“Danny pointed a gun into a room full of people,” Ruiz said.
Butch looked at me.
“You think you’re some kind of hero?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
That answer seemed to bother him more than bragging would have.
I was tired of hero language.
Heroes were easy to admire because people imagined they did not feel fear, rage, shame, or confusion.
I had felt all four in the last five minutes.
The waitress came over after the deputies left with the first group of bikers.
Her name was Lena.
She carried a stack of towels.
“For Rex.”
I took them.
“Thank you.”
She crouched several feet away.
“Can I help?”
I looked at Rex.
“Rex, visit.”
He walked to her, sat, and allowed her to dry his ears.
Lena’s hands shook.
“I’m sorry I warned you instead of telling them to leave.”
“You were working alone in a room with six men who scared you.”
“Still.”
“You hit the alarm.”
She nodded.
“That mattered.”
She looked toward the bullet hole.
“I thought somebody was going to die.”
“So did I.”
