Free Trial by Ice and Fire by Clinton McKinzie Page B

restaurant. They're dressed as I feared, wearing what real Westerners would only wear to a rodeo or as costumes on Halloween. Nearly everyone sports cowboy hats and boots. Embroidered denim and leather make up the rest of their clothes. At the door a young man with a ponytail and a discreet earphone checks names off on a list. A smile-faced sign is tacked on the wall behind him, reading, “No Media, Please,” as if Wyoming is full of hungry tabloid reporters. Two crew-cut security guards, probably local off-duty cops, stand behind him ready to enforce the edict.
    Cali doesn't speak to anyone as we wait our turn to enter. I assume she has been out of the Hollywood limelight too long to be easily recognized. And I'm relieved to realize that none of these out-of-towners appears to recognize me. The only good thing about my notoriety is that it's local. Even the security guards are too busy ogling the women and the movie people to pay any attention to me.
    Cali gives her name and the kid with the ponytail shows us a too-perfect set of small, feral teeth. “Of course!” he says happily. “It's good to finally meet you, dear.” He kisses her cheek. Then he beams at me as he crosses off Cali's name and writes
with date
. When I answer his query about my name, I'm happy to see that he scribbles
Antonio Burns
as if it were
John Doe.
    We follow the line of partygoers into the restaurant's single, wide room. It's about the size of a basketball court. The peanut shells that cover the floor crunch under our feet. There are already fifty or sixty people inside, and there is room for about a hundred more. They are packed ten-deep around the long bar at the far end of the room. Banquet tables with red-and-white-checked tablecloths stand in perfectly aligned rows down the restaurant's center. These are empty except for flowers, discarded purses and coats, and tin buckets of peanuts. Bluegrass music plays over the speakers.
    We start to move past three men with drinks in their hands. They're slouching against a wall just inside the entrance. About my age or younger, all three are dressed as foolishly as the rest of the crowd in embroidered pearl-button shirts, fringed vests, and big hats. One of them wears all black like a television gunfighter. He has an ornate holster of Mexican silver slung low around his waist. There are a pair of toy pistols with long barrels on his hips.
    Ignoring my attempt at a polite smile, the three “cowboys” all stare intently at Cali. Their eyes linger on her legs and butt as she passes ahead of me.
    One of them says loudly in a fake-Western accent, “Fine-looking heifer you got there, pardner. I bet she could take my bull by the horns.”
    I slow and pause, trying to take in the extent of the comment. His friends snicker and leer some more, glancing at me then away again at Cali. One of them even bends forward and cocks his head for a better view of her ass. Cali keeps moving but I see the muscles tighten in her shoulders and back.
    “I might have to put my brand on her,” the wanna-be gunfighter in black says in the same mocking accent. “Then we could take turns milking each other.” His two friends bray with laughter.
    I come to a complete stop and stare at the men who've dared to say these things loud enough for Cali to hear. Who have said them to me, as if I'm expected to just take it, blush, and keep on moving.
    Their eyes are already red and watery from too many drinks. The one who spoke first looks away from me then down at the floor. The gunfighter meets my stare, still smirking. I can no longer hear the music. In the periphery of my vision I note Cali turning around and coming back toward us. Her hand touches my arm but it feels as if she's touching someone else.
    “Let's go, Anton,” she says.
    “What did you say?” I ask the gunfighter.
    He speaks with deliberate slowness, as if he's talking to an idiot. “I said I'd like to fuck your girlfriend. Up the ass, maybe.” His eyes