Dance of the Blue Chameleon

It was a regular deal. Like a job. After his shift at The Paddock, Logan went up to The Club for a drink and conversation. The Club was really Bonsall Downs, a public golf course, restaurant, and bar. To the locals it was simply "The Club." And it was a country club of sorts. But it was also a club, where people of diverse backgrounds came together and mingled in its spacious lounge looking out over the golf course and valley. From the long bar one could see golfers on the first tee, on the practice putting green and on the driving range. It made for some interesting action. Logan liked The Club. There was always some kind of game going on. Cribbage and gin were commonplace. Friendly, and not so friendly, golf matches. Talk at the bar was about sports of any kind, races of any kind, and events of any kind. There was betting. Lots of betting. Formal and informal. Formal meaning serious betting, through a book. Informal meaning between friends, acquaintances, or anyone who wasn't a cop. Or who was a cop but was off duty. Of course, a valley full of thoroughbred ranches and a full-blown training facility meant there was also a little action to be had at the track. Del Mar, just an hour or so away, offered thoroughbred action at its finest. And from its mutual betting facility, you could bet on almost any race card in the country. Of course, there were the seasons at Santa Anita, and Hollywood Park. And, if you liked quarter horses, some did and some didn’t, there was old Los Alamitos. This night, Logan arrived to a rousing response from the crowded bar. The winner of The Paddock Wreck Pool had obligations. Big Mike was there, along with Spike, whose real name was also Mike. Logan saw Tuffy, the local historian, Bob, the salesman, and the usual crowd of golfers, horse people, and after-work drinkers. "Did you see it happen?" "How much was in the pool?" “Heard it was a van full of aliens.” "The chick’s fault, right?" “It’s always the chick’s fault. God should have never given them licenses.” “God?” "Hey Logan, coyote got away, wets all got caught, right?" Logan just smiled. "Set 'em up, Al. I'll buy the corner, and that's it." Logan grinned as he produced a roll of worried bills from his front left pocket. Al, the big bartender with a handlebar mustache, started setting up the drinks. Mostly beers and a few shots. Big Mike and Spike always drank mixed drinks. On this evening it was Canadian Club over ice. Tuffy had an imported beer.