Page 29 of The Texas Murders

“Maybe a few songs,” I say. “I’ll need some liquid courage first.”

Carlos and I make our way to the bar. When Megan’s out of earshot, Carlos says to me, “I like her. She’s got a sense of humor.”

“I’m surrounded by comedians,” I say.

The Outpost doesn’t serve food, but there is a cluster of food trucks just down the street. Carlos goes and buys us some tacos while I order a round of Texas Lagers and get a table. The bar is fuller than it was last night, but it’s far from packed. It shouldn’t be too stressful to play a few tunes.

Two minutes after Carlos returns, Ava walks in with a muscular Native American man in a white T-shirt. His hair is pulled into a braid as long as Ava’s.

“This is my fiancé, Marcos,” she says. “I hope it’s okay that I brought him. I didn’t get the impression we were going to talk business tonight.”

Carlos and I welcome Marcos, and the four of us sit for a while, eating tacos and drinking. Ava opts for lemonadeinstead of beer, and I only sip from my pint, knowing I’ll be driving later.

It turns out Marcos is a long-haul trucker and he has a few days off. Between Ava’s long hours at the police station and his long hours on the road, they haven’t seen much of each other lately, and she didn’t want to go out after work without bringing him along.

“Where do you drive to?” I ask.

“Anywhere,” he says. “Everywhere.”

“Marcos is gone a lot,” Ava says, wrapping an arm around one of his muscular tree trunks.

It’s a new side of her I haven’t seen yet—the picture of a girl in love—and it suits her.

Marcos and Carlos hit it off right away, talking about rezball—a fast-paced, high-intensity version of basketball played in tribal high schools in the Four Corners area and elsewhere in the West.

“I tried to watch the NBA playoffs a few weeks ago,” Marcos says. “It’s so slow compared to rezball.”

“Like watching sloths race,” Carlos adds.

As they talk and laugh, I find myself in a moment of awkward silence with Ava.

“Thanks for sticking up for our case today,” she tells me.

“I’m not sure it did much good,” I say.

She shrugs. “Still. Thanks.”

“I get the impression Ryan Logan’s not your biggest fan,” I say. “Did something happen between you?”

She shakes her head. “Not really. It’s just that he’s a fed—he wants everyone to kiss his ass. Especially tribal police.Like we should just be groveling at his feet because he’s helping us. I won’t do that. You have to earn my respect.”

I nod, understanding.

“You earned my respect today,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say, trying not to make a big deal out of it but truthfully feeling grateful for her words.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Megan’s professor, Neil Stephenson, walk into the bar. When he surveys the room and spots me, he heads directly to our table.

“Ah, shit,” I say under my breath. I rise and shake his hand and introduce him to everyone.

“You know,” he says, seeing his audience, “Native American literature is my specialty.”

The last thing I want is for him to join us, but he pulls a chair from an adjacent table and sits down between Ava and her fiancé. He begins to prattle on about how he travels the West, going to community colleges, universities, and tribal colleges to give lectures and workshops on the work of Indigenous writers. Carlos starts asking him about writers he’s read, and one after another Neil says he’s not familiar with who Carlos is mentioning. I can’t tell if Carlos really is that knowledgeable about Native American authors or if he’s making up names and messing with the professor.

With Carlos, I can never tell if he’s joking.

Ava and Marcos clearly don’t care for our visitor, so I decide now might be a good time to play. Maybe he’ll shut up if there’s live music. I run out to the truck and get my guitar. The sun has set and the night air is cool on my skin.

---