Free Extreme Denial by David Morrell Page B

if he were on top of the world.
    Madrid, which Decker had to keep reminding himself was pronounced with an accent on the first syllable, was a village of shacks and frame houses, most of which were occupied by what appeared to be survivors of the sixties counterculture. The community stretched along a narrow wooded hollow bordered on the right by a slope covered with coal, the reason the town had been founded at the turn of the century. The Mineshaft Tavern, a rickety two-story wooden structure in need of paint, was about the largest building in town and easy to find, directly to the right at the bottom of the curving slope into town.
    Decker parked and locked the Intrepid. He studied a group of leather-jacketed motorcyclists going by. They stopped at a house down the road, unstrapped folded-down easels and half-completed paintings on canvases, and carried them into the house. With a grin, Decker climbed the steps to the tavern’s enclosed porch. His footsteps caused a hollow rumbling sound beneath him as he opened a squeaky screen door that led him into a miniature version of a turn-of-the-century saloon complete with a stage. Currency from all over the world was tacked to the wall behind the bar.
    The shadowy place was half-full and noisy with spirited conversation. Sitting at an empty table, Decker gathered the impression of cowboy hats, tattoos, and beaded necklaces. In contrast with the efficiency of the Albuquerque airport, it took a long time before a ponytailed man wearing an apron and holding a tray ambled over. Don’t be impatient, Decker told himself. Think of this as a kind of decompression chamber. The knees of the waiter’s jeans were ripped out. “Someone told me you’ve got the best margaritas in the world,” Decker said. “Surely that isn’t true.”
    “There’s a way to find out.”
    “Bring me one.”
    “Anything to eat?”
    “What do you recommend?”
    “At noon, the chicken fajitas. But in the middle of the afternoon? Try the nachos.”
    “Done.”
    The nachos had Monterey jack cheese, green salsa, pinto beans, lettuce, tomatoes, and jalapeño peppers. The peppers made Decker’s eyes water. He felt in heaven and realized that if he’d eaten this same food two days earlier, his stomach would have been in agony.
    The margarita truly was the best he had ever tasted.
    “What’s the secret?” he asked the waiter.
    “An ounce and a quarter of the best tequila, which is one hundred percent blue agave. Three quarters of an ounce of Cointreau. One and a half ounces of freshly squeezed lemon juice. A fresh wedge of lime.”
    The drink made Decker’s mouth pucker with joy. Salt from the rim of the glass stuck to his lips. He licked it off and ordered another. When he finished that, he would have ordered yet another, except that he didn’t know how the alcohol would hit him at this altitude. Driving, he didn’t want to injure anyone. Plus, he wanted to be able to find Santa Fe.
    After giving the waiter a 25 percent tip, Decker went outside, feeling as mellow as he had felt in years. He squinted at the lowering sun, glanced at his diver’s watch—almost four-thirty—put on his RayBans, and got into the Intrepid. If anything, the air seemed even clearer, the sky bluer, the sun more brilliant. As he drove from town, following the narrow, winding road past more juniper and piñon trees and that sagebrushlike plant that he meant to learn the name of, he noticed that the color of the land had changed so that red, orange, and brown joined what had been a predominance of yellow. The vegetation became greener. He reached a high curve that angled down to the left, giving him a view for miles ahead. Before him, distant, at a higher elevation, looking like miniatures in a child’s play village, were tiny buildings nestled among foothills, behind which rose stunningly beautiful mountains that Decker’s map called the Sangre de Cristo range, the blood of Christ. The sun made the buildings seem golden,