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Chapter Four




“Well guys,” Mike said once they were ready, “Let’s take a peek in this place.”

Three of them walked toward the saloon. Micky stayed behind with a few instructions for the mechanic, then jogged to catch up. Only Mike heard him hiss, “Hijodepunta . . . ” under his breath. The cantina was all but deserted with just a few people milling about. There was an old man sweeping the floor and a pretty young woman counting bottles of liquor behind the bar.

“There he goes,” Micky murmured as Davy immediately sidled over to the girl. “How long did it take this time? Four seconds?”

“About that,” Peter sighed.

She sensed someone coming and turned, smiling. “Hola!”

Davy’s eyes sparkled as he approached her, his heart thumping as her beautiful dark gaze landed on him. “Hello. My name’s David.”

“How may I help you, David?”

“You’ve already helped me,” Davy said. “Just by being here.” Her cheeks flushed prettily as a shy smile appeared.

The old man walked up to them. “May I help you, Americanos?”

“Yeah,” Mike said, cutting Davy’s treacly display short. “We’re kinda in trouble. Our car broke down, and we only have enough money to get it fixed, but not enough for food or lodging. We’re musicians, and we . . . well, we were kinda hopin’ you’d have need of our services.”

His eyes brightened. “Musicians?”

Mike nodded. “Yeah. We’re The Monkees.”

Angelita’s eyebrows drew together. “Monkeys? Where are your tails?”

Micky let out a forced giggle. “Not those kind of monkeys, ma’am. It’s Monkee with two ‘e’s.”

She laughed. “I don’t know much about spelling English, but I know two ‘e’s do not a monkey make!” Peter’s laugh wasn’t forced.

Mike smiled. “Well . . . it’s kinda a play on words, ma’am.”

“Aaah,” she nodded.

The old man laughed. “Children, I’d like to hear you play.”

Mike nodded. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

The Monkees trooped back out to the car, unloading their instruments and hauling them back into the cantina. While Mike and Davy set up and tuned the guitars, Peter pulled out his banjo.

“Banjo?”

Peter nodded. “I figured we could do that new song of yours, Mike. The hanging around one.”

Mike nodded, his face lighting up. “That’s just Tejano enough it might work.”

Peter grinned. “Thought you’d like that.”

Micky sighed as he tightened his drums. “I do not like this place.”

“What’s not to like?” Davy said, hefting the bass onto his shoulders. “It’s nice and quiet and there’s plenty to look at.” He smiled, winking at Angelita.

“Yeah, but when we walked in, my flesh started crawling.”

Mike nodded. “Mine too. Let’s just play—we all need to eat, ‘cause I don’t know ‘bout you guys, but I’m starvin’.”





A nod, and Micky clicked the sticks to start them off. Peter’s banjo and Mike’s guitar blended together as Mike’s mellow tenor began to sing. Angelita began to smile as the words impacted. Mike glanced back at Micky; the drummer was taking time between drumbeats to wave at the imaginary crowd and grin like a goofball.

The old man was laughing at the drummer’s antics. Mike grinned at Peter and continued singing. Peter grinned back, shimmying a little under the banjo, but Angelita’s eyes never strayed from the short Englishman laboring on the bass. Davy’s attention, for once, wasn’t on her—he was more interested in trying to keep time and right notes.

Playing bass—indeed, playing any non-percussion instrument—was still very hard for him. Peter gave Davy a signal as they song wound down, and they brought it to a smooth finish, bowing reflexively once everything was silent. Davy smiled at Peter, blowing his cheeks out in gratitude and tiredness.

Peter gave a grin that was half a laugh, and leaned over. “It gets easier. Trust me.”

“I do.” He studied his slightly callused fingertips. “But still.”

“Hey, you did good, man,” Peter said. “You’ll get better.”

“Sounded good, Dave,” Micky said with a grin. “You kept better time.”

Davy smiled and pulled the bass off, setting it aside as his attention was riveted once more on Angelita. He reached up, gently touching the silken skin of her cheek. “Angelita. It means . . . little angel.” She smiled, tilting her head into his touch.

Micky sighed. “He’s gone, bye-bye!” He clapped his hands to his heart as if stricken by an arrow. “True love strikes again!”

Mike picked out ‘nanny nanny boo boo’ on his guitar. Micky laughed while Peter just shook his head, smiling. Davy didn’t reply to any of them, lost in the world of the gentle kiss he placed on her lips.

Angelita returned the kiss, until the old man yelled in Spanish for her to remember the Devil. She jerked away as if slapped.

Davy blinked. “What? Did I do something wrong?”

“No . . . I . . . ”

“She is promised, gringo,” the old man sighed.

“Back off, Davy,” Peter warned quietly.

Davy stepped forward. “Promised? What do you mean?”

“Not now, Davy,” Micky hissed quietly.

But Davy was adamant. “Promised to who?”

“The Devil,” she said, her eyes downcast.

“The Devil?” Davy said. “What does that mean? How can you be promised to someone who doesn’t exist?”

“He exists,” The old man said, trembling. “He’s very real and very frightening. He’s a bandito.”

Mike closed his eyes, the heavy feeling of dread socking into his stomach. He must be the one from my dream.

Peter’s eyes flashed over to Mike. “Mike?” he whispered.

“Yeah?” was the quiet reply.

“You okay?”

“I don’t know, Peter.” Mike carefully unslung his guitar and sat on the edge of the stage, putting his chin on his thumbs. Peter and Micky flanked him, watching Davy with expressions of ‘here we go again . . . ’

Davy ignored them, turning his full attention on Angelita. “Do you love him?”

“I fear him.” She turned away slightly, and for the first time Davy could see the bruises that lay heavily upon her neck and shoulders. Heat ran down the Englishman’s spine as he took her hand, counting the dark marks on her forearm where she’d obviously been grabbed.

“We can help you,” Davy whispered. “My friends and I are powerful—we can protect you.”

“There he goes,” Micky sighed, glaring at them. “Getting us in trouble.” He cocked his head, looking at Mike. “And you were worried about me?”

Mike shrugged. “If we’re lucky this El Diablo person won’t show up before we get the car fixed.”

“We always have luck,” Peter pointed out. “And it’s usually bad.”

Mike swallowed. “I know.”

A man in dusty clothes ran in. “The Devil is coming!” he shouted, repeating it twice before fleeing. Angelita paled, gripping Davy’s arms.

Davy held her tight. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “My friends and I’ll protect you.”

Davy!” the trio hissed.

Micky looked at Mike and sighed. “So much for blowing quietly through.”

The doors blew inward, forcing the Monkees and the few patrons to scramble backwards as a tornado blew in, scattering chairs, napkins, and tablecloths in its wake. Mike blinked, his heart thudding as he focused upon the intruder. It’s him . . .

Peter’s hand flashed out and gripped his arm.

“Peter . . . Peter, it’s him,” Mike said, feeling an irrational terror grab him. “The guy from my dream.”

“The one who’s going to rip us apart?”

Mike nodded, his eyes still fixed on the newcomer.

“Where is my Angelita?” the man roared, his voice shaking the floor beneath him. Several banditos moved in to flank him, effectively sealing the gap between the Monkees and the door.

They were trapped.




On to Chapter Five
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