The Second Saladin
Page 41
The drive through the desert, down from Tucson, had passed swiftly and the town was upon them with a suddenness that almost drove the pain from Chardy’s head. He could see it: the hills beyond the wire fence littered with the shacks of the poor, in blue and pink and other hopeful colors. Over the automobile-inspection booths and the pedestrian turnstile hung a bulky green bridge of offices. Cars were jammed up in both directions and a hundred people loafed on either side of the wire.
Chardy gazed on the scene without interest. It had all begun here months ago: so what? The sense of circle, of completion, of ending, held no magic for him. Yet, still, he’d wanted this job: to take the Mexican back and set him free, another survivor.
Chardy pulled the car over to the curb eighty yards up the slope of the avenue from the border.
“Okay, chum. It’s all yours. Go on.”
Ramirez lurched from the car. He must have had a thousand stitches in him. He was like some old, dented Mexican ’52 De Soto, rusty and scabby, beaten to hell, with a gray fender and a blue door and a bumper wired on, but running smoothly after 300,000 miles. He moved ahead toward the gate and seemed to slow, as if he felt dizzy or nauseous. He stopped to gather himself.
Chardy got out.
“You okay?” he called, reaching for the trembling arm.
“Sure, sí. Reynoldo’s fine.”
“You’ve got your money?”
“You bet.”
In his pocket Ramirez had a nice stake for the future, courtesy of the American government.
“Go on. What are you waiting for?” Chardy asked.
“Nada,” said Ramirez, straightening. He must have been fifty; he looked a hundred. He walked ahead swiftly and reached the gate. He halted, his fingers touching the cold metal of the turnstile, then plunged through.
Chardy sat on the fender and watched him go until he lost him among the crowds of pimps and Indians and souvenir sellers and Exclusivo cabdrivers and young girls.
Chardy tried not to think of another man he’d hoped to take to a border and tell, Go on. You’re free. Get out of here. He also remembered a woman—and a dreamy young man. They’d all gotten fucked trying to get across borders.
The sun was bright and the wind blew loose sheets of newspaper through the air, whipped up eddies of dust, swirled girls’ dresses up to show their white thighs, but Chardy could not see the Mexican at all. He was gone. He was definitely gone.
Chardy turned back and climbed into the car. He thought he might find a bar and kill a few beers, a few hours. There was no hurry.
Stephen Hunter is the author of nine novels, including the national bestsellers Black Light, Dirty White Boys, Point of Impact, with over three million copies in print, and his latest Time to Hunt. He is also the chief film critic for The Washington Post and the author of a collection of criticism, Violent Screen. He lives in Baltimore, Maryland.
Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Random House, Inc.
1540 Broadway
New York, New York 10036
The title line “Are There Really Any Cowboys Left in the Good Old U.S.A.?” is used in the epigraph with the permission of the Algee Music Corporation Copyright © 1980 Algee Music Corporation.
Copyright © 1982 by Stephen Hunter
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: William Morrow and Company, Inc., New York, New York.
The trademark Dell® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
eISBN: 978-0-307-76289-4
Reprinted by arrangement with William Morrow and Company, Inc.
v3.0