The Savage(56)

“Where are you hiding them?” Cotto questioned as he glared down at the planks of floor. Then back to Raúl. His eyes locked hard on Manny’s. Hesitated once more. Manny’s eyes were harder. Spooned Raúl’s out, scattered them beneath their footing as if they were a muddy trail of thumbs he’d removed. And Raúl glared at the foundation of the house. “Locked beneath the rug, under our boots.”

Manny bit down on his rage. “You try and play me for a fool. Give my wife to this maniac, the Ox, and his men. Bring others here but not me, my son, or my wife?”

Fear baked Raúl’s lips and the words that fell from them were, “No, no. Was different. Larger groups come here, I have to keep them safe. You, your wife and boy, I could do in town. You’re not a fool, se—”

Manny brought the pistol across Raúl’s face. Mucus, spittle, and a few teeth dotted the floor like red flung from a brush to a white canvas. “I’ve heard enough. Letting my wife be defiled. Treated as though she were a piece of mutton.” Glancing at the shelf where the wallet and revolver lay, Manny caught the shape of José. Motioned to Cotto. “Grab that tequila. Give him a swig to lube the lies from his tongue.”

Raúl twisted his head from side to side. “Se?or, you will need that when the Ox comes with his men. He’s a monster. He’ll bury me deep and you just above the ceiling to hell.”

Cotto reached for the bottle. Took the cap from its opening. Turned to Raúl. Placed the bottle on his lips and lifted it. Raúl’s throat muscles elevatored up and down as he took a large swallow. Cotto stepped away from him, holding the bottle.

“Only if I let him,” Manny says. “Tell me, how many does he travel with?”

“T-t-th-three, three men,” Raúl stuttered.

“Counting himself?”

“Sí, sí. H-h-he is the driver. One rides shotgun. One rides center. They drive an old cattle truck, load the walkers with hay sometimes, then they get you to the border.”

“And?”

“And they get you to the pickup point and make the call.”

“How do they call?”

“By cell phone.”

“Whose cell phone?”

“The Ox.”

“Who makes the pickup?”

“All we call him is the King.”

Manny turned from Raúl. Shook his head in disgust. Turned back to him with the .38, pressed it above the bridge of his nose, and said, “You took an oath to protect and serve, instead you’re working for a smuggler of the flesh. Peddling human cargo.”

Raúl stuttered, “J-j-j-judge how you will. It’s more than humans being smuggled from this country, it’s every man for himself, we’re shifting between two things, drugs and those who control their routes. Law has no loyalty and little pay. If you don’t shuffle dope or flesh, then you starve. You think the police department can feed a man and his family? I get one hundred American dollars for each walker I set up for transport. I only make four hundred dollars a month being an officer of the law.”

“Drugs? You’re packing the peasants with what, cocaine, marijuana, heroin?”

“Not I. The Ox and his men give the peasants packs to carry with marijuana, sometimes the other.”

Headlights beamed from outside, created shadows for the three bodies inside the house. Manny turned and Raúl lit up with fear and told him, “Now you shall see. The Ox will dismember you and your boy while you’re full of breath. Will skin and gut you. Feed your remains to his dogs. You should run while you can.”

Cotto watched his father reach for a hat that Raúl had hanging from the wall. Placing it upon his head, he told Raúl, “You won’t view it. But you shall hear it.” Pausing, he turned to Cotto and said, “Grab a rag from the kitchen. Stuff it down his fucking throat. Then come with me, keep behind with your pistol tucked at the ready.”

Out the door, Manny’s boots treaded the parched earth. Cotto stayed behind him. The taste of dry heaves hung in the heated air. Two men dropped from the passenger’s side of the large vehicle. One man slid from the driver’s side. Lights made the outlines appear like silhouettes. And one of the men shouted to Manny, “Raúl, are my eyes deceiving me? Have you slimmed down, my friend, or is it just this light that plays tricks with my sight?”

One of the other men shouted, “And he’s brought his boy.”

Manny didn’t waste time, raised the pistol, knowing he had four shots left. Fired once. Twice. Dead center to the foreheads of the passengers on his left. Their weight dampened the ground. To his right, the Ox reached to his body, was backing up as he screamed, “You’ve dug your grave, Raúl!” Before he could shoot, Manny trailed toward him. Footfalls hit fast. Aiming where he knew there’d be a left shoulder. Pulled the trigger. He had one shot remaining as the man spun and fell. Cotto kept his distance, watched Manny cloak over top of this man called the Ox. Manny mashed the left wrist with his boot, it held a .45-caliber pistol, a steer with horns was engraved on its shell-white handle. Manny smirked.

“You’re the one referenced as the Ox?”

Top teeth met bottom teeth. Slobber poured from the corners of the man’s cacti-mouth. “I am. But you’re a dead inhabitant to this world. Your burial is already being fashioned.”