Free Wrong Thing by Barry Graham Page B

Miguel walked from their house to the Cowgirl Hall of Fame. There was live music that night, some shit-kicker cowpunk band, and there was a three-dollar cover charge. The guy on the door looked at their cut and beaten faces as they paid, but he said nothing. They went inside and got beers, then sat at a table outside.
    â€œSo, what do you think?” said Miguel.
    â€œI don’t know. What do you think?”
    â€œI’ve had it, that’s what I think.”
    The Kid nodded and didn’t say anything.
    â€œI mean, that was fucking close. That was as close as I want to get. If they’d found the shit, I don’t know how long we were looking at—”
    â€œI do. At least ten years.”
    â€œJesus. That ain’t funny. You know, after they’d gone, I just kept looking at Maria, and imagining not being able to see her, not being able to walk down the street or do anything for years . . . Man.” Miguel shook his head.
    â€œI think I’m with you. I think I’m gonna stop. What’re you gonna do?”
    â€œSelling advertising sudden looks pretty damn good,” said Miguel. “You?”
    â€œDon’t know. I never thought about it before. There’s enough money to get by on for a little while.”
    â€œYeah.” Miguel laughed. “It was good, huh? While it lasted. It was real fucking good.”
    The Kid smiled at him. “Yeah,” he said. “It really was.”
    Miguel held out his hand. The Kid shook it.
    â€œLet’s go check out the band,” Miguel said.
    They went inside. It was busy. They ordered more beers, then stood watching the band. Miguel wasn’t crazy about the music, but the Kid liked it. The beer started to give him a buzz. He thought that the occasion should seem momentous, but it didn’t. He’d decided to quit what he’d been doing for two years, and it didn’t seem to make any difference. He had a feeling of relief, that he wouldn’t have to worry anymore, worry that the cops would bust him or that someone would kill him. He’d often wished he could be like Miguel, who never worried about anything and never made a big deal out of anything. He knew that Miguel would blithely go back to selling advertising or perhaps do something else and not even think about it. Nobody knew it, but the Kid was always afraid.
    He thought about an afternoon a few weeks earlier. He’d been doing some business in Albuquerque, and was now driving back to Santa Fe. It was a warm day, and he drove with all the windows rolled down. He hung his left arm out of the window, and watched the concrete and desert go by. He felt good, but there was a sadness under the good feeling. He wished he wasn’t afraid all the time. He wished he could just enjoy the day and not wonder how many more times he’d see it before a prison cell or a bullet took it all away.
    Now he wouldn’t have to be afraid. When the band had finished playing, the Kid and Miguel went back outside, but it was so crowded they couldn’t find a table. So they stood, drank more beer, and talked. Some people they knew were there, and they waved to them and said hello. When the bar stopped serving, they decided to leave. Miguel went to take a piss, and the Kid waited for him.
    The Kid noticed a woman sitting with two guys. They were all about his age. She looked like she was a mix of Mexican and Indian. Her straight hair was black, and reached almost to her waist. Her skin was light brown, and she had huge, slightly slanted eyes over high cheekbones. She was small and skinny, wearing blue denim shorts, black tights, a jacket, and a T-shirt.
    She was looking at the Kid.
    â€œWhat happened to your face?” she said.
    â€œGot beat up” he said, unable to think of a plausible lie.
    â€œWho by?”
    â€œSome guys.”
    She pointed to the space on the bench beside her. “Sit down.”
    He did. She introduced him to the two