The Night They Raided Kaminski’s

You know Kaminski’s— that little bar about 20 miles out in the Anza-Borego, right on the edge of Juniper Canyon. A little commotion occurred out there a few weeks ago. Seems some Federal agents tried to shake down the place. I was there and saw it all go down.

After drilling all day, I usually stop by Kaminski’s for a beer. Sometimes I see other drillers there, but this time there was only old Ed the bartender and me. Ed and I, we know each other real well. When Ed sees me drive up in my F150, he’s already tapping my favorite brew. He might even have some of his special chili bubbling on the stove in back.

So I start drinking, and Ed’s got the baseball game on the TV, when all of a sudden this big black SUV comes screeching into the parking lot, throwing up a storm of dust, giving a real display. Out step a couple of red-neckers outfitted in camo and army belts and stuff, packing some serious sidearms. They even had “I.C.E” stenciled on their backs.

These two mongrels bang open the door and make a great show about coming inside. They stood in front of the door as if to block it. I thought they were looking for trouble, so I ignored them and pretended to watch the game.

“We’re lookin’ for illegals,” one of them said.

“We’ve seen ‘em comin’ around this joint,” said the other one.

“Haven’t seen any,” said Ed, giving them the eye.

“We know they’re here.”

“Hey, mister, you seen any illegals around here?” He’s talking to me, who’s just minding my business watching the game.

“No. None around here,” I answer.

“We’re goin’ have to search this place.”

“You got a warrant?” Ed asked. “I don’t see no badges.”

“We don’t need a warrant. They’re too quick for warrants.”

“We left our badges in the truck.”

When they rested their palms on their pieces, I thought we were in for trouble, but Ed smiled and got real friendly. “Sure. Look around. Just don’t touch the pot on the stove in back.”

So the two fellows begin snooping around the establishment, checking the closet and under the bar, going in the restroom (Kaminski’s has only one), then banging around in the kitchen in back. I don’t know if they touched the stove or not, but I did hear the screen door slam. They would have checked the attic, but the place doesn’t have one— just beams overhead.

Then they came back in the bar and got confrontational, almost nasty.

“We know you’re hidin’ ‘em somewhere,” said the one.

“We can make it unpleasant for ya’,” said the other.

“Honest, haven’t seen any illegals around here. Tell you what— let me try to smooth things a bit.”

Ed reached under the bar and fetched two mugs and began filling them with a mid-grade American beer. He was guessing they wouldn’t want a foreign brand. When the foam settled, he placed the mugs on the bar and gestured to the redders.

“Here you go. On the house.”

They look at each other. One of them shrugged, as if signaling to call off the assault.

“Well, don’t mind if I do.”

“That’s real nice of you, mister.”

They snuggle up to the bar and begin guzzling brew, really slurping it down. They don’t get more than half way finished when first one and then the other just keel over and drop flat on the floor.

“What’d you put in that beer?” I asked Ed.

“Nothing,” replied Ed with a shrug. “Nothing at all.”

“What’re you going to do now?”

“I think we ought to help these gentlemen back into their vehicle.” Ed nodded to the black SUV outside, where the dust had just settled.

So Ed and I manhandled the two outside into the SUV, one in the driver’s seat and the other in the passenger seat. They were heavy sons-of-a-bitches, and smelled of sweat as if they’d been drilling all day like me.

“Should we belt them?” I asked.

“Naw,” said Ed.

“Now what?”

Ed turned on the ignition (it was electronic, and one of them had the fob in his pocket, I guess) and then he put the transmission in drive, and the SUV begins moving forward, and Ed sort of guides the wheel toward the edge of Juniper Canyon. Well, the thing rolls over and crashes and tumbles down maybe 500 feet, ripping out mesquite on the way down.

“That’s a terrible pity,” I said. “I mean, I tried to warn them not to drink so much.”

“We’d better call the police or something,” said Ed.

Ed and I go back inside Kaminski’s. Ed picks up his cell and calls 911, I guess.

“Hey, this is Ed, over at Kaminski’s. Couple of drunks just ran off the road into Juniper Canyon. Better get some help out here pronto.”

I order a bowl of chili and go back to watching the game.

BIO: The author is a retired scientist who lives in San Diego with howling dogs and a mad wife.

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