One
When Jake Collins rolled into Sanders, Colorado, on his way to Ross, Nebraska, he knew the bar he saw off the highway called The Hideaway was just the place he needed to stop in and grab a beer—probably his last chance at peace and quiet before the action started.
Jake parked his pickup and checked to make sure all his belongings were still secure in the bed. Then he moved to the trailer and tested the ratchet straps securing his pride and joy, a 1953 Indian Chief motorcycle passed down with love from his grandad to his dad and finally to Jake. He ran his hand over the fitted cover protecting his baby from the dust and grime his rig had accumulated all the way from Los Angeles.
While he checked on his belongings, Jake surreptitiously scanned the parking lot for any security cameras. Seeing none, he smiled. His instincts hadn’t let him down. The Hideaway was absolutely perfect so far.
It was mid-afternoon when Jake stepped into the bar, so he wasn’t expecting the place to be too full, and it wasn’t. Just a couple old-timers nursing beers and playing checkers, a small woman throwing darts with a good deal of skill, and another patron munching popcorn and watching a ball game on the big screen in the corner. The opposite side of the room held a small stage with a couple of mic stands, a basic light setup, a disco ball, and a karaoke machine at the ready.
Jake waved at the bartender as he made a beeline for the bathroom first. It was surprisingly clean for a small-town joint like this.Or maybe I need to check my assumptions, he thought.
He came out and took a seat at the bar. “Sorry ’bout that, but I’ve been on the road since Denver.”
The bartender set down the glass he’d been cleaning and came over. He looked Jake over while Jake did the same. “What’ll it be?”
“PBR’ll do me.”
“Eh, you don’t want that.” The bartender stuck a pint glass under a tap marked Oskar Blues. “Try this.” He laid down a coaster with the bar’s name on it and set the beer on that.
Jake smirked and took a swig. Not bad at all.
“Whadaya think?” the bartender asked, his chin lowered, eyes appraising.
“That’s a damn good beer, thanks.” Jake was glad he didn’t have to lie. That wasn’t how he wanted to start with this guy, even if that’s where he’d end up.
“They’re outta Longmont and getting pretty big. Figured you might not have tried ’em though.”
Jake tried not to look too suspicious. “How would you know?”
The bartender chuckled. “You ain’t from around here because I know everybody. Minute you opened your mouth, I could tell you weren’t even a Colorado boy. You sound West Coast.”
Jake laughed. “Didn’t think we had an accent,” he shifted into heavy Surfer, “duuude.”
That got the bartender. He threw his head back and laughed.
Good, Jake thought.He likes me. Jake knew he’d never pass as a local but he was uncomfortable that the guy had ID’ed him as a California boy, and so quickly. If the bartender hadn’t liked him, Jake would have finished the beer and left immediately. But, this might prove to be a golden opportunity.
“Yup, you nailed it,” he said, extending his hand. “Name’s Jake.”
“Jake, I’m Bill.” The bartender shook his hand. “What brings you out to colorful Colorado?” Bill’s voice dripped with sarcasm on the word, ‘colorful.’ Here near the Nebraska border, things were anything but colorful, unless you counted fifty shades of summer-burnt brown covering the rolling prairie hills. The sky though, that was something else. Jake had never seen anything so blue.
He took a sip of beer. “Sadly, just passing through. Got a job lined up in Nebraska.”
Bill grimaced. “Why the hell would you leave California for Nebraska? Folks are usually going the other way.” His grimace lightened. “Pardon my prejudice, but Coloradoans and those unfortunate souls across the border from us are natural rivals.”
Jake was genuinely warming up to the guy. He mentally pulled back a little but gave no outward sign. Instead, he leaned forward. “Well, I’ll tell you two reasons. Those people heading to California better be pushing wheelbarrows full of money ‘cause they’ll need it. I couldn’t afford to live there anymore. And number two, well, you’re right—people are moving there in droves. I got sick of the traffic.”
Bill nodded like Jake had spoken ancient words of wisdom.
“So I thought I’d give the Heartland a try. Clean country living.” Jake lowered his eyes in what he hoped was just the right amount of humility. “Fresh start, good for the soul. Know what I mean?”
When he raised his eyes, Bill winked and said, “I hear you, brother.”
Perfect. Combined with his clean but old t-shirt, collar-length hair that hadn’t seen a pair of scissors in a while, faded jeans and worn work boots, Jake hoped he cultivated an image of a decent guy who’d run into just enough money troubles and had just enough smarts to get out before he got in too deep. He’d discovered in his career that people could be absolutely depraved but sometimes they liked to help each other out, at least the decent ones did, and Bill was reading as an upstanding guy. Sympathetic, even. Jake could use an asset like that.
Now for the tricky part. Best just to jump in.
“Thanks, Bill.” Jake took a long drink and put on his most open-faced, optimistic smile. “So, how far is Ross, Nebraska from here?”
