Still, it was important to maintain standards, and it was probably a good idea to remain prepared. Just in case.
The beauty salon was open, though empty of customers, and Ross went in, a bell jingling above the door as he entered. An older, heavyset Hispanic woman got up from a pink chair near the back to greet him. A younger, slimmer, considerably more attractive version of the woman—obviously her daughter—remained seated, reading a People magazine.
“Excuse me,” Ross said, looking around. “I was wondering if there was someplace in town for a man to get a haircut. I didn’t see any barber—”
“Right here,” the older woman said. “Men, women, children: we do all.”
“But is there a—”
“There is only us. Do you need a shampoo, a trim? Have a seat. Market day special. Six dollars.”
Six dollars? The price list above the cash register said that men’s haircuts cost fifteen. They must be really hurting for business, Ross thought. Which was only logical. He had no idea how many people lived in the outlying areas, but the town itself was smaller than a subdivision in a regular city. It must be nearly impossible to make a living cutting hair here. Especially when, judging by the people he saw at the farmer’s market, many of the locals probably cut their own.
“Sure,” he said, moving over to the chair the woman indicated.
The younger woman had stood, putting down her People magazine. “Don’t you have an appointment, Mama? Isabel?”
“That’s not until… Oh. Yes.”
Ross was not sure if the mother really did have another appointment, if the daughter wanted to be the one to cut his hair, or both, but the thought that an attractive young woman was purposely maneuvering to work on him because she might be interested got his attention. He smiled at her in the mirror, and she smiled back. There was no ring on her finger, he noticed as she draped a protective sheet over him and fastened it around his neck.
“How do you want it?” she asked, lifting the hair on the top of his head, and was there a sly sparkle in her eye as she said those words?
He explained how he wanted his hair cut, and she went to work. Her body pressed softly against his as she leaned forward, and beneath the sheet, his penis stiffened. Really? he thought. He looked at himself in the mirror, realizing how pathetic his life had become.
The bell over the door jingled again, and he glanced over to see a mailman, or, more accurately, a mailwoman—mail carrier—walk in and drop a stack of catalogs and envelopes on the counter near the door.
“Thanks, Jeri!” the mother called.
The postal worker nodded in acknowledgement before heading back out to the street.
The mother’s supposed customer—Isabel—hadn’t arrived by the time his hair was finished, Ross noticed. The daughter spun him around in the chair. “How’s it look?” she asked. She gave him a hand mirror and spun him around slowly so he could see the back of his head.
He’d asked for a slightly shorter version of the haircut he already had, but the stylist had obviously followed her own instincts and had taken off far too much. He forced himself to smile. “Looks good,” he lied.
He paid, leaving a two-dollar tip that wasn’t really deserved.
“Jesus Christ!” Dave said when he returned. “You’re bald!”
“He looks fine,” Lita said, walking around him in a circle as she examined the haircut. “He kind of has that Rotary Club, Chamber of Commerce, Kiwanis vibe.”
“Kill me now,” Ross moaned.
They both laughed.
“Was it the mom or the daughter?” Lita asked.
“The daughter.”
Dave shook his head. “Always go with the mom.”
Like most of the other vendors, they started packing up around ten minutes before the farmer’s market was scheduled to close. There hadn’t been any customers for nearly twenty minutes, and no new people had arrived.
“How much did we make?” Dave asked as Lita counted up the cash.
“Three hundred, give or take.”
Ross saw Dave’s pained grimace but said nothing as he helped fold up the table. He was right: they weren’t making enough to live on. How long would it be before they had to throw in the towel, sell their ranch and try their luck in the workaday world?
They finished putting everything away, then got into the cab of the truck and drove slowly down the street between the other vendors who were packing up and getting ready to go.
“Did you have fun?” Lita asked.
“Sure!” he said with exaggerated enthusiasm.
She jabbed him with an elbow. “Smart ass.”
“No. I did. Kind of. I mean, it was nice to get out of the house. And I got to meet some of your neighbors. By the way, that Cameron Holt seems like a real piece of work.”
On the other side of Lita, Dave nodded. “He is. But he has the biggest ranch in the valley, wields a lot of power, and the rest of us kind of have to tiptoe around him.”
“Why does everyone call this a ‘valley?’” Ross wondered. “It’s not.”
Dave chuckled. “You’re right. And I do it, too. I’m not sure why.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe the people who founded the town came over the mountains—” He pointed out the driver’s window. “—and after coming through there, this flat area looked like a valley to them.”
“But there’s no mountains on the opposite side. There’s just…desert.”
“They have to call it something, I guess. I could say Cameron has the biggest ranch in the area or the biggest ranch in the region. But it doesn’t have the same cowboy poet ring as biggest ranch in the valley.”
“So, this Cameron. Are you guys on good terms or what?”
Dave shrugged. “I guess.”
“I don’t like him,” Lita said decisively.
“I don’t either,” Ross said. “The dude definitely gave off a vibe.”
“He’s a consistent customer,” Dave said. “That’s all I care about.”
“I was wondering about that.” Ross decided to broach the subject. “Do you guys have enough customers? I mean, do you sell enough honey and eggs to survive?”
Next to him, Lita and Dave shared a look.
“For the moment,” Dave said without elaborating.
They drove in silence for the rest of the trip home.
FOUR
Cameron Holt usually watched Fox News while he was eating breakfast, but those assholes were going on about immigration again, talking about closing the border and deporting all the illegals, and he got so angry that he had to turn off the TV. How the hell did those politicians and talking heads expect him to bring in his beef without illegals? The ranch was closer to Mexico than it was to any city in America, for God’s sake, and there was no way in hell any white man would put up with the shit he needed to dish out in order to make sure his cattle were branded and fed and foaled and rounded up and driven to market on time.
If those fuckheads in Washington would bother to come out and talk to an actual rancher for once, they might discover how the world really works.
Besides, it was their illegality that made his cowhands so valuable. Not only did they work cheap, keeping costs low and profits high, but if they didn’t obey him, he could hold the threat of deportation over their heads. And if any dared to defy him or tried to call his bluff, they were out. Because he could always find more to take their place. They were hard workers, these Mexicans, almost all of them, and they were plentiful.
He glanced out the kitchen window at the dusty corral and the barn beyond. It was a hard life out here and most Americans were soft. They couldn’t hack it. His wife sure as hell couldn’t. That bitch Debbie had taken off after only two years, and now she was living in some apartment in Los Angeles, probably spreading her fat thighs for every swinging dick that came sniffing around. Well, fuck her. The ranch was doing a hell of a lot better without her than it had with her.
Cameron finished his eggs and coffee, left the dishes on th
e table and, hitching up his pants, went outside. He saw immediately that one of the steers had somehow gotten around the fence and was eating grass by the side of the barn, and he bellowed at the top of his lungs that someone better get his ass over here right now or heads were going to roll.
Three cowhands came speeding around the corner of the barn. He wished they were Keystone Cops chaotic, clumsily falling over each other, so he could laugh at them, but they were quick and competent, each carrying a length of rope that they lassoed around the animal to help them drag it back to its pen. Angry that the steer had escaped and angrier still that the cowhands were so easily able to take care of it, Cameron grabbed a switch from a nail on the side of the barn and whipped the backs of the workers as they passed in front of him. “Useless!” he yelled. “Perezoso!”
It turned out that two more cows had wandered away (some asshole had not locked one of the gates—and there would be hell to pay for that once he found out who), so Cameron got on a horse himself and led a crew to track them down. One was actually off his property and on the road, standing confusedly before a cattle guard, while the other ended up munching weeds in a ditch from which it took all four men to drive the steer out. He wasted half the morning bringing back those two strays when he should have been taking care of other business, and he gathered all of his workers together when he got back, ordering them not to take time off for lunch today, reminding them that they were one phone call away from being deported, and warning them that anyone who left any gate open in the future would be beaten and then fired.
He himself did go inside for lunch, making some microwaved macaroni and cheese, washing it down with a brew and watching a Headline News show on the kitchen TV while he ate. He had just finished when there was a knock at the front door. “Come in!” he bellowed, too lazy to walk out to the front of the house. “Entrar!”
Moments later, a young brown face peeked nervously around the corner. “Senor?”
Cameron frowned. “What is it?”
“Melquiades say he know who left open gate. He say it Ramon. But Ramon gone. We no find him. Melquiades think he run away.”
“Good,” Cameron said. But it wasn’t really good because now he would have to find another cowhand. Things would be gearing up pretty soon before the spring roundup, and he was going to need every man he had.
The boy who’d come to deliver the message was about to leave when Cameron told him to wait. He looked the kid over. Slim and somewhat effeminate, he couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen. Cameron wasn’t sure, but he thought the boy was Jorge’s son. Jorge was one of his most loyal workers, had remained last year even after Cameron had beat him nearly senseless for stealing oranges, a crime it turned out he didn’t commit. If Jorge had stood for that, he surely wouldn’t make a fuss over…
Cameron closed the kitchen door and pulled the windowshade.
He wasn’t a homo or anything. He just needed a little release. With Debbie gone, his supply had been cut off, and as men in prison knew, when women were scarce, things sometimes needed to be taken care of using whatever else was around.
And this one didn’t look like he’d mind a little Sandusky.
“What’s your name, boy?” he demanded.
“Rudolpho.”
Shit. It wasn’t Jorge’s kid.
That’s what was the matter with all these fucking wetbacks: it was almost impossible to tell them apart. He remembered this one only because of that stupid name. Rudolpho. Like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. If he recalled correctly, this one was older, nineteen or twenty, and when he’d first come over, before Cameron had knocked some sense into him, he’d been prattling on about a wife and kid he’d left back home in Mexico.
Damn.
Cameron had wanted someone younger.
Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Turn around and face that wall,” he ordered in Spanish. “And drop your pants.”
There was hesitation, a frightened pause, and that was all Cameron needed to get hard. He shoved the kid, making him bend over and clutch his ankles as he pulled down his own pants. The height was off—it would have helped if the kid were a few inches taller—but Cameron grabbed the boy’s waist, bent his knees a little, positioned himself and thrust. There was a short sharp cry, then silence as Rudolpho grimly willed himself to take it. Cameron started pumping. Knowing there was pain beneath the stoicism made him finish faster, and with a loud grunt, he came, spurting deep.
He pulled out.
This was the difficult part, the embarrassing part—afterward. Feeling disgusted, Cameron pulled up his underwear and pants and left the room. He wanted to clean off, but he didn’t want to see the boy or talk to him, and he waited until Rudolpho had left, until he’d heard the screen door slam, before taking a hot shower and scrubbing down hard. He wondered if the kid would talk.
Maybe he should have him killed, Cameron thought.
But the feeling passed, and by the time Cameron was through showering and drying off, he felt fine. He put on new underwear before pulling his old jeans back on, then slipped on his shirt, socks and boots, and walked out onto the porch. He saw Rudolpho standing by himself near the barn. The little swisher didn’t seem any worse for wear, and Cameron wouldn’t be surprised if the kid would be up for it again.
He’d probably choose someone else next time he felt the need, though.
Maybe he’d even hire a maid. The house was a fucking mess, and it would be nice to have a woman again.
Maybe he’d hire a couple of maids.
He could afford it.
Rudolpho limped into the barn, obviously in pain, and Cameron smiled, feeling pleased with himself.
Life was good.
FIVE
“So,” Dave asked as they ate dinner, “what are your plans for the holidays?”
“I don’t know,” Ross admitted. “I haven’t thought about it. Why? Do you need me to go?”
“No!” Lita put a hand on his shoulder. “Of course not!”
Dave laughed. “Exactly the opposite. If you’re going to be here to hold the fort, we thought we might get away for a few days, visit the family.”
“Sure,” Ross told them. “I’ll feed the chickens, horse, goat, whatever you need me to do.”
Lita kissed his cheek. “Thank you! That would be wonderful! That is the best Christmas present you can give us!”
“You know,” Dave said, “every New Year’s Eve, there’s a sort of community get-together, and we have, like, a big potluck at one of the ranches. It’s your basic New Year’s party. Drinking, music …drinking. It’s a lot of fun. We’d love to have you with us.”
“Maybe,” Ross said. “We’ll see.”
For Christmas, Lita and Dave drove to Las Vegas to spend the holiday with his mom and dad, who had retired there. Ross could have gone back to Chandler to be with his own parents, but Rick and Alma had that covered. This year, he actually had an excuse not to see his family, and he took advantage of it, telling them that he needed to remain in Magdalena to take care of the ranch, although he did call them early in the morning to wish them Merry Christmas. Long about noon, however, after finishing his chores, he started feeling a little lonely, despite the various football games and marathons on TV, and as he reheated the roasted chicken and rosemary potatoes Lita had left for him, he found himself wondering what the daughter from the beauty salon was doing. He should’ve gotten her name, he thought, then chastised himself for being such a loser that he was spending his Christmas day fantasizing about the girl who’d given him his crappy haircut. He considered calling or texting some of his friends in Phoenix, but they were probably all with their families, and he didn’t want to disturb them.
Maybe he should have gone to his parents’ house.
No. That was the one thing he’d gotten right, and he spent the rest of the afternoon listening to tunes and reading the Steve Jobs biography that Lita and Dave had given to him for a present.
It was u
nseasonably warm for December, and that night he sat outside, drinking beer and looking up at the stars. The chickens seemed unusually quiet, their background clucking lower in volume than usual and occasional rather than constant. Several times, he thought he saw something in the sky, something black and silent, gliding over the ranch, bigger than a bird, yet smaller and lower than an airplane. The temperature had dropped, but he remained outside, looking up, trying to figure out what the flying thing was, until he saw its strange shadowy form pass directly overhead and realized that he didn’t want to know what it was. Feeling uneasy, he went inside, pulled the shades over the windows and turned on the TV, watching the end of The Sound of Music as he tried not to think of what might be in the sky above.
He dreamed of monsters. He was on a flat arid plain, hardpacked dirt with no rock or vegetation, that stretched endlessly in all directions. There were creatures in the air, creatures on the ground, abominations whose like had never before been seen or imagined, and they were all after him. He had come from nowhere, was going nowhere, and his only purpose was to avoid the monsters and survive.
In the morning, Ross awoke to a bright, cloudless, unseasonably warm day. The concerns of last night seemed foolish and childish as he went out to feed the chickens, but he still could not help glancing up every once in awhile—just to make sure the sky was clear.
SIX
Lita didn’t want to go out on New Year’s Eve. She knew why Dave wanted to do it. Magdalena was a small town, and if they hoped to survive with their little business over the long haul, they had to not only cultivate relationships but be seen as part of the community. This year, though, Ross was here, and since he’d decided not to go, she thought it would be more fun to buy a big old tub of ice cream, stay in and order some movies on demand.
Dave was adamant, however, and she put on her most western-looking skirt and blouse, dragged out the cowgirl boots she wore exactly once each year, and brought out the lemon pie she’d made earlier in the afternoon. She’d made an extra smaller one for Ross, and she brought it over to him in the shack. “You sure you don’t want to come?” she asked. “Last chance.”
The Influence Page 4