Johnny shook his head as the bartender handed him his whiskey. “Not a one.”
“When did you talk to Dale?”
“I’ll fill you in later.” He knocked back the drink and waved the empty glass at the bartender.
“You’re not driving, are you?” Kerney asked, as the bartender approached with the whiskey bottle.
“Hell, yes, I am,” Johnny said as he slid his fresh drink closer. “Stop sounding like a cop. I never figured you for one back in the old days.”
“It’s an honorable profession,” Kerney said. “Tell me what you’ve been doing since you stopped rodeoing.”
Johnny swirled the ice in the glass, deliberately took a small sip, and smiled. “There, is that better? I don’t want to get in trouble with the police chief.”
He put the glass on the bar. “Hell, I didn’t want to stop saddle bronc riding. I was in my prime on the circuit. But after I got kicked in the head for the sixth time, the doctors said if I had one more head trauma it could kill or paralyze me. I had to quit.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Kerney said.
Johnny shrugged and downed his whiskey. “Back then, twenty-five, thirty years ago, nobody wore protective gear. Nowadays, all the boys wear vests and some are wearing helmets. If that had happened in my day, we would have laughed them out of the arena. Those boys with the helmets look like they should be riding motorcycles, not bulls and bucking horses. But times change, and it’s a damn hard sport on a man’s body, that’s for sure.”
The hostess came to escort them to their table, and they were seated next to a group of eight women loudly discussing a planned fund-raising event for a local charity. Over their noisy chatter Kerney again asked Johnny what he’d been doing over the past years.
“Sports management, for one,” Johnny said, taking a menu from the server, “and media relations. Most of my clients are pro rodeo cowboys, but I’ve got a few up-and-coming country singers in my stable, and some minor league baseball players who have the talent to make it to the big show. But I’m branching out. That’s why I wanted to see you.”