by John Benteen
“You can start all over, too!” Liz’s voice soared. “In Australia, you can begin a new life! You can even change your name! You could forget the old Neal Fargo and start fresh.”
Fargo stared at her, astounded. “Good God, woman,” he said, “if I wasn’t Fargo, who would I be?” He shook his head impatiently. “We’ll talk about that later, if at all. There’ll be time on the ship … ”
“Yes,” she whispered, and she threw the money off her lap. “But now—” She reached for him. “Fargo. Australia.” Then she drew back. “Neal, wait a minute. Over there on the table … ”
He turned and saw the bottle, with the fat white worm floating at its base. “Mescal?”
“I seem to have a taste for it, worm and all. Pour us two drinks, will you, before you come to bed?”
“Yes,” Fargo said, and did. He gave her one and sipped the other. Its liquorish sharpness lingered in his throat, conjured up a thousand memories of the southwest and Mexico. He would go away for a while, but he would come back.
Then he turned, set the drained glass aside. She had the nightgown off.
Fargo said thickly, “Tomorrow, we’ll book our passage.” Then he came to her.
Much later, the fat white worm lay naked in the bottom of a glass in the darkened room. Across the river in Mexico, there was gunfire, but, then, somebody was always shooting somewhere. Maybe even in Australia, Fargo thought.
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