“I’d have a beer,” I said, “but I guess it’s too early.” “Not in the desert.” Mrs. Been set out a bottle. “You have a fine old place.” “One time a National Geographic photographer came in and took pictures, but I never saw them in the magazine.” “How old is the bar?” “Older than statehood. Late eighteen nineties. We’ve got liquor license number twenty-seven. One of the oldest in the state. We were here before Pancho Villa raided the county. We’ve always guaranteed one thing—this is the best bar in town. Anybody doesn’t like it can drive fifty miles to the next one.”
