Free Warriors of the Night by Kerry Newcomb Page B

as well as his considerable talent. Peter was seldom without the packet of charcoal sticks he kept in his coat pocket.
    Ben reached out and caught Peter’s arm and forced him to set the fired-clay cup back on the table. A short, squat man of Mexican descent entered from a back room and noticed with disapproval that not only had the Anglo with the eyeglasses not left, he had been joined by another, and this one a soldier.
    “We are closed. Comprende ? The women sleep. I must sleep too. Come back in the afternoon.”
    “Bring us coffee. Then we will go.”
    “No, we are closed. Leave now.”
    “Coffee first,” Ben said, and flipped a coin in the air that the barkeep snatched in mid-flight. The Mexican glanced down at the money in his hand. Too much for coffee, but enough for the inconvenience of serving it. He shrugged and disappeared through a back doorway that led into the kitchen. Unlike Military Plaza with its shops and hotels, church and governor’s palace, Main Plaza was home to the noisy underbelly of town life. The Red Bull held a dominant place among the assorted saloons and brothels surrounding the plaza. The cantina was a single-storied adobe building with a roof of red-clay tiles and a deep porch that shaded the front. Within its thick stucco walls, round hardwood tables and hand-hewn, straight-backed chairs were placed around the room for the convenience of the rowdy patrons. The thirty-foot walnut bar ran the length of the south wall. On the north wall, the likeness of an enormous red bull had been painted upon the faded whitewashed surface. The painting was framed by a pair of bullfighter’s capes tacked to the wall and spread like fans.
    The cantina smelled of tobacco smoke and stale pulque. Behind the bar were a number of brown glass bottles marked “Whisky,” “Bourbon,” “Rye,” and “Brandy.” Ben suspected they all came out of the same keg beneath the bar.
    “Still looking after me, eh?” Peter said, scratching at the brown stubble shading his features. He leaned back and studied his friend. “I figured you’d have tired of the task by now.” He dropped his gaze to the clay cup of milky-white liquid set before him. “It’s awful stuff, really. Bitter as gall, but it packs a wallop like a nine-pounder cannon.”
    “Then it’s time you called a truce,” Ben said.
    “Well put,” Peter replied. “I’ll make an artist of you yet.”
    “No. That’s not my calling.” Ben glanced around the cantina. At a table in the corner, another of last night’s customers sat hunched forward, head resting on folded arms, pouchy face turned toward them. The man was wrapped in a serape and snored in loud, harsh, rumbling tones.
    “Too bad. You are cursed with a sense of responsibility. More’s the pity.” Peter reached for the pulque, hoping to catch the lieutenant in a moment of reverie. Ben was not so easily fooled and slid the drink out of reach. “Hmmm… Well, anyway,” Peter added, “it seems I am cursed with your sense of responsibility.” He rubbed his forehead and tried to will away his headache. Maybe McQueen was right, he thought.
    The barkeeper returned with a blue-enamel tin coffeepot and two cups. He placed them on the table, poured, and said, “Please, señors. I am tired. Not too long, por favor .” He started to leave, then remembered Peter’s outstanding account.
    “How will you pay for the last pulque, señor?”
    Peter searched through the drawings until he came to a likeness of the barkeeper, who beamed with happiness as the artist handed him the sketch.
    “Gracias, Señor Abbot,” the round-faced barkeep said. He noticed a second drawing, this one of the señorita Peter had accompanied from the Alameda Hotel. The buxom young prostitute lay upon a narrow bed, naked, her legs provocatively crossed, her breasts dark and sumptuous. “And maybe one other. Ah, the puta . She makes an old man’s blood flow hot.”
    “Your pulque is expensive,” Peter dryly