The Savage(62)

Standing there, he shook his head. What the fuck have I stepped into? He walked off to his left, where the large leather heavy bags hung. His eyes followed the chain connected into the dated wood, meeting a thickly gauged hook that screwed into the rafter, the bag’s center was wrung by seams of duct tape. Meaning it was still being used. Several sets of bag gloves and weathered jump ropes lay upon a bench. Racist brawlers, Angus thought.

Wanting to release his tension from the situation that was being created, the pugilism that was coming, Angus raised his left hand to his temple, hinged his knees, tucked his chin, felt the heft of the female across his shoulder, wanted to ball his foot and come southpaw with a bone-rattling lead right hook that’d shake the ceiling, the walls, but he could not as he clutched the pistol and the unease of something amiss within the dwelling.

From behind where the Nazi flag hung came the slide of a stall door. Dust beamed in the haze of light and the music of Hank III bounced hard from within and a voice sparked with, “Who the shit—”

Angus twisted around, glared at the image of not one but two men, one holding what appeared to be an unction-stained rag in one hand, the other clamped onto a .45 handgun. Each was shirtless, bruised, scabbed, tattooed with swastikas, skulls, the SS symbols flagging their necks. Their pants tucked into their boots. Suspenders ran from their waists and up over their shoulders; each was smudged by ill living conditions. Stubbled faces, ratty locks, and their teeth were amiss, stained the colors of yellow jackets.

A feeling of dread coated and clung to Angus. He began to step backward when the track of feet patted behind him and the pound of angular steel shafted the rear of his skull. Something like electric pain sheered through his limbs. He lost sensation in his feelers. Eyes blinked and blurred. He dropped his .45. Then his thighs, knees, shins, and the balls of his feet wavered with that confetti-like inertia. He lowered himself to one knee, brought the female from his shoulder as though a sack of grain. Slammed her forward, padded the dirt floor with her back. Trying to shake the butterflies that circled his head with the tromp of boots coming before him, he listened to the high-pitched hick giggle coming from behind him with “Got his ass, I got his ass good.”





COTTO

Rough as flint edge that’d been sharpened by Indians, several men eyed Manny and Cotto with bloodshot suspicion and possibility, not knowing if they were affiliated with drug lords, men on the lam, or those who had a dollar on their heads. Father and son stood beside the beat farm truck loaded down with peasants in the rear outside of the decaying-clay cantina several miles before the border.

While they were waiting for Ernesto, Chub, and Minister, the sanctum was a place where beer was warm and the women were stained by the men who batted their skin as a means of foreplay. This was a land where if a woman claimed to have been defiled forcefully by a male, she must prove her chastity before any action could be taken.

Splotches of bone-colored flesh with patches of fur marbled the skinny strays that pawed across the uneven road.

They came like shadows from the sun, Ernesto, Chub, and Minister. Ernesto announced, “It’s been too long, my brother.” Each offered their condolences to Manny and Cotto for the loss of a wife and a mother. Manny nodded a thank-you, asked, “You bring everything?”

Ernesto smiled and unholstered his pistol, handed it to Manny.

Manny looked over the rubbed steel of the .45.

“Nice,” Manny told him, and handed the firearm back, asked, “And mine?”

Minister went back to their vehicle, came back with a worn military pack, reached inside, offered Manny a holstered pistol and several clips. “Yours.”

Chub told him, “Look in the pack, everything you asked for. Even a nine-millimeter for Cotto. And more provisions in the truck.”

Manny stood palming two pistols as if he were the lead in a John Woo film, one in each hand, testing the weight. Then slid it into the clip-on holster, pushed it down into the side of his waist. Took the pack, looked at the boxes of ammo, the clips and the pocketknife-sized lengths of putty, grinned at Ernesto, and asked, “How did you come by all of this so quickly?”

With a baked hide and a cast-iron jawline, Ernesto told Manny in a matter-of-fact voice, “When we left the regime, I took what I wanted, knowing I’d never be accountable for it. Thought maybe one day it would be of use.”

With black bandanas over their heads, Chub and Minister squeezed Manny’s shoulders and spoke at the same time, “And that day has come, big brother.”

Looking to the truck bed, Ernesto asked, “And of what use are these scavengers you’re hauling around like burlaps of grain?”

“That’s what we will be transporting. They’re our bait.”

“Bait?”

“For the King, they carry his weight.”

Ernesto’s eyes went dental-floss thin. “Weight? You mean drugs?”

“Yes, drugs. We need to find someplace without attention. Get them rigged up with the explosives.”

Ernesto smiled. “Manny, my friend, there is no length of harm I would not endure or commit for you.”

“Nor I for you, brother, nor I for you.” And Chub told him, “We should get before someone gets curious to our actions.”

Manny nodded. “To the border.”

Each piled into their vehicles, shifted into gear, and headed down the scorched road while eyes watched from the cantina.