The Creed of Violence

by Boston Teran

  "I got into a stupid fight with a stupider drunk. I hit him so hard his tooth embedded in the bone of my middle knuckle. Right to the root it went. The fool must have had rabies or something 'cause I got an infection and the arm had to come off. I wear it to remember-don't never do anything stupid."

  He slipped the cigarette in his mouth and stood. He tucked the reel of film up under his arm. "Let's go see about some goodwill."

  McManus threaded the projector in the dark. A charge of smoky light shot past where John Lourdes stood. Out of the dark a world opened. He was suddenly a traveler on the Gulf Coast of Mexico. From a sandy ridgetop a vast panorama of oil fields. Moments cut from one to the next-plumes of charred air rising from refineries, a legion of worker huts, a train moving off into a seared wasteland.

  "These are newsreels President Diaz had filmed to show off the country. Prosperity and publicity. But mostly they're about him."

  He held the cigarette near his nose and snorted in the smoke. "I like the world better in black and white. It seems closer to the soul of things that way. What say you, Mr. Lourdes?"

  The scene shifted again. El Presidente in all his aging pomp and splendor was flanked by an array of dignitaries and businessmen and generals. He stood with hand on saber gesturing for the viewer to come and witness for himself a burgeoning world.

  The camera cut from oil-soaked men at a huge derrick to an army of laborers constructing a pipeline to a tanker waiting at sea. The men smiled for the camera, but they were a poor, tired lot.

  It was when the entourage with the president began to move that John Lourdes noticed Anthony Hecht. And who should be there just back and behind him?

  The scene shifted again and John Lourdes asked, "Can you stop the film. And go back. Just, I saw someone."

  The moment froze. The screen went white. McManus reeled back the film and as the scenes replayed John Lourdes stepped into the light and his arm's shadow reached out to point. "There's Anthony Hecht. Do you know him?"

  "Only by name ... Alliance for Progress."

  "And that man. Just behind him. Do you know him?"

  "I do not."

  "Ever seen him?"

  "I have not. Who is it?"

  "James Merrill."

  In the film, Hecht leaned around and said something to Merrill, who nodded. As they moved past the camera, another man was revealed with Merrill.

  Only this was no ordinary man. He had a nighthawk face that seemed at odds with his snowy white hair and mustache. He wore a gray suit and, in fact, was rather young. Somewhere in age between Rawbone and John Lourdes.

  "I know the one with Merrill," said McManus. "The white-haired fellow."

  John Lourdes studied the man on film. He walked with his hands folded behind his back. He was polished and erect and he moved with an economy of motion and gesture.

  "He used to be a Texas Ranger. College-educated. Washington, or a place like that. Was a professor before. Doctor Stallings is how he's called."

  The last of the film rattlesnaked through the sprockets. John Lourdes disappeared somewhere in that empty screen chasing yet what he did not know.

  "The Ranger ... what does he do now?"

  "Private security."

  McManus turned off the projector. The room went dark.

  Sometimes there is only the vague outline of a thing moving through an uncharted obscurity. What John Lourdes had suddenly was a sense of pure exhilaration he was hunting down a truth that would hold all this together. Yet, he also experienced a sense of pure dread. It seemed unremitting and without cause, but it was there.

  When light from the doorway fell long upon that room John Lourdes saw he and McManus were not alone. The little man who'd been sleeping on the desk who Rawbone had roughed up entered and was carrying a shotgun. He made a wide berth around both men, keeping close to the wall. Where he was pointing those double black barrels was clear.

  EIGHTEEN

  MMANUEL, I'M GOING to relieve Mr. Lourdes of his weapon."

  McManus eased around John Lourdes and with a meaty grip lifted the automatic with slow care. He then slid it down into his belt.

  He went to the projector and picked up the cigarette and took another long hit of smoke and placed it back down. His eyes got watery and he grinned a bit. He began to rethread the film through the projector.

  "We're gonna see this newsreel again and you'll explain about these people and what you're doing here and why there's a truckload of weapons in my garage."

  "What you're doing is ill advised."

  "Is it! Well ... I smoked this marijuana just to keep me eased up. 'Cause I'm prone ... that's why I told you the tooth story. Oh, and that notebook of yours. Put it on the bench there."

  As he reached into his pocket, John Lourdes shot a cursory glance at Emmanuel that McManus caught. He finished threading the film, then walked over to the bench. He shook his head in coarse disappointment over John Lourdes. He picked up the notebook and in the same breath of motion brought his prosthesis down like a bludgeon across the side of John Lourdes's head.

  The force drove John Lourdes back over the bench and he hit the floor with a ferocious groan. The room and everything about it were pure liquid. He struggled over onto his shoulder and tried to rise. He saw he was leaving splotches of blood on the wood slats.

  McManus set the notebook in the palm of his wooden hand and thumbed pages with the other. John Lourdes used a bench to get to his knees. Blood from a laceration at the corner of one eye left a dripping red track down the side of his face. McManus remained impassive, reading page after page, while Emmanuel stood watch by the wall with the shotgun bearing down on John Lourdes. He was trying to collect himself when from that downturned face the eyes of McManus rose and they were telling.

  "I see BOI written down here everywhere."

  "This has nothing to do with you."

  He took the notebook with his good hand. His great chest slowly expanded. "A friend and me used to rob homes in San Francisco. I was watch; he was the window jockey. We robbed this woman once who was a piano player. This was her arm, that's why it's too short. And why the thumb and pinky," he held out the prosthesis, "are so spread apart. So she could hit the keys." He made like he was actually playing. "It was built by a gent in Northampton, England." He turned his wrist as if John Lourdes might like to see where it had been engraved. "It makes a fine club. But nothing compared to what I got here in my pocket."

  He wedged the notebook between two prosthetic fingers. With his good hand he removed a short and shiny black billy stick. He slipped his hand through the rawhide strap. He started toward John Lourdes and let it hang down at his thigh so he could get a good look at it. Standing over him, McManus asked, "Does Rawbone know you're with the BOI?"

  John Lourdes did not answer and the billy came down on his kidney. There was a blinding charge of pain up his back. He was asked again, and again his answer was silence. He was clinging to the bench with one elbow when he heard a whoosh of air. The next blow landed with flawless accuracy. A tide of bile came up into his mouth, but his mind was curiously clear.

  "Does he know?"

  John Lourdes's head hung down as he tried to wrench himself upright.

  "Does he know?"

  "Why don't you ask me yourself?"

  Rawbone stood in the doorway with derby in hand, a burner of light behind his shadowed features.

  "He's with the BOI," said McManus.

  Rawbone entered the room, approaching so Emmanuel and that shotgun were always within his field of vision. He spoke directly to John Lourdes. "It looks like you didn't do as I told you back at the Mills Building. Where to keep those eyes."

  The son picked up the leading tone in the father's voice and with a slight turn of body saw Rawbone had his pocket automatic concealed in the derby.

  "Did you know he was with the BOI?"

  "Of course, I knew."

  "And you brought him into my life?"

  "This has nothing to do with your life.
And there was money for you in it."

  "You lied to me about him."

  "I thought it was the most practical solution, knowing you."

  McManus flung the notebook at the father. It hit his face and landed on the wood floor near the son.

  "You're a shill now for the BOL"

  John Lourdes reached for the notebook. He gripped the bench to stand. Rawbone helped to get him upright.

  "That's right. Get him up, dust him off. You're a Goddamn butler. A manservant."

  The father looked the son over to see how bad the beating was. "By the way, Mr. Lourdes, you've had some luck tonight."

  The son, at that moment, was not so sure.

  "Your note. It had the effect on Mr. Hecht you wanted."

  John Lourdes nodded and wiped at the blood that was running down his face and neck. "Pay your friend what it's worth. And let's get from here."

  "What do you want?"

  McManus turned his attention to Rawbone. "What have you become?"

  "I'll need my gun back," said John Lourdes.

  McManus disregarded him. "What have you become?" he repeated.

  "Call your fee," said Rawbone.

  McManus ordered, "Emmanuel."

  The little man with the shotgun took a step forward, kicking away a bench that was in his path.

  "I said, what have you become?"

  "Don't do this," said Rawbone.

  "What have you become?"

  There was a furied determination to McManus about having that question answered. The son studied the father; he noted the slightest movement of the hand with the derby.

  "We've been friends, how long?" said Rawbone.

  "Answer."

  "Alright. I came to this place as some would say, a common assassin. And I'll be leaving this place the same way. So now ... what's your fee?"

  "What have you become?"

  "Jesus, man. It's about survival, alright. My personal survival. And I don't want to hear you keep talking from the belt buckle down. What's your fee?"

  "McManus!" shouted John Lourdes. "The BOI wants nothing with you."

  McManus leaned into Rawbone and looked down at him and said, "You're the hole in the shithouse floor now."

  "What's your fee?"

  "There's more than survival."

  "So you say. Now what's your fee?"

  The man's head lolled to one side like a great bear, slowly, and the eyes grew small as vapor drops. "You're my fee."

  "Aye, brother," said Rawbone. And just like that, before his derby hit the floor, he had wheeled about and fired his automatic repeatedly. The little man named Emmanuel had no business being behind a shotgun. He was driven back and crying out, jerked in half. The shotgun went off wildly. A gas lamp exploded, throwing stars of glass and sparks everywhere. The funeral drapes on the far wall were run with flames.

  Before Rawbone could turn McManus plowed that slagheap of a body right at him and got a grip on his gun hand. He kept right on for the wall, churning his legs with Rawbone trying to break loose and the gun going off wildly. John Lourdes locked his arms around McManus's neck to pull him back, but he was too strong and using his shoulder flung the young man like he was nothing against the projector. The motor kicked on and there was the click, click, click, click, click, click of the turning sprockets and a rush of dusty light and Rawbone was battered right into the adobe.

  An ugly sound came out of Rawbone as if he'd been staved clear through. He'd expended all his ammunition. The body of the dead Emmanuel lay a foot away. The shotgun angled upright across his corpse. Rawbone twisted and bent to try and get low enough to reach the weapon. John Lourdes again was right on McManus, this time bracing his arms up under the dense shoulders to pull him loose. McManus lost his footing briefly and Rawbone was able to score himself down the wall just enough for his fingers to crab around the barrel and take hold before McManus righted himself.

  McManus began to yell out a pained and atavistic war cry. He used his prosthesis like a whip but he had Rawbone still in the clench of his one good arm and there wasn't enough space for a breath between them. The three were all tangled together now and they spun crazily, crashing over benches. The newsreel began to play and their shadows wraithed across the screen where President Diaz stood before an array of businessmen and dignitaries and generals and invited the viewer to come and see a burgeoning world.

  The smoke from the drapes afire grayed the air. McManus now struggled backward. His boots clopped out a sidling but steady drum of steps. He was like a freight car to take down and the two men even together could not. Rawbone still had the shotgun in his grasp, working to edge his fingers down the barrel.

  The three were entwined like some ancient statue from the shores of Troy within the light of the screen and across their bodies were flickering images of vast petrol fields on the Gulf and oil-slicked men with their tired faces and a lone train moving toward blanched and serrated mountains.

  The drapes were a mural of smolder and flame. The men grunted like animals for each gasp of air. McManus now steadied himself and slammed John Lourdes against the adobe. He then leaned forward and the young man's boots scruffed along the wood. McManus slammed back again and the blood from the wound above John Lourdes's eye spattered over the side of McManus's face.

  Rawbone gasped, "Mr. Lourdes, can you hold my friend a bit longer?"

  "I can ... hold."

  And now Rawbone drove the top of his head into that spur of a chin as he worked his hand down to the trigger. And John Lourdes got an arm around that bear of a head to wrench it back. And Rawbone snaked and squeezed his other arm across his body and finally he steadied up the weapon. McManus watched the barrel clock out inches till it was no longer if, but when.

  Rawbone, near wasted with exhaustion, said, "Let it go."

  McManus would not have it.

  "Just give up and we'll be done with this."

  McManus opened his mouth and hissed.

  "To what end?"

  Rawbone confronted a harpoon stare.

  "Mr. Lourdes, force your head back."

  John Lourdes bent away as best he could.

  "Friend," said Rawbone, "let it go or you'll be this moment forever."

  The face above the gun barrel filled with floodwaters of defiance and contempt and a reverie to fearlessness and in the smoke and sweep of images flickering on the screen the moment saw Rawbone pull the trigger.

  NINETEEN

  HE FACE WAS there one moment, and the next it was a denuded mass of bone and blood. That great hull of muscle and will dropped like a boulder to the floor. Rawbone stood with smoke and strips of burning cloth floating in the air about him, looking down at what was his friend. "All he had to do was let it go."

  John Lourdes knelt exhausted and choking from the smoke. He rolled the body over and tugged his automatic from the dead man's belt. He stood. Rawbone was still staring down at the brutal evidence of what just had happened.

  "Put the fire out," said John Lourdes.

  "Leave it-"

  The last of the film kite tailed with the endless turning of the reel as John Lourdes looked over the projector.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Put the fire out."

  JOHN LOURDES WALKED out of the funeraria and into a star-filled night with the reel of film under his arm. It was quiet, save for the lone wail of a distant train. Rawbone stood looking across the river and smoking when he joined him. The father took a bandana from his back pocket and handed it to the son. "You're still leaking oil."

  Rawbone went back to looking across the river. His past loomed out there in the dark. He was heir to the brazen hand of his own making, and he knew it. John Lourdes watched. Rawbone seemed distant and troubled, and caught up in a strained uncertainty. It was a picture of the man the son did not remember as a boy. Of course, it could well have been the part a boy could not recognize.

  "He flat out perished himself," said Rawbone. "Why?"

  The son was not sure the fat
her expected him to answer. He had a sense of why, but his was an emotional verdict he meant to use at the appropriate time, with a vengeance.

  Rawbone pointed to the reel of film. "What's so important about that?"

  John Lourdes explained about the film and how he thought it might prove to be evidence connecting certain people and events. Rawbone offered a clipped and sarcastic laugh. "I guess the future will come in all shapes and surprises." Then he took from his pocket a slip of notepad paper and pencil the son had given him.

  "Like I said before, Mr. Lourdes. You had some good luck tonight." He passed the notepaper and pencil to the son. "And your good luck tonight is my good fortune tomorrow."

  The father was animated now and near grinning. "Tomorrow you'll be justice Knox's sainted poker hand of an agent and I'll be pleasantly off for parts unknown." To that he added, "With a clear conscience and a clean record."

  Rawbone was able to cast aside what had just happened with absolute impunity and refocus on himself. It was a trait, though not noble, John Lourdes thought he'd better acquire.

  He looked at the father's chicken-scratch handwriting. He saw names-the word railroad, underlined a number of times-and the Panuco River.

  Rawbone described how the scam to get him into Hecht's good graces had played out even better than he could have imagined. And the note John Lourdes had written—

  As they walked to the warehouse behind the funeraria Rawbone near mocked a reading of it: "Mr. Hecht, I've arrived with the makings of your icehouse-Will arrange for financial settlement tomorrow morning."

  Each took a shed door to open. The hinges groaning as they went. Rawbone kept on, "It was a priceless way to word it, Mr. Lourdes. That note was delivered all the way up to the headwaters of his asshole."

  Rawbone used his cigarette to wick up a lantern. Light filled that belly of a space and there was the truck, parked beside a hearse that was comely and elegant and covered with dust. The light rivered across its glass casement.

  The father went on about the meeting with Hecht as John Lourdes, exhausted and still bleeding, put the reel of film on the cab seat then sat down on the runner.