The Croning

by Laird Barron

  Kinder expertly flipped the knife and slid it under his serape. He stood and rolled his brawny shoulders and looked at Don with dispassionate hatred. “What the hell are we waiting for?”

  2.

  The trio descended into the lobby, Kinder at the fore, gasoline lantern lighting the way, Don in the middle, and Ramirez at the rear, tapping the nine iron against his palm. They went outside into the humid night, crossed the street, bee-lined through a deserted lot and wound up inside a locked garage that Kinder possessed the key to. Inside the garage were islands of tarps and machinery and broken cars. He whisked the canvas from a cherry Cadillac convertible. Don rode in back. Ramirez took shotgun and Kinder drove. Ramirez and Kinder chatted in Spanish, referring by the dashboard glow to the jotted itinerary Professor Trent’s secretary had provided.

  Ramirez whistled. “Amigo, some of these places are not so good. Are you sure your wife would go there?”

  “No. It’s Trent’s list. She went with him to see ruins.”

  “I don’t understand. Your wife got a boyfriend?”

  “Jesus, no. Look, they’re just friends. Not even friends; colleagues, like cops, you see?”

  “But, man. These places… Okay, okay. You’re the boss. Benny will take us right there, no problem. Right, Benny?”

  Kinder stepped on the gas and the Cadillac’s engine rumbled and wind whipped through Don’s hair and stung his eyes. The lights of the metropolitan heart of the City didn’t draw nearer, but slid sideways and receded as the car growled its way beneath a series of bridges and then climbed a steep switchback grade. Tenements and cinderblock and corrugated tin row houses crowned the rise. A large portion of the block appeared to be a ramshackle cantina. Cars parked at random angles in the dirt lot, the ditch and the road. People stood around drinking, or flopped in the dirt, loving or fighting, it was impossible to tell; dozens of them, and more lined the roof of the cantina like birds on a wire, bare legs hanging in front of the dead neon sign that spelled Casa del Diablo. Light fell from the stars and the batwing doors and a pole with a torch breathing medieval fire over the scene.

  Don thought there must be a serious mistake. “This can’t be right,” he said.

  Kinder parked in the middle of the road. There was nowhere else. “It’ll be fine,” Ramirez said as he hopped over the side, one hand on his turban. He waved impatiently at Don. “Don’t lag behind the big dogs, amigo. This is no place for puppies.”

  “I’m sure it’s not where my wife would’ve come.”

  “Don’t be scared, puppy. Nobody gonna lop off your head with me and Benny in your corner. Stick close, hug the wall—it’s a longer fall than them damned old stairs.” Ramirez snickered and grabbed Don’s shoulder and pushed him forward across the muddy lot and through the batwing doors into a smoggy, smolten den of crimson light and fire pit smoke coiling and roiling in a bloody miasma that rendered the occupants, of which there were scores packed into the oven, shadowy figures who stopped their boozing, dicing, and whoring to stare at Don. A yellow dog missing an eye snapped at him, all rotten teeth and lolling tongue, and tore off a chunk of his leg, putting action to the crowd’s voiceless intent. People laughed and guitars and horns kicked back to life. He’d paid the cover charge of flesh.

  “Haha, Benny, he’s bleedin’ like a stuck pig. Better sop it up, amigo. These mutts got the rabies. So do the dogs, harhar! Hey, give me some dough.” Ramirez grabbed the notes Don blindly thrust at him.

  They shoved him into a chair in the corner and he hissed through his teeth with agony as blood soaked his pants leg and he patted it with his handkerchief. Too much blood though.

  “Ay caramba! Poochie took a whole piece,” Ramirez said and pressed a bottle of warm beer into Don’s hand. “Drink. It helps!”

  Don swallowed and while he did, Ramirez cackled and dumped a stream of whiskey from a bottle he’d uncapped directly onto the seeping wound. White fire did a tarantella in Don’s brain and he nearly fell backward off the chair. Ramirez caught him.

  “Shh, amigo. Don’t show no weakness. Gotta be strong, gotta have cojones. Dog eat dog in this town, harhar!”

  No question remained in Don’s mind that he’d royally screwed up with this particular operation. Instead of getting out of a hole, he’d continued to dig for China. He lay his sweaty forehead against the table and prayed for the searing pain in his thigh to relent, for the hyenas to vanish in a puff of smoke, for the whole quagmire to dissolve and reveal itself the effluvium of a nightmare. None of that happened. Instead, Ramirez massaged his shoulders while raising the bottle with his free hand and swilling inhuman amounts of tequila and muttering what had to be a slaughtered rendition of a Mexican lullaby.

  Kinder returned, a couple of men in tow. “Good news, gringo. These guys know where the chica and her boyfriend went.”

  “Not her boyfriend, damn it!”

  “What’s that? Hey, this is excellent luck.” Ramirez shook Don none too gently. “Open your eyes, sleepyhead. Clubbo and Günter here have brought the good word. Gimme your wallet.” He snatched the remainder of the cash and stuffed the deflated wallet into Don’s shirt pocket. He glanced down and shook his head sadly at all of the blood on the floor. “Man, he really bit the shit outta you. You need to see a vet.”

  Clubbo was a silver-haired Cuban in a white shirt and a shell necklace—Ramirez explained his friend was on the lam from revolutionary forces on his island. Günter was European. His hair was nearly as long as Kinder’s, but dirty blond, and his beard was full and curly. He wore a leather jacket and leather pants and resembled an Ostrogoth who’d stepped out of a time machine, as painted by Frank Frazetta lacking only a sword in his hand and a nubile maiden wrapped around his leg. He’d tattooed skulls on his knuckles and a thick spiky bracelet adorned his left forearm. Kinder said something about a stint in a Russian gulag.

  Neither of the newcomers spoke. Their gazes slid over Don and fastened to the cash in Ramirez’s fist. Ramirez gave each a share. The men frowned and pocketed the loot. A topless bargirl with tits floppier than the hat Michelle wore in her snapshot sashayed over with a platter of beer and another bottle of rotgut tequila and everybody had a snort, including Don, who demurred and tried to squirm away, but Kinder pulled back his head by the hair and Ramirez cannon-balled the medicine down his throat and laughed as the American coughed and choked and thrashed around.

  “So your lady, she’s a scientist or some shit,” Ramirez said, and knocked back another shot of hooch. He looked like an albino devil and the stone at the center of his turban glistened like a third eye, flickered with the inner fire of the Fabled Ruby Ray powering on. “Yeah, this is the question of the hour. Why she fuckin’ around the ruins, huh? People around here don’t appreciate gringas sneaking into our ruins. Uh-uh.”

  “Maybe she just fucking around,” Kinder said, gazing at the door, one hand hidden under the table like he was waiting for John Wayne to strut in and open fire.

  Don laughed crazily, and red hate shot through his vision. He reached across the spilled drinks, smashed tortilla chips and half-full beer bottles, and socked Kinder in the mouth. Don had boxed a smidge in his youth and this was a decent blow, delivered from the lower back and hip, thrown loose as an uncoiling chain until it snapped tight on impact. The kind of blow that when delivered with twelve-ounce gloves could lay a man on his backside. Bare knuckle, it was a wicked shot. It felt like hitting a sandbag.

  Ramirez and Clubbo yanked him back. Each man drove his thumb under Don’s clavicles and he lost most of the feeling in his arms and chest.

  Kinder blinked and casually flicked a drop of blood from his dented lip. “Don’t want me talking about your puta that way, eh? Okay, I’m sorry, gringo.”

  Again Don lunged and again the men restrained him, although this time Ramirez punched him in the heart and Don’s vision went for a few seconds, along with his wind.

  Kinder smiled slightly when the American ceased gagging and retching. “Forgive me. Sometimes I forget
that not everyone is an animal. Lupe,” he nodded at Ramirez, “give our amigo another drink. He needs it. You smoke, amigo?” He drew a cigarette from a plain white pack and lighted it with a match he struck on the sole of his boot. “Nah, you don’t smoke. Climbing in and outta them caves, you gotta be strong.” He flexed his biceps mockingly. “Too much smoke robs your strength. But listen, so does a woman. Don’t hit me, hombre. I’m giving you some wisdom. Women like your wife, women who wear pants and run around with handsome strangers, you gotta watch out for those bitches. They don’t care for nothing but themselves. I’m sorry to tell you this. It’s the way of the world.”

  “Piss up a rope,” Don said, hoping for Gary Cooper but probably channeling Andy Griffith. Cursing wasn’t his forte, however the occasion seemed to merit it. The others had released his arms, but he’d calmed and his urge to kick the Mexican’s ass or die trying had subsided. His rage smoldered, tempered by the change in Kinder’s timber, how the man’s rough features had smoothed and taken on the aspect of an entomologist preparing to dissect an insect. Genie-like, Louis Plimpton’s blandly superior face came to mind. “I sure as hell smoke.” He clumsily snatched a cigarette from stoic Clubbo and lighted it from the candle in the bowl because his fingers weren’t working very well. “How’d you know I cave?”

  “Señor Miller, how do you think? Montoya told me over the phone.”

  “Yeah? Damned short conversation.”

  “Montoya is concise.”

  Don’s pain receded to a dull throb in the background wash of light and noise. “You guys aren’t cops.”

  “Real bright one here,” Ramirez said.

  Kinder sighed. “Shut up, Lupe. Look, amigo. Everything is going to be all right. The señora is fine. She’ll come home tomorrow as if nothing ever happened. What say we enjoy a few more drinks then get you to your hotel and you forget about rushing into the hills looking for her and this Trent pendejo?”

  “Do you know where my wife is?”

  “Si, señor. Can’t you relax and have a nice evening? Let your troubles resolve themselves. As I say to you before, these wayward women will only bring you sorrow. No use chasing after them like a dog chasing chickens.”

  “I say we round up some putas and go to the donkey show!”

  “If you aren’t cops,” Miller said, “then what are you?”

  “He’s not gonna listen to reason and get whores with us,” Ramirez said. “Montoya said so.”

  “Shut up, Lupe,” Kinder said.

  “Easy, easy. Just sayin’.”

  “Dirección Federal de Seguridad.”

  “Mexican Intelligence? Where’s your suit, your badge?”

  “I hope you can keep a secret, señor Miller.” Kinder stared coldly at Don, and it was similar to the creepy look Montoya had used, except Kinder was built like a truck and carried a knife large enough to slice off a man’s arm. “Sure, yes. You’re all right, Miller. We can be friends.”

  “Mexican Intelligence… Good lord. You go after the real bad guys.”

  “Si, señor. We go after the bad men.”

  “You’re surveilling Michelle? What on earth for? Is that legal?”

  “Everything is legal in México, especially for us, stupido,” Ramirez said and snickered in that ugly manner of his. “We make the rules.”

  “We’re not watching señora Miller. She’s not important. We’re watching Professor Trent.”

  “Oh, that rat bastard. How I’m growing to hate that sonofabitch.”

  “Hey, there’s the spirit,” Ramirez said and slapped Don’s shoulder.

  “What’s he mixed my poor sweetie up in? Oh, god, it’s nothing to do with the Reds, is it? Jesus, she’ll be blacklisted…”

  The men exchanged glances. Kinder said, “Nothing to concern you, or your wife. This is an internal matter, a matter of state security. Come, finish your beer and we’ll take you home. Tomorrow all will be well.”

  “‘An’ all manner of things will be well’,” Ramirez said.

  “Lupe, for the love of fuck, please shut up.”

  “Okay, I am.”

  “No way, Jose,” Don said, a tiny bit drunk on top of everything else. “She isn’t spending another night doing god knows what with Mr. Sweden. No, sir. I insist, secret agent Kinder, sidekick Ramirez, your two goons, that you escort me at once to these precious ruins of yours.” He slapped the table for emphasis.

  “But, señor… What will you do if we find them?”

  “I’m going to challenge him to a duel. Anybody got a gun?” Don swayed in his seat, steadied by Ramirez and one of the aforementioned goons, Günter.

  “Ay yi yi,” Kinder said and again glanced at his friends. “So be it. Montoya promised you’d prove intractable. Lupe, my apologies. To the car, then. Ondalay.”

  3.

  The brutes Günter and Clubbo assisted Don to the car as his legs had all but given out from exhaustion after the adrenaline rush, loss of blood, and the free-flowing booze. The trio sat in back, Don wedged in the middle, his head resting on Clubbo’s shoulder. Clubbo smelled pretty good; a combination of liquor, smoke, and aftershave. Don drifted in and out of reality as Kinder dropped the hammer and they hurtled along a winding road that led ever farther from the city into the night.

  “My people were Celts,” Ramirez said.

  “Celts, really?” Don was slurring. “I thought there was something different about you.”

  “My clan is special. Real black sheep. We were into the groovy shit, hombre. We danced to the music of the old black gods.”

  “Celestial music,” Kinder said, his voice heavy with melancholy. “Those must’ve been the days.”

  “Don’t be sad, compadre. The wheel rolls round and round all hail Old leech!” And this shout was echoed by Kinder and the heretofore silent Clubbo and Günter.

  “My wife would love to talk with you,” Don said.

  “Oh, yeah!”

  “Shut, up, Lupe! The fucker will climb over there and kick your ass.” Kinder feathered the brakes and slewed the big car wildly, throwing everyone around.

  After they’d straightened out and things were calm for a few moments, Ramirez said as if muttering to himself, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. At the fall of the Western Roman Empire in Britannia, we were there, man, sticking the shiv to those wop fucks. We limed our hair and fought butt naked, painted in blue and red. We set ourselves on fire, hacked off the heads of our enemies and made fruit bowls outta their skulls. Got one in my pad, too. Fought with copper and bronze and flint. Men fucked men when putas were scarce, and the dogs ran scared. Everybody ran scared. So don’t screw with me.” His eyes were wild in the rearview and Don waved at him, limply.

  “Nobody’s screwing with you,” Kinder said. The pair passed a marijuana cigarette back and forth and the Cadillac swooped in broad, stately arcs across the faded centerline. Too dark to be certain, but it felt mountainous.

  “I’m okay,” Ramirez said after taking a manly drag on the cigarette. He popped his eyes at Don in the mirror. “Be good, puppy. You’re under surveillance.”

  Something huge and dark blotted the stars, and snuggling into Günter’s armpit, Don realized his instincts were absolutely correct—they were in the mountains. Even then, the powerful Cadillac toiled beneath the shadow of a tower of rock. The warm wind grew dense with the tang of pollen and sap, a cloying sauna humidity that instantly stuck Don’s shirt to the small of his back and caused him to imagine Aztec ziggurats wreathed in vines and a terrible shadow of winged lizard gliding across the rainbow landscape, an Aztec Princess, nude as fire and over her shoulder a storm cloud, a cloud of something at any rate, a ball of raveling yarn crackling with lightning and closing fast. He groaned and Ramirez barked laughter, and then the car stopped.

  Don tried to make a break as soon as the doors opened; jackknifed his head into Günter’s jaw and then flung himself across Clubbo, elbowing and clawing the big man as he went. Günter wasn’t any more fazed by the headbutt than Kinder had been b
y getting socked back at the cantina. The brute caught Don’s belt and he and Clubbo threw him from the Cadillac. Don landed face down in the dirt and the goons casually kicked him in the ribs and thighs until he couldn’t suck enough air to scream.

  Kinder called a halt to the beating.

  Günter and Clubbo helped Don to his feet and led him by the headlights’ shaft to a mossy boulder and propped him against it. Things happened as if in a dream—someone stripped his jacket and shirt; a quick yank and there went his belt and pants, everything dumped into a canvas bag Kinder held open. Don didn’t resist; his limbs were heavy as lead and focusing was impossible.

  In his delirium he was far past resistance or holding grudges. He said, “Am I being Shanghaied?” and everyone chuckled and Ramirez patted his arm, careful to stay clear of the blood pumping from his nose and the gore yet trickling down Don’s leg from the savage dog bite. To Don, his thigh and lower leg were a mass of grue, no better than a deer haunch smashed by a car, but he felt only the dullest sensation of pain at this point. Insects churred in the thick brush that surrounded them. Rocks and gravel everywhere, the dim outline of a cliff just at the edge of the headlights’ glow; a cave mouth. Someone had painted an inverted crucifix and a crude devil face against the pale rock of the mountainside and other, obscure symbols and glyphs whose significance escaped him. “Are these the ruins?”

  “There are many, many ruins in Mexico.” Kinder straightened and handed the bag to Clubbo. Clubbo walked to the car and tossed the bag inside. “There are many wonders. I regret to say, compadre, that these ruins your wife spoke of do not exist. I could not take you somewhere that does not exist, so I bring you here. This is the Cave of the Ancients. A dangerous, dangerous place, unless you know where to step. There is a hole inside the entrance. Not far, not far. It may interest a man such as yourself. The hole is bottomless. I ask myself if such a thing as a bottomless hole is possible. We shall go see it now, eh?”