The Savage(72)

Manny laughed. “Really? Does he believe in taking a peasant’s money, raping his wife, and murdering her? Leaving her corpse in an alleyway like trash with bugs denning into her decomposition?”

The driver and the passengers held a distraught appearance about their complexions, and the driver said, “What the Ox does is not a reflection of how we pass business in the States.”

Manny was buying time, Cotto could see this, listening to him navigate this man from what he’d come to do, by mentioning the murder of Kabeza, seeing the faces of these men, maybe they too had wives, he was getting into their heads, pulling their thoughts and concentration from being enforcers or soldiers to being husbands for a brief moment. Manny had created an opening, his opening, something that would lessen these men’s reaction times. And then it came, the echo of a carbine.

In one motion, Manny released the peasant’s hair, pushed his frame forward. Dropped, pointed, and pulled the trigger once, then twice; denim and knee exploded, bone and blood curled and expanded like kernels of popcorn as the left shoulder of the driver opened up. At the same time, behind Manny, Chub, Minister, and Cotto pulled from their dirty and ragged cotton the pistols they’d been gripping and opened fire. The other men dropped before getting a shot off. With them went their grasps on the automatic weapons. One of the peasants stood and ran. Manny turned. Didn’t flinch nor hesitate. Pulled the trigger, drew an entry point into the rear of the peasant’s skull. His face combusted with the bullet’s exit. Smeared the ground with pieces of expression as he dropped.

Stepping toward the men, Chub, Minister, Cotto, and Manny kicked at the gringos’ automatic weapons. Aimed their pistols down at the faces of each of the men and Chub mouthed, “Who lives?”

Manny laughed as he kneeled. Peeled the glasses from the driver, took in the expanse of his pupils that had dilated into supersize tadpoles as his body shook. Manny said, “This one, I think we’ve bonded.”

And the driver said, “Wait!”

But it was too late. Gunfire erupted all around them. The lives of the passengers ended. Chub and Minister took to the truck, searching its interior, making sure it was clean of other men.

From behind Manny came footfalls. A peasant screamed. Manny, Chub, Minister, and Cotto turned to view Ernesto smirking. Blood rolled from his elbows to his digits, which curved into a clamp, carrying the head of a man. “I’ve brought you what you asked for, Manny, just like the old days.”

Manny nodded and said, “A gift for the King.” He turned to Chub and Minister. “Decapitate the other two also. And wrap them with their shirts.” He looked at the driver, and Cotto realized at that moment what his father had been when he was soldiering, what Chub, Minister, and Ernesto were. Savages.

“What about the others in the rocks?” asked Chub.

“Let them warn the King of our coming. We’ve the upper hand now,” Manny told him.

Reminded of those times when he and his mother were left for long periods of time without Manny. Or when Cotto was awakened in the deep falls of night. His father making a quick exit. Returning days and days later. Sometimes distant in his movements. Silent and not talkative. Other times he seemed rattled and irritated. Making only the smallest mentions of how short a person’s span of life could be. How quick and easy it was to end an existence.

Cotto recognized how his father and the men were trained for killing. Manny had been the leader. Had turned that switch off to be with Cotto and Kabeza. Shunned that world only to have that same unit of measure turned back on when Kabeza was murdered. Manny told the driver, “Now you will lead me to the King or you’ll end up like your gringo passengers.”

And from then on, Cotto knew that he wanted to be like his father.

*

As they passed through the black iron gates that bolted and connected to the bedrock walls of privacy with the colors of gold, tan, and flint scattered about the mortar, whirls of heated dust rained about the enclosed area as truck tires trekked and mashed forward toward the structure of a baked-stucco home of dimensions. Resting like a fortress, the home sat without buildings surrounding it; horses were railed in by posts and pickets. Gringo men stood upon watchtowers or outposts, others walked the property, came from everywhere like insects to sweets toward Manny and his men. Some unholstered pistols, others pointed automatic weapons.

Manny wheeled the cattle truck that carried the peasants and the packs of dope to the circle of glossed-over concrete combined with pebbles of pea gravel. A bronzed sculpture of Pancho Villa rested within the drive’s center. Behind Manny came the second vehicle with Ernesto at the wheel, the bed piled with headless men. The King’s men closed in on the two vehicles. Manny came out of the truck slow, raising his hands as he slung a pack over his shoulder. Cotto came from the passenger’s side with the wounded gringo, his hands bound behind him. Ernesto, Chub, and Minister fanned out from the gringo vehicle. Tossed their pistols to the dirt. Raised their hands with smirks on their faces.

One of the King’s men closed in on Cotto, looked to the gringo. “Fram, the others, where are they?”

Manny glanced over the truck’s hood, told him, “They’ve been piled like kindling for a fire in the other truck’s bed.”

The man looked at Manny with his burnt complexion of stubble. “I wasn’t talking to you.” And the man motioned with his hand to the other men and ordered, “Kay Dog, check the trucks. Anvil, get Fram off his feet. Cut his restraints. Hog Head, get these men patted down and corralled.”