Grant reached the bottom and leaned on a wooden chair next to the clock. “And hit it with a big stick.”
The clock ticked.
The lead Mexican kept hold of the wife. “We can get sticks if you want.”
Grant rested a hand on top of the chair. “For the piñata or the woman? Wife beating’s pretty low, even for a Mexican.”
The leader let the woman go. “You think we low?”
The clock ticked.
“I think you’re somewhere between dried snot and that stuff I’d scrape off the bottom of my shoe.”
He had their attention now. The Texan managed to shuffle back out of the kicking circle. The woman cradled his head and cried. Grant’s hand went from resting on the chair to gripping it, ready for action. The Mexicans formed a semicircle in front of him and braced themselves for the charge. Santa Anna at the Alamo. Making Jim Grant Davy Crockett. Maybe Robert Earl Keen or Marty Robbins could write a song about this.
The clock ticked.
Grant’s fist tightened on the chair, ready to whip it up. The semicircle spread to form a wider front. Grant’s eyes darted from the man on the left to the one on the right. The leader was second left. The first one Grant would have to disable. The leader feigned a lunge, then backed off. Grant didn’t fall for the distraction. He didn’t focus on any one of them but kept soft eyes on all four. Four against one wasn’t good odds. He had no illusions that he was going to come out of this unscathed. He lifted the chair and held it tight against one side like a lion tamer.
The clock ticked. It was time.
Grant flexed his knees and tightened his grip on the chair. He leaned forward slightly, putting his balance on the balls of his feet, ready to move. The four Mexicans hunched their shoulders like rugby forwards. Then a young voice screamed out from the office door—“Mommy!”—and a five-year-old girl rushed into her mother’s arms.
The dynamic changed in an instant. The woman dropped the Texan’s head and embraced her daughter. The Texan’s head banged on the floor, but he didn’t seem to mind. The desk clerk didn’t seem to mind either as his face struggled between happiness and worry. The Mexicans seemed to be the most worried, and that surprised Grant. In his experience, street brawlers weren’t bothered about having children witness their fights. This child must be a special case because the leader threw a worried glance toward the staircase and took half a step backwards. The other three caught the look and did the same.
“Mommy. Mommy.”
The girl was crying with joy. The mother held her tight, whispering her name as if afraid talking too loud would awaken a sleeping dragon.
“Anarosa.”
The embrace was bright and heartfelt. Grant lowered the chair but didn’t relax his stance. This could still kick off. The thing that did change was his thoughts about drug smuggling and deals gone wrong. It looked like this was about something more primal: maternal instinct.
A door slammed upstairs, and everyone looked up. The sleeping dragon. The man leaning over the balcony was dark and powerful and brought drug dealing back to the fore. He could be Pablo Escobar’s long-lost brother—only Mexican, not Columbian. He came down the stairs with an easy grace that belied the fact he could probably have everyone in the room killed with the click of his fingers. The dynamic changed again. Tension filled the lobby.
“You should not have come back.”
The mother held her daughter and nodded toward the desk clerk. “He already told me that.”
“He was right.”
The man reached the bottom of the stairs, and the four Mexicans stepped back. Grant put the chair down. The movement drew the man’s attention. He looked Grant up and down, then nodded.
“You were protecting her. I respect that. But whatever she told you is a lie.”
Grant shook his head. “Not me. I’m a tourist.”
“And you were just rearranging the chairs, yes?”
“No. I was going to knock his teeth out with it.”
“That would be unfortunate. We do not have a dentist in Boquillas.”
“But you have a hotel.”
“It is good for business.”
“What business is that?”
The man smiled. “Same as yours. Tourism.”
Grant decided to prod a little. “Across the border? Using mules?”
The man kept the smile, but his eyes turned cold. “We don’t use mules. Donkeys. For the tourists.”
“Because I heard that mules go north—into Texas.”
The smile faded. “You a cop?”
Grant shook his head. “Not today.”
“Well, today, as a tourist, you can take a donkey ride. You can book them anywhere in town.”
He turned his attention to the mother and daughter. They were huddled together between the tables. He straightened the chairs and offered a hand to help them up. The mother took it reluctantly and sat on the nearest chair. The daughter stood beside her, arms tightly wrapped around her mother. The dragon spoke in rapid Spanish, making hand gestures and movements, first to her and then to himself, then another gesture waving the Texan away. Grant didn’t understand the Spanish, but the body language was clear. The woman belonged with the dragon and the Texan should have stayed away. A contradiction to the “you should not have come back” statement. If Grant was reading this right, the girl was being kept as insurance that the woman did come back. The Texan was the fly in the ointment. And the backup man from the bus, whom the Mexicans thought was Grant.
The dragon became a concerned father. His voice was soft. “Anarosa. Please.”
He held a hand up and clicked his fingers. The desk clerk rushed over and guided the girl toward the office. The father figure put on his sad face and spoke in English. “A young girl should not witness such distressing things.”
He looked around to show he was addressing everyone. “It would be remiss of me to allow it.”
He shrugged and held his hands out palms up. “What kind of guardian would I be?”
He clicked his fingers again, and the Mexican heavies surrounded the intruders.
“So your reservations have been canceled.”
Grant’s overnight bag dropped on the floor in front of him. He looked up. There were two more Mexicans at the top of the stairs. That made six plus the head man. The Texan helped his wife to her feet and headed toward the front door. Grant picked up his bag and followed. The dragon called after the woman.
“Marissa.”
He waved at the dining tables.
“Join us for breakfast. With Anarosa.”
Marissa didn’t trust herself to speak.
“Come alone. Or you will never see her again.”
She didn’t nod or shake her head or show any sign of acknowledging the threat. All three went out the front door into the gathering gloom. Dusk had settled. The sky was still blue but darkening toward black. Down the street, the red and yellow Carta Blanca sign flickered into life. The light was a beacon for thirsty travelers. Grant looked at it, then turned to Marissa and the Texan.
“Let’s go have a beer. We need to talk.”
Before they could agree, the big man with the dark eyes came out of the shadows and stood in front of Grant. His hands balled into fists. Grant took a step back.
“Is that a no to the beer?”
The Park Bar was busy for a midweek night. That meant one man drinking at the bar, an aged couple sitting at a table, and two young men shooting pool on a torn, faded table in the back. The jukebox filled the air with melancholy cowboy music.
“Don’t they know any happy songs?” Grant set the tray on the table and sat down.
Marissa picked up a beer. “What’s there to be happy about?”
Grant pulled up a chair from the next table and sat down. “Not getting punched in the face by your uncle?”
Grant took a sip of chilled Coca-Cola. “And Vasquez thinks I’m with you.”
“You are, now. Sorry about that as well.”
The introductions had been made on the way down the street. Marissa Bohorquez was an unmarried mother five years ago, the father killed in one of the local drug wars. She met Jake Slade a couple years later on a trip to Texas and married him after a whirlwind romance. Domingo Vasquez didn’t like that, having designs on Marissa himself, so he snatched Anarosa as punishment until Marissa came around to his way of thinking. Mother and daughter were kept apart by circumstance and the lack of a nearby border crossing. Until now. Marissa’s uncle on her father’s side watched Vasquez refit the Buzzard’s Roost in preparation for the new border crossing. Tony Bohorquez saw the chance to snatch Anarosa back and booked the sightseeing tour for his niece. Then Jim Grant became involved and got them all kicked out of the hotel.
“That wasn’t my fault.”
Marissa almost choked on her beer. “You were going to attack Vasquez’s men with a chair.”
Grant raised his eyebrows. “They were kicking the shit out of Jake at the time.”
Jake rubbed his sore ribs. “I can vouch for that.”
Tony Bohorquez turned dark eyes on his niece. He spoke with a thick accent. “Marrying a gringo annoyed Vasquez.”
Marissa held Jake’s hand and looked at her uncle. “He wasn’t happy when I was dating a Mexican.”
Bohorquez shook his head. “Everyone knew that Vasquez wanted you for himself.”
Marissa put it more bluntly. “He didn’t want me sleeping with his business rival.”
Grant sought clarification. “Tourist business?”
All three looked at him. Marissa answered. “The drug business. They didn’t fight over me. They fought over land.”
Grant thought he knew the answer to his next question. “And?”
Marissa squeezed Jake’s hand. Bohorquez answered for her.
“The hotel burned down. Anarosa’s father was killed. Life went on.”
Grant nodded. “The phoenix has risen from the ashes.”
Marissa looked confused. “Phoenix?”
Grant waved a hand toward the hotel. “Buzzard.”
Marissa sighed. “Yes, he built a new hotel. Boquillas Crossing is open. And this time I will not leave without my daughter.”
Grant toyed with his bottle but didn’t drink. Balls clacked together on the pool table. A different cowboy sang a different song, just as sad as the last. It appeared there were no happy endings in country and western. Didn’t look like there were any happy endings in Mexico either. He stopped toying with the bottle and looked at the little group of exiles.
“He’s got six men over there.”
Bohorquez leaned forward. “More.”
Grant looked at Marissa. “And you’re just going to walk in and take your daughter from him.”
Marissa shook her head. “No. I’m going to have breakfast with them.”
She smiled.
“You’re going to walk in and take my daughter from him.”
The sun rose early. It was already high in another cloudless sky by the time sizzling food smells drifted across the street. An old man led a line of donkeys to the hitching post and tied them up ready for the tourists. Bells around their necks rattled. Bottles clinked in the quiet morning air as the bartender put his empties out behind the Park Bar. The red and yellow Carta Blanca sign looked faded in the morning light. The Licores Mexicanos signage looked even worse. High above the Rio Grande an eagle soared, its head tilting from side to side while it searched for prey.
“Are you sure you really want to do this?”
Grant stood in the shade of the dried-up ironwood tree and looked into dead black eyes. The eyes didn’t flinch. The sun beat down. The look told Grant one thing for certain. Yes, Tony Bohorquez really did want to do this. Grant turned his attention to the Texan.
“And you?”
Jake nodded.
Grant waved a hand toward the Buzzard’s Roost.
“We’re just going to march over there like The Wild Bunch?”
Bohorquez looked confused. “Wild bunch?”
Jake explained. “Old Western starring William Holden.”
Bohorquez understood. “I see it on movie channel.”
Grant looked at them both. “How’d that turn out?”
This time Bohorquez looked exasperated at the oblique line of questioning. “What you saying?”
Jake explained again. “He’s saying we’re all gonna die.”
Grant shook his head. “I’m saying The Wild Bunch went storming in, guns blazing”—he made gun shapes with both hands and mimicked firing them—“and the Mexicans shot them to pieces.”
Jake looked doubtful. “I got a gun. Back home.”
“In Texas?”
“Yeah.”
Grant lowered his hands. “Best place for it. They’d out-gun us anyway.”
Bohorquez leaned on the tree. “They will not shoot while Anarosa is there.”
Grant pointed out the obvious. “They will after she’s gone.”
He held his hands out, palms up, to show they were empty. “Unless I show them we’re unarmed.”
Bohorquez shook his head. “Vasquez won’t believe you.”
Grant rubbed his chin. “I think he will. How about this?”
He explained his idea. It only took a few minutes. The plan, the timing, and what he wanted each of them to do. When he finished, he waited for their response.
Silence washed over him. The donkeys shuffled at the hitching post down the street. The bartender noticed the group under the hanging tree and went back inside the Park Bar. The eagle continued looking for prey. Jake was struck dumb. Bohorquez broke into a smile.
“You one crazy son of a bitch.”
Grant smiled back and stepped out of the shade. The sun was hot on his back. His footsteps puffed up little clouds of dust but made no sound. He turned to Jake and jerked a thumb at the tree.
“Okay, then. Ring the bell.”
It felt like the longest walk of Grant’s life. Side by side with Tony Bohorquez, they left the hanging tree behind them and walked along Main Street into the sun. High noon, except it was only breakfast time. There were adobe buildings on either side. They passed the string of donkeys at the hitching post on the left. They passed the burned-out shell of the original Buzzard’s Roost on the right. Up ahead, the hacienda that had become the new hotel shimmered in the heat.
Breakfast smelled nice. In the lobby dining area Marissa would be eating with her daughter and the man who had stole Anarosa away. Vasquez would be gloating over the woman he thought he was about to reclaim.
Grant and Bohorquez approached the front porch. Behind them, the bell rang one last time, then fell silent. The bus driver had been right. Sound did carry in Boquillas del Carmen. A motor started up somewhere in the distance. The eagle gave up and drifted across the border into Texas. The two men exchanged a glance, then Bohorquez went around the side of the building. Grant looked at the front door and let out a sigh. He went through the archway onto the porch, then began to take his clothes off.
Breakfast was a private affair, just Vasquez and Marissa and Anarosa. They were sitting in the far corner of the lobby’s dining area at a table set for three. Nobody else was having breakfast. There were no other guests. The tourists had been kicked out of the hotel yesterday. It was a private affair, but not a cordial one. The atmosphere was tense even before Grant entered the lobby. He noticed that as soon as he walked through the door.
Vasquez sat with his back to the reception desk. Anarosa was a quarter turn to his left, facing the staircase. It was Marissa who saw Grant first, and the surprise on
her face couldn’t hide the smile. This wasn’t what she had expected when she’d said, “You’re going to walk in and take my daughter from him.” She brought up a hand to cover her mouth, but her eyes said it all. Vasquez caught the expression and turned around. The look on his face would have been comical if the situation wasn’t so serious.
“What you doing, man? This a family breakfast.”
The desk clerk looked up from his paperwork and jolted awake. He glanced at Vasquez and then up to the banister rail at the top of the stairs. Two of Vasquez’s men were leaning on the railing. This was a low-risk meeting so he hadn’t deployed the full team. Grant doubted the rest would be very far away. At the sound of their boss’s voice they stood upright and were just as shocked as Marissa.
Jim Grant crossed the lobby and stood in the middle of the floor. He was naked except for his black K-Swiss tennis shoes. The white socks were pushed down to the ankles to show he had no weapons tucked in them. He held his arms out to either side with his hands open, then did a slow turn all the way round until he faced front again.
Marissa giggled at the No Entry tattoo just above Grant’s backside. Anarosa turned to see what the fuss was all about and let out a little yelp of surprise. Vasquez covered her eyes with one hand like a protective parent.
“You got no shame?”
Grant lowered his arms. “I got no gun. Wanted to make sure you knew that.”
“I understand that. Now cover yourself up. We got a child here.”
Grant shrugged. “Don’t have any clothes.”
Vasquez snapped his fingers at the desk clerk and waved toward the office. The little Mexican dashed over and hustled Anarosa to safety. Grant’s eyes followed her until the door closed. He relaxed and turned back toward the table. Marissa glanced beyond Grant to the front door, but nobody else came in. This wasn’t the plan they’d discussed over beers at the Park Bar. It caught her by surprise as much as Vasquez. Good. Grant liked to keep the opposition off guard. If Marissa had known what Grant was going to do, she might have let it slip. The fact that she was shocked too made Vasquez’s confusion all the greater.
“You jus’ made a very big mistake.”
Jim Grant Short Stories #2 Page 2