equis. We have Budweiser on tap and in bottles, also Michelob, Miller, Pabst and Falstaff.”

Frank ordered a bottle of Budweiser and the waitress departed.

Cook and Parker got up to use the men’s room.

Frank glanced over at Richards, the man looking squeezed.

The needling from Cook and Parker—especially Parker, Bryce evidently greatly disappointed his team didn’t win the golf match—had continued on the drive to the restaurant. And just now before he left the table, Cook had stared at Richards like Larry was something stuck on his shoe, shooting Larry a look reminiscent of an overbearing schoolteacher as he extolled Richards to not forget the phone calls he needed to make.

Frank was trying to act as if he were unaware of the dynamic playing out in front of him. Shit was making Larry look like a fraternity whipping boy. So Frank said something meant to be innocent and neutral: “You know, man, I really liked that Dos Equis beer out at Rancho Deluxe. Surprised they don’t serve it here. That shit is good.”

“Take a look around,” Larry said. “They don’t serve any Mexican products here. No south-of-the-border influence whatsoever in this place. No Jose Cuervo, no Dos Equis—not even any Mex food on the menu. This place could be in Montana—and that’s the idea. You see anything tells you we’re close to the border here?”

Frank gazed around the room: comfortable, dark, elegant, and totally USA. Even the wait staff and the bartenders were white; something Frank thought had to be unusual down here. Had to be some kind of federal violation.

Larry said, “The owner of this place fronts a group that vows to never forget the Alamo. They also want to see the Phoenix area maintain its white majority. No “browning of America” fans here. Anti-immigration, anti-minimum wage increases, anti-welfare—anti-anything that might serve to build up the Mexican population. These people are active in regional politics and exert a not-insignificant influence in the Valley.”

Frank recalled seeing an aging sheet of newsprint in a frame on the wall behind the cash register. Headline: Remember the Alamo.  “But the Alamo was in Texas,” he said to Larry.

“Doesn’t seem to matter to these people. It’s their cause and they support it with near religious fervor.”

“Didn’t you say that Howard Parker had a fondness for Mexicans?”

“That’s the story that is told. But I suspect old Howie really liked Mexicans when they did work for him at a lower rate than American workers—and not so much in other times. Except for the women. Word has it that the old boy had more than one Mexican mistress over the years. Including one long-term liaison, according to Bryce. And Bryce still seems to harbor some resentment about it, if the way he looked at me the morning after he spilled the beans on that one is any indication. Man gets a little blow up his nose and a bellyful of Stoli and you can’t shut him up. Family and personal secrets come tumbling out like there’s no tomorrow. And then when tomorrow does come and he’s hung over and filled with regret, he wishes he hadn’t told the story so thoroughly.”

“Maybe you should make a recording. Hold it over his head if he starts to give you too much shit. Which, from what I’ve seen, is a real possibility.”

“Hey, Frank, these guys are my friends. I respect their secrets like my own.”

Of which, he has a few, Frank thought to himself.

“And their shit giving is harmless, really. No blood no foul. I give it right back, tit for tat.”

Frank hadn’t seen much of the pushback. But if Larry was cool with it, Frank was too. Although, to paraphrase his old classmate, he suspected Larry liked his two “friends” more when they were investing their money in his projects—and not so much at other times.

And who knew about the other members of Larry’s so-called consortium?

(End of Chapter 21)

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Cruising across the desert in the classic old Lincoln, dust cloud billowing out behind like a super long parachute, Clayton Cook pulled the glowing cigarette lighter from the dash and touched it to the tip of a large joint. He took a big drag and passed it to Frank in the back seat. Parker was driving and Cook was riding shotgun. Larry was in back with Frank.

The foursome was on the way to the country club.

Frank took a pull off the joint and passed it to Richards, who in turn passed it up front to Parker without taking a hit.

Shit tastes pretty good, Frank thought. And nine holes of golf might be a fun way to spend an afternoon, even in this heat.

He hadn’t totally committed to playing yet, but Clayton could be persuasive. A don’t-take-no-for-an-answer type of guy.

An hour later the four of them were at a table in the country club bar. Cook ordered a round of drinks and then asked Frank if he’d made up his mind. Frank said, “At this point, there’s not much I could say no to in the world. Yes is the answer. The word yes is the gateway to freedom and adventure.”

The other three shot him looks.

“Sorry,” Frank said. “The weed must’ve gotten to me. I was thinking about that Yoko Ono art project she was doing when she met John Lennon. Supposedly, you climbed up this ladder and on the ceiling there was a little folded piece of paper or something, and inside was just the word YES. YES kind of representing a door opening, much as NO would be a door closing.”

Smirking and looking down at his drink, Bryce Parker crooned a line from a Steve Miller song: “Space Cowboy, I bet you know where that’s at.”

Larry Richards was grinning. “Jesus, Frank. Didn’t know you were such a high flying hippie dippy.”

If you only knew, Frank thought, as he watched Cook lean forward across the table.

“So that means you’re going to play?” Cook said.

“YES,” Frank said with a grin.

“All right,” Cook said. “That’s great. How about you and I take on those two?”

“Larry and I will kick your ass,” Parker said.

“Twenty bucks a hole,” Cook said.

Richards, on Frank’s right, leaned over and mumbled in Frank’s ear: “They usually play for fifty.”

Frank wanted to beg off, say it was too rich for his blood. But since they’d scaled it down to something they likely thought was more on his level, he held his tongue. He’d played the game before. Not quite a rank beginner. Back in the days of the caddy shack they used to let the caddies play an occasional free round during the off-hours, like early mornings, rainy or cold days or Ladies Day. Few golfers wanted to follow the women around the course, the average time per round increasing exponentially when the ladies were out.

The round—if nine holes is considered a round—began pretty much as Frank expected.

He was all over the course. First left then right, his old slice still a problem.

Then skulling one along the ground for fifty yards—a worm burner.

Hitting one nearly straight up in the air, eliciting a “Gonna bring rain,” from Bryce Parker.     

Frank hoped Parker was right about the rain.

But it didn’t rain much in Arizona.

Clayton, true to his promise, was consistently straight down the middle and near the greens in regulation. Cook and Parker were nearly equal in skill, both of them scratch golfers, and Larry was only slightly below their level. Richards was a tennis player, after all. But it looked to Frank like the man had put in some time on the links. Could be a requirement to pass the bar exam out here.

It took Frank a while to get his swing going. Started off the round with two double bogeys and a bogey. It was hot as blazes on the rock hard fairways of Thunderhook Country Club.

But then on hole four, a short par five, he nailed a five-iron pin high, ten feet right of the stick, and sank the putt for a birdie, winning the hole and tying the match at two holes apiece.

From then on Clayton held up his end, staving off Richards and Parker with booming drives and artful wedge shots, only shaky putting keeping his team from winning the match in a runaway.

As it was, the group came to the ninth green all even. Cook and Parker were facing difficult putts, while Richards, who’d been playing like a demon the last three holes—Frank thinking it was a matter of male pride—had a reasonable putt for birdie and the win.

Frank was just off the edge of the large rolling, multi-tiered green in two. Being the farthest from the hole, he was up first. He pulled the putter out of the bag of rental clubs and lined up the shot, calling on his old caddy instincts to somehow come back to him.

He didn’t look at it very long, just sighted it in and let ’er rip.   

The twisting, bending, sixty-footer, dropped right in the center of the hole.

Clayton Cook hooted and swung his putter in the air. Frank watched Richards and Parker’s shoulders sag as he went to remove the ball, being careful not to step in his opponents’ line.

Cook picked up his ball.

Parker missed his thirty-footer.

Richards stepped across the green and addressed his putt. Frank thought Larry looked a little pale all of a sudden.

Richards stood there motionless for the longest time, causing both Parker and Cook to begin pacing around nervously behind him.

Finally Larry drew back the putter and struck the ball.

Frank watched it start left and then bend back toward the cup. Saw it catch the lip of the cup and flutter there for an instant. 

Thing dropped in.

The hole and the match were halved.

A tie.

Seeing the relief on Larry’s face, Frank wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

The foursome retired to the nineteenth hole as Clayton and Bryce jawed with each other over bad shots and terrible putts. Richards looked pleased. Frank just wanted to get out of the heat. The sun-block stuff on his face was starting to run into his eyes.

Cook ordered a round of drinks and congratulated Larry on his final putt. Frank thought he heard a note of sarcasm in Cook’s voice. Golf had proved to be a fun experience but Frank hadn’t liked the way the two rich boys treated Larry.

They’d ridiculed Richards’ putting stance—Cook saying it looked like a cow taking a shit—and laughed at his bad shots, Larry’s partner Bryce even joining the onslaught at times. They also enjoyed bouts of hilarity over Larry’s plaid Bermuda shorts, which even Frank thought were more suited to a half-senile retiree then a practicing lawyer in the prime of his life.

It had all started out as innocent banter, the kind of stuff competitive guys do, but as it progressed and continued, Frank sensed an edge of meanness in the unrelenting criticism and snide remarks.

It was still going on even now, here in the bar.

Frank just wanted to spring for the next round of drinks.

Glad that he hadn’t lost any money in the match, he threw a fifty down on the table. But Cook pushed it back to him, saying, ”It’s all on my tab, partner, save your cash for later, you might need it.”

Frank shrugged and put the fifty in his pocket.

Clayton ordered another round.

They drained their glasses in a hurry and retired to the locker room for showers and a change of clothes. Frank had brought along one of his old white bartending shirts and the crisp new khakis.

(End of Chapter 20)

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It was after one o’clock when Frank returned to the main house. He could smell something cooking. Seemed to be more Mexican specialties. He went to the glass doors leading to the pool. The three men were still in the water, empty beer bottles on the tiles alongside three separate lounge chairs.

Bryce Parker was floating on an inflatable raft in the middle of the blue water. He saw Frank and waved him out. Frank went out into the heat and took a seat at a round table with an umbrella over it, having had enough sun for the day.

“Grab yourself a beer, Frank. Lunch should be ready any minute,” Parker said. “Maria is fixing us a batch of carne seca. Ever had it before?”

“Never even heard of it before.”

“It means dried meat, Frank,” Richards said, climbing out of the pool.

“Dried meat?”

“It’s made with beef jerky, you’ll love it,” Parker said. “Maria is a fantastic cook. Nothing dry about it when she gets finished.”

Frank nodded his head. “The huevos rancheros yesterday were excellent.”

Parker rolled off the raft into the water and submerged, surfacing a few seconds later blowing water and pushing his hair out of his eyes.

Larry Richards was stretched out on a yellow chaise. He was tan compared to Frank, but not as dark as the other two.

Clayton Cook climbed out of the water, lifted a beer bottle from the edge of the pool and approached Frank’s table. “Decide if you were going to stay or not, Mr. Frank?”

“Yeah, I think I’ll stay for one more day. Take you up on your offer of dinner.”

“Great,” Cook said. “What about golf?” He executed a golf swing, clicking his tongue to mimic the sound of club striking ball.

“I was thinking maybe that I should caddy. I’ve got some experience with that. My game would be a disaster, slow you guys down waiting for me.”

Cook said, “You want to carry a heavy golf bag in this heat, man? You in need of atonement or something? Fulfilling some purgatorial duty, perhaps? Punishment for deeds unkind?”

He was. But they didn’t need to know that. “I was thinking more along the lines of driving the cart.”

“I suppose we can arrange that. But foursomes are much better than threesomes. On the golf course, anyway. You and I can partner against Bryce and Larry. What’s your handicap?”

“Having to swing the club. I’m horseshit at golf, plain and simple. Baseball—now there’s something I can do.”

“C’mon, man. No pressure, no responsibility, no worries. Right up your alley. We’ll play best ball. That way any bad shots you hit won’t cause us any harm, and if you do catch hold of one, we can make it count. After, we’ll take you to the batting cage.”

Frank figured there’d be gambling. And he couldn’t tolerate losing money to these rich guys. But he didn’t want to admit it; didn’t want to be seen as a piker. “I’ll give it some thought,” he said.

Bryce Parker was toweling off at poolside. “Lunch is served, gentlemen,” he said.

Frank glanced through the glass doors and saw Humberto walking toward the dining room. 

(End of Chapter 19)

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Judging by the position of the sun, Frank figured it was close to noon when Clayton Cook arrived at the pool with a beer bottle in his hand.

A beer bottle of a type Frank couldn’t remember ever seeing before, which was rare for a veteran bartender.

Having been in the water long enough that the skin on his fingertips was wrinkling and his face was feeling a tad tight; Frank was sitting on the steps of the pool in the shallow end, lower body submerged and an orange beach towel over his head.

He nodded to Cook, who nodded back as he flopped down into an aqua blue chaise lounge at poolside.

“Care for a beer, Frank?” Cook asked. “We have some beaner brew, if you want it. Bryce always stocks it, so you either drink this shit or bring your own,” Cook lifted up the bottle of what Frank now saw was Dos Equis, a Mexican beer he’d heard of before but never actually seen.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I’m gonna hit the road after lunch, so alcohol is probably not a good idea.”

“Wisdom learned from years of tending bar?”

“Years of drinking and driving.”

Cook smiled and snorted. “Why don’t you stay and enjoy another day at Rancho Deluxe before you head out?”

“Sounds tempting, but I was really hoping to get somewhere with a little more green and maybe not quite so hot.”

“Where in Cali you headed?”

“I’m not sure. Santa Clara or Santa Barbara or Santa fuckin’ Claus… I really don’t know. Never been to California before so I thought I’d look around a bit. Hopefully find a clean, well-lighted place to work at.”

“A clean, well-lighted place. Hemingway, correct? I remember that story. About a guy who owns a little spot and studies the customers. That you?”

“Could be. But I think the story was more about the guy who visits the well-lighted place every night.”

“Perhaps,” Cook said. “Long time since I read it. So that’s what you want to do, own a bar?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Owning entails lots of responsibility. Which leads to worry. Which can lead to feeling like shit. Right now I just want to find somewhere to settle for a while. You know man, take stock of things.”

“I hear that, Frank. All the more reason you should stay another day. I was going to treat everyone to dinner tonight at this great restaurant on Camelback Mountain. Bryce and I were going to play nine at the country club and then go for dinner. I think Larry has business to take care of but I’m sure he’ll be joining us at some point. You play golf?”

“I have, but not very well. And I don’t have any clubs.”

“Clubs are not a problem. If you want to play, we can always scare some up. You should come; it’ll be a kick. After dinner we can hit the bars and burn off some excess energy. I know some spots that can get pretty wild. Lots of hot chicks.”

Frank had to admit he was tempted. Female companionship sounded good. He was beginning to think this being alone shit was like living with an open sore. Maybe another day of rest and recreation was what he needed.

He was feeling indecisive again.

And right now his face was feeling hot.

Frank got out of the pool and toweled off.

He said goodbye to Clayton, slid on his flip-flops and left the pool area.

Walking back toward the dome, rubber sandals clapping on the red bricks, he was debating within himself.

Should he stay or should he go? 

These guys were uncomfortably out of his league financially, culturally and just about every other way, except the physical. He was bigger than them and figured he could take either of them in a fight if it came down to that. Then he wondered why he was thinking like that. He wrote it off to some old, deeply ingrained bartender shit, like when you were assessing the possibility of trouble from an unruly customer.

Unable to land comfortably on a particular choice, he recalled a saying he’d recently begun to hear from a wide variety of people: What would Jesus Christ do? Or the shorthand version:WWJCD?

He had his own version now: WWJKD?

What would Jack Kerouac do?

Seemed like Kerouac would say: Fuck the economic differences, man. Just dig it. Dig the scene, man; this chance may never come again.

So that side was heard from.

But what about the sensible side of Frank Ford? The guy who’d vowed to be a better person—more responsible—and dedicate himself to starting his new life before his money ran out?

Good question.

He decided to wait until after lunch to make the decision. First he was going to hit the shower and then maybe read a little or lie down for a short nap. Something was telling him he’d need the energy later.

Inside the dome it was cool. He had a shower and put on his underwear and crawled into the wonderfully comfortable bed with his book. But his eyes got heavy so he put the book on the bed table, thinking about Nikki as he drifted off. He thought about her a lot. Too much. More than he thought about his dead brother Ray. Nikki was definitely a lot better looking. And the memories of her were generally of the pleasant variety, whereas thoughts of Ray usually brought forth a truckload of torment.

Nikki, in spite of all of their differences, had been a beacon of light, a breath of fresh air and a plethora of other positive clichés.

As for Ray, what he was is better left unsaid.

And now, of course, the man was dead.  

(End of Chapter 18)

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Larry followed Parker into the house.

Frank was holding the golf bag at the bottom of the staircase as Cook started walking up. “Where do you want the clubs, Clayton?” Frank asked.

Cook stopped and turned. “I’m sorry, man,” he said, “I don’t know what I was thinking. Should’ve left them in the Lincoln. How else would I get to the country club? Would you mind putting them back in the trunk?”

Frank didn’t know if this was an honest mistake or some kind of weird test Cook was putting him through. But he was a guest here so he shrugged and carried the heavy bag back outside.

He took the keys from the ignition of the Lincoln and opened the trunk, dropped the golf bag in, put the keys on the driver’s seat and went back inside the house.

The main floor was empty. He heard voices upstairs on the second floor. Not sure what else to do, he started up the thick wooden steps.

Halfway up he heard the voices get louder.

It sounded like Bryce Parker: “What do you mean you didn’t get it, Larry?”

Larry: “I told you, Bryce, Reynolds cut me off. He’s super pissed about losing out on the mall deal and he sent out the word to his dealers to cut me off.”

Clayton Cook: “A little resourcefulness might have served you well, Larry. I suspect there are a few more cocaine suppliers in Denver besides Arturo Reynolds.”

“C’mon, give me a break. Reynolds sent goons with baseball bats to destroy my Beemer for God’s sake. And the next time it was going to be me. I had to split town or take a beating; no other choice in the matter.”

Parker: “A week in the desert without any blow is gonna be tough sledding, Larry.”

“I told you, Bryce, the reason Reynolds has it in for me is because you guys bought the mall deal out from under him. And when the checks start coming in, I want you two to remember it was me that put you on it.”

“I’m sure Burt remembers it was you,” Cook said, laughing.

Parker: “We were counting on you, Larry.”

     “I know you were. And I tried, I really did. But circumstances were beyond my control. But I’ve got some old friends in Phoenix who can help us out, so let’s change the subject. What’d you think of those properties I showed you this morning?”

“Not bad,” Parker said. “Halfway decent. I see the possibilities.”

“I can feel my mood slipping, already,” Frank heard Cook say. “I suppose we’ll just have to drink the ennui away.”

Richards: “I do have some state-of-the-art amphetamine. Stuff is straight from the American medical pharmacopeia.”

Parker: “I suppose that will have to do. But get on the horn with your local friends and see what you can shake up. Maybe you can redeem yourself.”

Uncomfortable now and feeling sorry for Larry—Hell is the people you hang with, they say—Frank turned and went back down the stairs. Stopping in the great room, he gazed around at the mounts on the walls and tried to figure his next move.

He had committed to staying for a midday meal, and after that he’d be free as a bird. But it would be getting on in the day by then and cutting into the available hours of daylight…

But, shit, any time at all on the road would get him closer to his goal.

And farther away from this cluster fuck.

Seemed like a win-win situation.

Part of him felt he should stay and be an ally for his friend. Larry seemed in need of some unconditional love—another concept Frank’s ex, Nikki, used to talk about. Girl liked to show off her education.

But Christ, prior to the day before yesterday, he hadn’t seen Larry in years. And Richards was the one that dragged him into this scene. Wasn’t the other way around, you know.

Unconditional love?

Fuck that.

He couldn’t make up his mind.

So he said the hell with it and headed for the pool. It was probably still below ninety out there. But the sun was well above the mountains now and it was only a matter of time.

(End of Chapter 17)

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The two new arrivals were pretty much like Frank had expected. Except he’d pictured them in blazers and ties—an east coast preppie look Frank had apparently brought forward from his formative years. Made him wonder if he was ten years behind the times.

Or longer.

The two average-sized guys were wearing shorts and rock band T-shirts. Dark-haired guy: Eagles. Blond dude: Rolling Stones.

Gone were the days when you dressed up to get on an airliner.

Both guys’ hair was fashionably long and similarly styled. They were also tan and good-looking.

Frank came up as they were unloading the Lincoln. “Anything I can carry?” he asked, showing a friendly smile.

Larry Richards was standing by the open trunk of the Lincoln. “Bryce—Clayton,” he said, “this is my old friend from Minnesota I told you about, Frank Ford. My Beemer was in the shop, so I made him drive me down here.” He grinned.

The guy with the dark hair, Bryce Parker, put out his hand and Frank shook it. “Welcome to Sonora North, Frank, or as Larry has so astutely christened it, Rancho Deluxe. I trust your stay has been enjoyable so far.”

“Very good, yes,” Frank said.

“So you’re a chauffeur then?” The blond dude, Clayton Cook, said, coming over to shake Frank’s hand before lifting a large snappy leather suitcase out of the trunk.

Frank showed him a mixture of grimace and smile. Couldn’t tell if the guy was serious or giving him a dig. “No, not really. A bartender by trade, actually. Right now I’m on my way to California, so I stopped in Denver to see my old friend Larry here. Turned out he needed a little assistance and I was happy to oblige.” He paused and looked at Larry. “And now here I am, footloose and fancy free.”

“Ah, a mixologist,” Cook said. “Some of my closest confidantes are bartenders.”

“Which is why your dirty laundry is always hanging in public view, Clayton,” Parker said, a sly grin on his face.

“It’s just that my troubles are so compelling, Bryce,” Cook said. “And yours, on the other hand, are so mundane and banal that nobody even cares to know them.”

“Stability and consistency are positive traits, Clay,” Parker said. “Something you’ll probably never understand.”

“Maybe when I’m an old man like you, Bryce. And now that you mention it, Frank, I could definitely use a hand with the golf clubs.” He nodded toward the open trunk of the Lincoln.

“Sure, no problem, glad to be of service,” Frank said, then lifted out the black leather golf bag, putting some muscle into it. Thing was as big as the ones the pros on TV used. He put the strap on his shoulder and started toward the house. “Just like the old days at Lakeview Country Club, eh, Larry?”

Taking a suitcase from the trunk, Parker at his side holding another one, Richards’ face got a little pink. “Yeah, Frank, thank God those days are over. I spent enough time in the woods looking for balls to last me a lifetime.”

“Maybe that’s where you lost your own balls, Larry,” Parker said, still grinning.

Frank turned and saw Larry stiffen; Richards’ face turning a shade of crimson.

“Just kidding, Larry,” Parker said, as he and Cook laughed.

Then Cook went into the house and Parker turned to Richards. “C’mon, Larry, lighten up,” Parker said. “Just giving you some shit. Let’s go inside and get out of this heat.”

(To be continued)

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