Last Saturday it was warm and breezy. Any other place would have called it hot and windy. But this was El Paso.

Most of the shops on South El Paso Street had already rolled down their metal shutters. A couple of Korean merchants were locking a scissor gate as I walked past. A third on the sidewalk on security detail must have decided I wasn't a threat. I guess I'm getting old.

The troll at the bridge took my thirty five cents and I got jammed by a family walking five abreast before I juked between them and saw daylight. The stream of cars coming into the U.S. was bumper-to-bumper to past the top of the bridge.

It was after seven and the sun was an orange disk in a pink sky. The riverbed was dry and weedy. The southbound pedestrian traffic was light and strictly national. I was dressed up, in my good jeans and a heavy snap front work shirt. I wore my running shoes just in case.

They're killing people in Juarez. I guess that's nothing new. Dead dope dealers are more common than rain. The real news is that now the cops are getting it, too. Maybe they're connected. Maybe they're just diligent public servants. Probably there's some of both of that going on. But the real news is that the cops, the guys who wear their guns on the outside, are getting offed.

I read about it in the papers, or online. Most of the time it happens in some neighborhood I've only heard of, on some street that might as well be in Iraq. But Thursday there was a shootout on the drag, and an innocent or two caught some stray lead. One of them made it to the top of the bridge before collapsing ten feet over the line, earning himself an all-expense paid trip to Thomason.

I ducked into the Cucaracha after the cursory non-inspection at Mexican customs. Roberto sat at a table in the corner and an old man bent into a mop, swiping away at the checkerboard floor. I bought a beer and a shot of sotol.

So, there was a shootout? I asked Roberto.

I heard the shots.

The paper said maybe it was a kidnapping.

I don't read the paper, he said.

Roberto's a good bar owner. He doesn't know anything he shouldn't.

I dropped him six bucks on four-fifty and hit the sidewalk.

Before I made the taxi stand at the corner, some young skinny guy was at my elbow.

What are you looking for, man? His English was good enough but his accent was thick.

Nothing, man.

You want some girls? I know some nice places for a drink and to watch the girls.

I shifted into Spanish, hoping that would throw him off. No, I come over here every once in a while, I told him. I know some places.

Pretty girls, he said. He was hungry.

We crossed the street and the taxi drivers announced their cars. Like I didn't know they were taxis.

I turned to my new companion, the one following me like a dog after an ambulance. Were you here Thursday? For the shootout?

He got animated. Yeah, right here. He pointed to the corner down the street. Two cars driving, and shooting. Por venganza. Everybody running.

And the cops?

They were running too.

It's drug wars, right? Between cartels? We talked as we walked down Avenida Juarez.

Yeah, he said. But the Sinaloa cartel's going to win, he told me. Por que son mas valientes.

I gave him a buck, and turned into the Kentucky Club. I grabbed a stool at the bar, and ordered a margarita. I drank it, quick, paid my tab, and hit the sidewalk again.

The manager was at the door, checking IDs.

Were you here Thursday? I asked him. For the shootout?

His face lit up. Yes, he said. Right out here. He pointed to the street. I ran. He was almost laughing about it.

Like I said, the drag doesn't see a lot of bad action. Not the kind that gets talked about.

I went to the Arbolito, to pay my respects to Sergio and a couple of shots of chuchupaste. The Arbolito's a block off the drag, too far away to have any firsthand knowledge of a running gun battle on the strip.

Is the violence hurting business? I asked.

Yeah, he said. People stay home and drink.

Where they only get shot by people they know. I thought it but I didn't say it.

I stopped by the Kentucky Club for the last one. I got to talking to the one-eyed bartender.

Of all the people I've known, I told him, and I've known a lot of people, I've only known three that have gotten disappeared off the strip. And they got disappeared right here. I pointed over towards the front door.

They were workers? he asked.

Yeah, I said.

And it all made sense.