Page 26 of Honky Tonk Cowboy

Ethan sighed heavily. “Yeah.”

“Jeeze, kid, that’s rough. I’m sorry, man.”

“Thanks.”

“So, what about this inheritance they’re talking about?”

“I’m disclaimin’ it. Meetin’ with a lawyer today.”

“But…? It sounds like there’s a but.”

“There’s a but,” Ethan admitted. “He put a local cantina in my name before he died. And the previous owner had a heart attack and wants me to take it over. He’s countin’ on it, in fact. And it’s in my hometown, well, hometown adjacent. They count on the place, too.”

“Ah-huh.” Angelo said. “Lemme think, lemme think.”

Ethan could picture him, pacing his cheesy little office in Dallas, rubbing his bald head, and pressing his lips. He’d emigrated from Brooklyn and never lost the accent. Still had an office there, and one in Nashville, too, but he spent most of his time in Dallas, his adopted home. He made good money, lived in a house out of a lifestyle magazine, but you wouldn’t know it by his shabby workspace.

The guy was a genius for most of his clients. Kept saying he hadn’t quite found the key with Ethan yet, but that he knew he would. Talent will tell, he liked to say.

“I’m fixin’ to sell the place as quick as I can,” Ethan told him. “I’m hopin’ to find somebody local. It’s part of the community, you know? I can’t sell to some corporation who’d doze it to make a parkin’ lot.”

“Yeah,” Angelo said. “Yeah, a little cantina. Part of the fabric of that small town of yours. Quale?—”

“Quinn.”

“Quinn, yeah.”

“Only it’s in Mad Bull’s Bend, next town over.”

“You’re kidding. You’re making it up.”

“No, why would I?—”

“This cantina shown up in any of your songs, Ethan?”

He thought about it for a second, then snapped his fingers. “Gringo in a Sombrero,” he said. It’s a silly song about the bearded, sombrero-wearing Caucasian who hangs out at Manny’s place, causing all the locals to speculate about him.”

“Yeah? How’s it go?”

He sang into the phone:

“In a small cantina-taco-stand, with the best tacos in all the land, at a table near the soda stand

Gringo-sombrero man.

Brim down low to hide his eyes, bushy beard like a disguise. Doesn’t care to socialize

Gringo-sombrero man.

Watching diners every day, still as if he’s made of clay, prob’ly with the CIA,

Gringo-sombrero man.

Or maybe casing up the joint, to rob it at some future point

Or maybe in the distant past, here’s where he saw his lover last

And now he waits for her return, And until then, his heart will yearn?—”