The man across the bar would be dead in fifteen minutes. He kept staring at me since I had
walked into the Ocean Wave Tavern. It happened often, though. A side effect of being a six-foot-
four Mexican man with all my intimidating tattoos and scars. What if I was just a cat guy with a
dozen furry friends at home who liked to scratch my arms?
I’d wandered around Central and North America for the last few years, and I got the same
reaction whenever I strolled into a new town. People stared like I was some anomaly. One time I
stepped into an upscale restaurant in Los Angeles, and it was like one of those scenes in the
movies where everyone stopped mid-conversation to gawk at me.
That’s when a harsh truth finally settled in. If I couldn’t blend in to a major city like Los
Angeles, there was nowhere in the world for me to fit. The smaller towns suited me better. Sure,
rumors spread much faster about my arrival, but I didn’t stir up any shit and people let me be.
I preferred coming to hole-in-the-wall bars like this one. Small town bars typically had a higher
concentration of freaks and weirdos, so it was the closest thing to my natural habitat.
I left Los Angeles a couple of days ago, hitchhiked northbound with a couple of truckers, and
they dropped me here in Hillcrest, promising it was a quiet little town.
A ten-minute walk from the beach, so I had little to complain about. Hillcrest had the perfect
blend of small town America that I had grown to love, mixed with the laid back vibes one would
expect so close to the ocean in California.
Best of both worlds. If I had any interest in permanently living somewhere, this place would
fight for a spot at the top of my metaphorical list. But I couldn’t settle. Not with my past always
following me around like a starving stray dog.
Nope. I usually found some manual labor job that to help cover the costs of a motel for three to
four weeks, then I’d be off. Part of me wanted to get comfortable and settle down. Smoke cigars
on the beach and drink glasses of whiskey without a care in the world. But I’d done too much.
The screams of my past always seemed to creep back into my mind like a gentle breeze.
The man across the bar sat surrounded by five other men in a corner booth. They were all of
Latin descent, and I could hear them speaking Spanish. But the speakers in the bar were blasting
a Jimmy Buffett playlist, and I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. They seemed
suspicious, but I admit to jumping the gun on my initial judgements at times.
But why the hell was this guy staring at me? If he wanted to dance, I’m not sure he’d like my
tango. None of his friends—associates?—paid me any attention. They were all dressed in cheap
black suits, scavenging two flatbreads and a single bowl of peanuts in the middle of the table like
it was the last meal of their lives. Well, it was the last meal for Mr. Stares-a-lot.
I examined the bar like I do any time I step into a new place. That’s a benefit of having grown up
around violence in the border town of Laredo, Texas.
“Know where your exits are,” I could hear my late mother telling me. “Identify any objects that
can be used as a weapon. Look for obstacles down low that can block you from crawling toward
the exit.”
I missed her. My mother was the most incredible person I’d ever known. I supposed her lessons
were the reason I was still alive today. After all the dangerous shit I’d lived through with the
Navy SEALs and the CIA, I was still here and in one piece.
I sat at the bar and studied my routes to the two different exits. The main doors were fifteen feet
to my right. There was also a green, glowing exit sign above the hallway next to the men in the
corner. The restrooms and kitchen were back there, along with the back door where the cooks
stepped out for a smoke break.
No obstacles between myself and either exit aside from plenty of people. I found it odd the bar
was so crowded on a Tuesday night, but have since learned beers were buy one, get one until
nine o’clock. The demographics were all over the place inside Ocean Wave Tavern. Older
couples. Younger groups of friends. Whites, Asians, and Latins. My kind of place. When there
was a good mix, people were less judgemental when they saw me.
I ordered a margarita to appear less threatening—along with a plate of nachos—when I had sat
down ten minutes earlier. Both arrived and I forgot all about the man glaring at me, even though
I felt his gaze burning into the back of my head. A plate of tortilla chips smothered in shredded
beef, queso, pinto beans, sour cream, and guacamole was just what I needed to feel at peace.
The bartender slid over. She was middle-aged with lots of makeup caked on her pale face, but
she spoke in a caring tone as she planted her elbows on the bar top and leaned in to me. “How’s
your food, dear?”
I swallowed my bite and offered a polite smile. “Fantastic,” I said. “Hitting the spot. I know the
drink specials are popular, but is it always this lively during the week?”
The bartender leaned back and topped off a glass of water for the gentleman two seats down
from me. She wore a black apron tied snugly around her pudgy midsection, pens and papers
stuffed in the front pockets. “Tuesdays are the busiest weeknights, but the others aren’t too slow,
either. Not too many spots for people to just hang out in town, so most come here. I take it
you’re from out of town. Visiting someone?”
I took great pride in being off the grid. No cell phone—I got a burner for the rare instances I
needed one. No driver’s license. Not even a home address. And definitely no social media
presence. None of that shit. I carried around a backpack with two extra outfits, a toothbrush and
toothpaste, a pair of wired headphones, and an old iPod containing a variety of music in its eight
hundred songs stored from a decade ago. But I knew this bartender was just making small talk,
wanting to improve her tip. I couldn’t tell people I was homeless. That was an automatic
guarantee to get treated like shit for the rest of my stay. I wasn’t poor—I just didn’t have a home
address.
“I’m in town from Texas,” I said. “Left L.A. a couple days ago and wanted to travel up the coast.
See what else California has to offer besides the big cities.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right spot. I was born and raised here in Hillcrest. Took a stab at
acting in my twenties. Bussed tables in Hollywood and all that typical jazz. Nothing panned out,
so I came home and opened this tavern. Go figure, the food industry is what I learned the most
about in Hollywood, and Hillcrest needed something fresh. Been in operation for twenty years
this upcoming summer.”
“Congratulations,” I said, finally taking my first sip of the margarita. Wow. I’d had margaritas
from all across the continent, and this one had the perfect flavor. I couldn’t even taste any
tequila, but knew it was there because of the slight tingle it left on my tongue.
She grinned at me. “Thank you. Let me know if you need anything else.”
She strode down the bar, tending to the other patrons. The man to my right gazed at his half-
eaten burger, debating whether or not to finish his meal.
The chatter behind me rose, and I looked over my shoulder to see the group of men from the
corner booth standing up. The suits looked even worse at full length. One man tossed a fifty-
dollar bill on the table, and I noticed none of them had ordered any alcohol. Not a crime, but
suspicious considering it was the hottest happy hour in town. Five glasses of water. Two partially
eaten flatbreads, and the bowl of peanuts. What were these men really here for?
The one who had been looking at me the whole time gave one last glance as they filed out of the
front doors. And that was that.
No drama or bar fight that typically followed the long stretches of obsession over my behemoth
body. Thank God for small favors. I could really enjoy my nachos and marg in bliss.
I grabbed a chip and scooped the appropriate blend of meat and cheese, raising the perfection to
my lips—
Pop! Pop! Pop!
The small windows high on the walls exploded into fragments. Shrieks erupted around the bar as
a handful of people sprinted down the hallway toward the rear exit. Others fell to the ground and
climbed under tables. A few scurried behind the bar to take cover.
The gunfire continued outside. I counted at least eighteen shots fired. Thank God for the
building’s brick exterior, or people inside would have definitely been injured.
I stuffed the nacho into my mouth and stood up. No one else was visible as I grabbed the
backpack I had slung over the back of the chair and raced toward the main doors. Inside, the bar
was quiet enough to hear a mouse fart, but outside I heard angry voices shouting and rubber
burning as a car peeled away.
I stepped outside in time to see a black truck already fading into the distance down the street.
Thanks to the darkness of the night, I had no way of figuring the make or model. A guttural
moaning sound came from my right and I looked over to see two men lying on the ground, blood
pooling on the concrete beneath them. The bar’s exterior light splashed across the men like a
Klieg searchlight.
The one nearest was the man who had been gawking at me. He wore two silver chains that now
clumped over his throat. Blood spilled out of his quivering lips as his eyes stared lifelessly into
the night sky. He was gripping a gun, fingers loosening.
I took a step closer and squatted down. The metallic scent of blood filled my nostrils, mixed with
a poignant stench of the man’s cologne.
“Who are you?” I asked.
But the man could only stare. He was dying, had only a few seconds left. His grip on the gun
completely loosened, and I saw it was a Glock 17. Why would this man in this supposedly safe,
charming town be carrying such a high-quality firearm?
“Who are you?” I asked, knowing no response was coming. The man locked eyes with me one
last time before the remaining life slipped out of his body. He had three entry wounds across his
chest, his shirt and jacket drenched in blood.
I stood up and stepped over the man to examine his friend. This guy was already dead, lying on
his side with both arms splayed out in front of him. Sirens wailed in the distance, a reminder to
not get my fingerprints on any evidence. I squatted again and patted down the dead man. Pistol
tucked into the back of his waistband, but I left it.
An engine around the corner of the building roared before a black car screeched out of the
parking lot. I knew it was the other three men who were sitting at the table. The car had no
license plate, and I could tell it was a Mercedes sedan before it also disappeared down the road.
The sirens grew louder, and I saw the flashing red and blue lights appear a half mile up the road.
I could run, but that would only make me look suspicious. I already knew I’d get questioned
when the police arrived. Big brown man from out of town strolled into the tavern moments
before two men were shot. Not the best look for me.
I drew in a deep breath as I shuffled back into the bar. The salty odor of the ocean filled my nose.
Fresh. Comforting. Why did trouble follow me everywhere I went? I was already planning on
spending extended time in Hillcrest, but it looked like I wouldn’t be smoking cigars on the
beach.
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