The Palomino was dark and close inside. Except for a lighted shadow box containing a John Elway–signed football on the wall, he could have been stepping into a portal that took him to “Denver, 1976.”
There was an unused pool table lit by a hanging lamp, its green felt ripped by errant cue tips. Black-and-white photos of downtown Denver in the 1930s decorated the walls.
The backbar was carved wood and inappropriately ornate and had no doubt come from somewhere else.
Five customers sat with their backs to him at the bar. They’d been hunched over bottles of light beer, but four of the five swiveled on their stools to check him out. A shaggy-headed man narrowed his eyes as he looked him over. He didn’t offer a greeting.
Next to the shaggy-headed man was an overweight woman in an oversized sweatshirt with a graphic of Santa Claus on the front of it. She had tight silver coils of curls and appeared to be with a skinny dark man next to her wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a pencil-thin mustache. A lone drinker who appeared to be in his sixties sat at the left end of the bar, trying to keep his head from dropping to the surface of it.
Moving lazily in front of this group of four was a gaunt bald man with narrow eyes and a beak of a nose. The bartender. He seemed content to stay near his customers and wasn’t eager to look up and challenge Nate’s entrance. The bartender kept his hands low beneath the bar. Nate guessed he had a baseball bat or other weapon down there within easy reach.
There was a large gap between those customers and a menacing-looking man, who sat by himself to the right. The man had a mass of dreads that cascaded down his back and partially obscured his wide mahogany face. He wore a bulky tactical jacket with dozens of pockets and heavy combat boots. A green tactical bag sat on the floor near his feet.
Why were the patrons so suspicious? Nate got his answer when he read the lips of the bartender, who whispered to the older couple, “No black bloc.”
He was assuring them that Nate wasn’t dressed like the rioters outside, so he probably wasn’t one of them. With that, the customers turned their backs on him again.
Nate drew out his phone and found the text thread.
Geronimo Jones?
He watched as the Black man slid his big paw into the side pocket of his coat and pulled out his phone and read the screen. Then he looked up and their eyes met.
Nate took the stool next to the man and turned so that his back was to the others.
Before he could speak, the man said, “Follow me.” Then to the bartender: “I’ll be back. Don’t take my beer.”
* * *
—
Nate thought the man didn’t fit in with either the neighborhood or this particular bar. Just like Nate didn’t.
He followed Jones down a narrow hallway past the restrooms. The man was built like a linebacker, with wide shoulders, a thick neck, and a huge woolly head. He had so much thick coiled hair it was almost a helmet. His gait was graceful, smooth as silk. Nate was taller, but he was outweighed by twenty or thirty pounds.
Jones darted left into a room with a sign that read staff only.
When Nate turned the corner, he was greeted by the unblinking maw of a three-eyed monster aimed squarely at his face.
“Close the door behind you,” Jones said softly. Nate did as he was told.
He’d heard of the particular weapon before but had never seen one in person: a Charles Daly Honcho triple-barrel twelve-gauge shotgun. It was slightly over twenty-five inches from the pistol grip to the three muzzles, and it had therefore been fairly easy to conceal beneath the baggy parka Jones wore. It was an overwhelming shotgun, and at close range Nate knew that a blast from it could cut him in half. The weapon was perfect for close-in urban combat or home defense.
“I need to know that you’re who you say you are,” Jones said.
“I’m your worst nightmare if you don’t take that shotgun out of my face.”
“Show me what I’m looking for,” Jones said. “You’re not the only white boy with a ponytail, you know.”
Nate slowly reached up and unzipped his vest and opened it. He peeled back the left side until Jones could clearly see the grip of his .454 Casull revolver.
A slow grin came over Jones’s face and he lowered the shotgun. He opened his coat and slipped it into an inside sleeve, muzzle-first.
“You’re Romanowski, all right,” Jones said. “A fellow big-bore enthusiast, just like I heard about.”
“And you go by Geronimo Jones. What’s your real name?”
“Geronimo Jones. It’s on my birth certificate.”