by Jim Nesbitt
“Luck has been kind to you so far, my friend. You are lucky tonight, riding with such an experienced pilot as Slick here. Did you know he flew for Air America? He is an old and government-trained brigand, right Slick?”
Slick said nothing and reached forward to adjust the twin throttles and dial in the next fix on the plane’s radio navigation receiver, a complex little black box known as a LORAN.
Looking over Slick’s shoulder, when he wasn’t blinded by a flash of lightning, Burch could see the needles for the each engine’s oil pressure gauges and tachometers were riding in the green -- which meant they would be safe and happy if they didn’t fly slap into a storm cell that put too much stress on the airframe.
“He’s done this before.”
“Many times, my friend. Many times.”
Burch had pulled Carla Sue out of the deserted ranch house above Fabens about an hour after he bulled his way out of the cantina. They had called Huerta from a Shamrock gas station; he had directed them to one of his safe houses out on the desert flats east of El Paso. Slick landed the Duchess on a dirt road near the house, its packed surface maintained by Huerta’s subordinates.
“This is not the way I would have moved you, my friend, but your little show in town gave us no choice. Of course, the fee will be higher.”
“How much higher?”
“Three grand each for Slick and I. You are -- how does Moore put it? Ah, you are riding with the pros tonight; you have to pay the premium for the privilege.”
“That sounds like Lefty. Done.”
By the moonlit early hours of the next morning, they were an hour into a hike along a narrow goat track that ran through a string of low hills about forty miles below Matamoros.
Slick had flown them to a small tarmac strip just south of the city with radio-activated runway lights and a deserted hangar made of corrugated aluminum.
One of Moore’s men waited to drive them deeper into Mexico and guide them into the countryside. Conjo -- fucker. Little about his look justified the name. He was a short man with shaggy hair, a dark, sharp-boned face that shielded deep-set eyes and a flattened nose that looked like it came from somebody twice as large as him.
He wore rope-soled sandals and a severely modified Ruger Mini-14 carbine -- plastic foregrip, hinged aluminum tube stock, a 30-round banana clip and a wicked-looking flash suppressor. Clothes, shoes and gun were black – flat instead of glossy. Not even his hair had a shine to it.
Conjo was Nicaraguan, one of the ex-contras brought up to the border by T-Roy. He had taken an instant dislike to his new patrón and La Madrina, drifting away from their rancho, hooking up with Moore’s partners, rivals with a long-standing blood grudge against La Madrina and her sons. Something about a patrón having his heart cut out. Something Conjo greeted with a shudder because the same thing happened to the jefe who had brought them to La Bruja’s rancho and El Rojo Loco.
Conjo said little as he led them along, a word or two to point out bends in the trail and treacherous footing. He didn’t seem to mind Burch’s babbling, words that weren’t loud but were rambling. Carla Sue wondered whether the scene at the bat cave hadn’t cracked Burch’s egg.
“I remember this movie one time. Forget what it was all about. Anyway -- this Irish guy, some workin’ stiff, got canned. He looks at the white-collar guy who’s givin’ him the shove and his eyes are just glaring like he wants to kill the guy on the spot. You can see all the things this guy wants to say right there in his face. He looks like he’s gonna spit on the white-collar guy, then thinks better of it, like this guy isn’t even worth the moisture. Not the guy, but the whole ball of wax -- the job, his life, everything. He looks him right in the eye and says -- ‘You’re just a petty, fookin’ bee-ur-r-r-r-a-crat.’”
“What’s your point, Big ‘Un?”
“Just this -- the difference between me and you. Hate’s been burnin’ you up for years, but there’s a lot still to burn up. You still got lots of fuel. Me -- it’s different. I got my gears stripped bad by bureaucrats and wives. No fuel, nothin’ left, nothin’ worth the effort. Nothin’ for me. Nothin’ for a woman. That’s what I thought. That’s the way I was livin’. But I was wrong. Now I find out I got enough inside me for the hate to start burnin’ one more time. Just enough for one more ride. No more, though.”
“We’ll just have to make that ride count then, won’t we.”
“Won’t matter. We’re dead.”
“Not that shit again.”
Burch said nothing. His mood had shifted. They kept walking for another hour, their breathing, the slap of brush on clothing and the calls of night animals the only sounds.
Conjo led them to a bowl-shaped hollow just beneath the brow of a hill, guiding them through a thick wall of undergrowth to a dark, rocky clearing at the base of the bowl. They were five miles from the rancho, three miles from T-Roy’s perimeter security, manned by Conjo’s former compadres.
“I know these men. T-Roy pays them pesos, gives tequila, women, blow. They don’t give a shit for him.”
Carla Sue waited for an explanation. When none came, she spurred more words out of the guide.
“He killed our jefe. No man like him much, but he was of us. Many do the same thing I do -- walk away.”
“They do the same thing you’re doin’?”
“Hey, lotta work for a man who can use a gun, lady.”
“Can you get us past them?”
“Them, yes. But El Rojo Loco got his own men. He got heat and motion detectors. Then La Bruja and her sons.”
Conjo told her about the La Bruja, his face twisting up and his voice gaining a quiet heat as he talked about the ceremonies, the cauldron and the human sacrifice.
“You mean she eats the damn heart?”
“Si. Her sons, too. It is something her husband did. He once cut the heart out of the jefe of those I work for now. For the power.”
“Jesus Christ, Big ‘Un, what the fuck are we walkin’ into -- Nightmare on Beaner Street?”
Burch wasn’t talking. He sat away from them, cleaning his .45 and that sweet German submachine gun he now called El Niño.
“He all there, lady? He talks too much. Now he don’t say nothin.’ And look at him with that gun -- I think he wants to fuck that gun.”
“He’ll ride the river.”
“¿Que?”
“Don’t worry about him. I’ll do that. You just worry about getting us past your old compadres and into that damn rancho.”
Daylight filtered through the thick canopy. Conjo broke out mosquito netting, sleeping mats and repellant. He gave them thick strips of jerky, then wrapped himself in netting and sat cross-legged against the trunk of a tree, falling asleep, his Ruger in his lap.
They tried to follow suit, but the air was heavy with humidity and buzzing bugs that made it hard to breathe and harder to drop off. Light dozing, punctuated by gasps and slaps, marked much of their day. Conjo snored loudly. Carla Sue wondered how many mosquitoes got sucked into his mouth.
Nightfall. More strips of jerky. Washed down by cold, bitter coffee spiked with raw sugar-cane juice. The coffee was the color of old crankcase oil and thick like a bad batch of bock beer. It snapped them awake instantly, more from fumes than caffeine and sugar.
They were stiff and tripped easily in the gray moonlight. Conjo moved like a young goat, walking them right into the guns of a squad of men hidden in the thick brush. Their first clue was the ratcheting clack of assault rifles being cocked and the sight of two men stepping onto the trail in front of them. Burch froze and started to reach for his Colt until he felt the warm muzzle of Conjo’s Mini-14 press into the back of his neck.
“Not the wise choice. Mi compadres are trigger happy. They would rather shoot than guard you on the long walk back to the rancho. That would make me sad because I know your true value.”
“Lefty Moor
e don’t cotton to double crossers. He will personally take care of the matter in a way you won’t like. That is, she don’t get to you first.”
“A woman?”
“You bet. I’ve seen her kill two or three men already and I know she has it in her to kill one or two more. You’ve just made yourself the next most likely candidate.”
“You’re a man who talks out of his ass a lot. I don’t care about a son of bitch like Moore. I don’t work for him. I work for Huerta. And he will pay me well for delivering you to El Rojo Loco.”
“You stupid son of a bitch -- Huerta’s already written you off. And you know T-Roy’s crazy as shit.”
Conjo shrugged.
“Not so crazy. His money spends well. I told you that other shit last night to win your trust.”
“You can’t lie worth shit, compadre -- you’re scared of T-Roy.”
Conjo looked away.
The two other men stood on either side of Burch. Their comrades stepped from the bush, making it a squad of six, armed with CAR-15s and M-16s. They stripped the Colts away from Burch and Carla Sue. Conjo reached forward to gently slip the strap of El Niño from Burch’s shoulder.
They wound along the ridgeline for three hours of hard climbing and descent. Burch’s damaged knee throbbed and he limped heavily, slowing the party.
The trail dropped down into a notch between two hills. As they cleared the notch, the trail widened and left the trees. It rolled through some low brush and sidled up to a dirt road, ducking toward then away from the larger path, putting off the junction like a reluctant spinster considering the qualities of a rare but not-so-welcome suitor.
Conjo signaled the other men. They faded into the brush. Carla Sue turned and arched an eyebrow at Burch.
“Checkpoint. They don’t want to start a firefight. Not with this prize beef in the middle of things. I guess they don’t have this wired up as tight as they’d like us to think.”
Conjo smacked Burch in the face with an open hand.
“You keep your mouth shut, you fat sack of shit. I’m going to walk you in and take you to El Rojo Loco.”
“You ain’t gonna make this fly, son. You walk away from a man like T-Roy, he don’t tend to forget it. You think you can waltz on in, hand us over, then waltz out again, but you can’t.”
“Silencio, fat boy.”
“Brilliant line. Witty and concise. You’re startin’ to rattle, old chum. And you ought to. You ain’t gonna live through this.”
Conjo spun and kicked Burch’s bad right knee. Burch fell on his side in the middle of the road. He tried to get back up, but could only hold himself up on his good leg and two arms.
Burch motioned Carla Sue to his side. She helped pull him to his feet. He draped an arm around her.
“Don’t get any ideas, slick. I’m not shopping for another ex-wife. My knee feels like a coffee grinder inside.”
Burch laughed and shook his head.
“Just what I need to make a first impression. Those macho fuckers will think I’m a maricón.”
“A what?”
“A faggot. A wimp. Leanin’ on a woman. No cojones. If I were a real man, I’d bear the pain by myself. Sooner die than lean on a damn woman.”
They walked in three abreast, Conjo on the left, pointing the Ruger at them, Burch limping heavily, dragging his left foot in the dust. As they rounded the bend, Conjo called out. A man in tiger-stripe fatigues stepped out of the brush, sporting a CAR-15 across his chest and a dark blue baseball cap pulled low across his eyes.
If these guys are worth a damn, Burch thought, a machine gun, maybe an M-60, would be on the opposite side of the road, hidden in the brush, manned by at least two men. He watched that side of the road as Conjo talked to the man in the cap.
“Damn, Big ‘Un, you’re killin’ me.”
“Tough it out, slick. Make it a good show. Bitch some more, to Conjo. Make it loud.”
Carla Sue turned on a pure grit accent.
“I tell you what, we oughta plug this poor cocksucker before I have to carry his sorry ass another step. All he does is limp and complain.”
Conjo laughed and translated for the man in tiger stripes. The man pointed to Burch and Carla Sue.
“Si le damos un tiro a este cerdo nadie ella se cogerá a esta vieja esta noche.”
Conjo translated.
“Tell him I don’t have anybody to fuck me now.”
She slapped Burch on the chest and spat on his boots.
“¡Maricon!”
Laughter from Tiger Stripes and from a large clump of brush just where Burch thought a machine-gun post should be.
“¡Vamos a darle un tiro al maricón! Despues nos jugamos a la vieja en la baraja.”
Tiger Stripes swung the barrel of his CAR-15 toward Burch. Conjo stepped up quickly and grabbed his forearm.
“No mi amigo. El vale mucho dinero. Y a tu jefe le interesa muchisimo. El. No la chava. Si le das un tiro ahora, no recibiras nigun dinero. Si lo matas, a ti te daran un tiro.”
Tiger Stripes jammed his gun barrel into Conjo’s chest.
“Tal vez yo te doy el tiro a ti.”
Conjo shrugged.
“Tal vez yo se algo que tu jefe necesita saber. Estos dos no le diran nada. Yo si. Ueuanos a los tres con tu jefe y ganate una lana.”
Carla Sue hissed at him: “What the fuck’s going on?”
“Bright Eyes can’t decide whether to shoot me or our boy. And he wants to draw cards for the honor of fucking you. Our boy is talking fast, making us sound like somebody his jefe just has to kill in person.”
“That all?”
“Nope. Bright Eyes can’t decide whether you’d be a good fuck or not.”
Carla Sue spun on her heel and slapped him.
“Good girl,” he growled. “You were gettin’ too damn friendly.”
More laughter from the brush. Tiger Stripes stayed silent, staring at each of the three in turn, swinging the barrel of his gun to a stop that was leveled at the point where chest met belly.
Burch was the last in line. He could feel his sweat really start to flow.
“Bueno.”
Tiger Stripes stepped up to Burch and slammed a knee into his groin. Burch fell heavily, dragging Carla Sue down into the dirt. She scrambled up, kicked him in the ribs and spat on the back of his head. Burch stayed on his hands and knees, blinking back a sharp, deep pain that caused his gorge to rise -- thin, dark gruel flecked with undigested jerky.
Conjo and Tiger Stripes stood above him, laughing. Burch kept his head hung low, spitting out vomit, letting his head clear. Carla Sue spat on him again.
“Maricon!”
Burch heard an engine fire up and a gear grind. He wished the girl knew a few more Tex-Mex slurs. Anything but faggot. Anything that didn’t sound like a plateful of cookies at an old ladies’ tea.
Chapter 35
“Welcome to sunny Old Mexico. I’m your humble tour guide and it is my distinct pleasure to show you around our modest little rancho. I think you’ll find it has a few interesting features that you don’t see up Dallas way. We’ve also got some unusual entertainment lined up for you. Been expectin’ you all for days. Seemed like you’d never get down our way. Now you’re here, we’re all so pleased -- everybody’s ready to bust a gut to make sure your stay here is a happy and pleasant event.”
Dawn was three hours away. The house and yard were floodlit. T-Roy was standing on the top step of the porch where Mano died, wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat with a cattleman’s crease and a white suit with a short-waisted jacket, the kind you’d see on a waiter or a mariachi strummer.
If he looked behind him, he could see dried splatters of blood on the adobe wall of the house. To his right, blood stained the porch planking like the shadow of an octopus. But T-Roy looked straight down at Burch, Carla Sue and Conj
o, his eyes wide and wild, his arms gesturing like a revival preacher’s, his voice booming like a carney barker’s.
He stepped off the porch. He spread his arms open as he sauntered down to their level.
“You are my guests. We aim to make you feel right at home. But first, we got to take care of a few formalities.”
T-Roy drew out this last word, chomping down on every syllable. He nodded once and men stepped up behind each of the three newcomers, pinning their arms back, forcing them to kneel in the dirt, binding them fast like rodeo ropers. Conjo started pleading his case.
“Jefe, I caught these two and brought them to you. I know they are worth much to you, but I want no money. Consider it a tribute, a sign I want to work for you again.”
“I’m sure all that’s true, pard. I’m sure comin’ back to work for me is exactly why you’re here. Hell, you’re probably real sorry you left in the first place. Right? Tell ol’ T-Roy just how sorry you are.”
“It’s true, jefe. I left because of La Bruja. My soul couldn’t sleep.”
“Well, you got somethin’ there, pard. Have a tough time sleepin’ myself sometimes. Lots of stuff flyin’ around in the dark around here. In the daylight too. But hell, I’m interuptin’. You were gettin’ set to tell me how much you miss this place. Is it the cookin’? Or maybe was it that Matamoros pussy I bring in here.”
“No, patrón.”
“So you’re tellin’ me the pussy ain’t good enough for you and you’d like to kill the cook?”
“No, patrón.”
“Well, maybe you’d like to make up your fuckin’ mind and tell me what you do like about this wonderful rancho deluxe.”
“The things you give us are fine to have, but I wanted to come back to work for you and be with my compadres again. I am lonely for home -- and this Mexico, it is many things, but it isn’t home.”
“A man does miss his home, that’s a fact. And I do try to make things comfortable for you boys. But just why the hell would I take back a ball-less cabron like you, a man who would walk away from his compadres?”