Work-in-progress: Ripple: Reapers

 San Antonio, Texas

Bleys

She liked San Antonio, despite there being so many drugstore-all-hat-no-cattle cowboys. You could always tell the real ones from the wanna-be’s, real ones had a look— tanned, seamed, weathered faced, the shirts and jeans and boots good quality, but never new-looking. And something about the eyes, their gazes taking in everything, silently judging all they saw. Lot of them Mexicans—boys and girls—in this part of the state, and nobody gave them any shit—at least not other real cowboys.

The Daisy Bar and Grill was twenty degrees cooler than outside, early in the evening, but it was still about seventy-five. Lights were dim, lot of beer signs. A good crowd, fifty, sixty people, men and women, a big dance floor, and there would be line-dancing later in the evening when the band showed up. Called themselves the Yee Haws, the band did.

Nobody in the place wore a mask against Covid. She didn’t care, she was immune.

When she was in San Antonio, she usually stopped in here for dinner. 

They served burgers and fries, chicken strips, and burritos, and the shrimp burritos were excellent, drenched in molé sauce and melted cheese. Probably three thousand calories, though she worked out enough to stay ahead of the weight gain.

Had to eat the burrito with a knife and fork, and she washed it down with a Dos Equis dark. They made pretty good margaritas, which was probably where the bar’s name came from, that being Spanish for “daisy.”

She was at a table for two, alone, enjoying the burrito and beer when a tall man in a dark, shellacked, three-crease Cattlemen straw hat, a black shirt with mother-of-pearl snaps, and new Levis came to the table and sat across from her. 

She glanced down, and saw what had to be dark-gray alligator-hide boots, then back up at a smile that revealed expensive orthodontia. 

“Hey, darlin’, how you doin’?”

He was a handsome man, maybe thirty, a fake tan, dishwater blond, a cleft-chin. The accent was Texas, but she’d bet a year’s pay he was as much a real cowboy as was a champagne-colored Toy French Poodle.

Under other circumstances, it might be fun to lead him on and see how long it took before he messed up his cowboy act, but all she wanted to do was finish her meal and get back to her hotel. She had driven five hundred miles since yesterday, and she was tired.

“You a reaper, by any chance?”

“’Scuse me? A what?”

She smiled. She could almost hear Glen Campbell singing the opening of A Rhinestone Cowboy. “Never mind. No offense, but I had a long and tiring day, and I just want to finish my burrito and then go to bed.”

“I like that second part,” he said. “Happy to keep you company.”

More orthodontia shined.

She smiled back at him. “You know, I bet you’re a pretty good dancer when the Yee-Haws crank it up. Probably you can ride a horse. But you’re about as much a cowboy as this bottle of Dos Equis. That hat? Set you back, what, five, six hundred dollars? Tailored-shirt, that’s another two hundred. Somebody cut those Levi’s to make your ass look good—and no back pockets to spoil the line. Another couple hundred. That’s an Omega Speedmaster watch, seventy-five hundred. That pinkie ring is gold, with an Australian opal, three, maybe four thousand. Those boots, another three grand. Call it fourteen, fifteen thousand and change, so unless you own a thousand-acre ranch, or ten acres of downtown San Antonio, you ain’t no kind of cowboy.

“Got some muscle, so a gym and personal trainer, three times a week? Good-looking woman jock, I bet.”

“I’d guess you are a … stockbroker? Maybe a high-end lawyer, or have a rich daddy? You come to the bars for your cosplay, and pick up a different sweet young thing on the dance floor every time, take her to a nice hotel, fuck her silly, and feel like God’s gift to women. 

“How am I doing?”

His face wrought into an angry snarl. “You bitch!”

She laughed. “There you are.”

“I might just wait outside until you leave,” he said.

“That would be a stupid mistake. I’m too tired to kick your ass, so if you are there when I go? I will put a few rounds of 9mm into your crotch. One of them might hit your dick, tiny as it likely is, and tear it right off. If you live, you’ll need a penile implant just to pee, and sex just won’t ever be the same.”

He blinked at her.

“Oh, yeah, I have a pistol—probably you do, too, out in your car, hell, this Texas, everybody is strapped. But you don’t have a gun on you—that would spoil the line of those snug jeans and fitted-shirt. Might have a boot-dagger, but bringing a knife to a gunfight is usually a bad tactic.

“I’m an excellent shot, and fast, and you won’t be the first idiot to find that out the hard way. So you want to sit right there until I finish my burrito and beer, and then watch me leave. Are we clear?”

“Bitch!”

She took a sip of her beer. “You have no fucking idea, pal.”