The Savage(73)

Three men came forward. One grabbed Fram. Helped him limp away from the trucks as he whimpered and bled. His wound seeped with every step he took. Had turned from a red to a dark liquid that was nearly black, and he cried, “They’re without mind, they’re without mind. These men are … they’re barbaric.” Anvil dragged Fram. Kay Dog helped the peasants from the farm truck. “Vámonos, vámonos.” Several other men grabbed the peasants by their arms, led them toward the stables. Distanced them from Manny and his men, who were being patted down about their legs, backs, and chests. Poked by rifle ends into the soft spots of their bodies. Stepping away from Ernesto and the others, Kay Dog viewed the bed of the truck, took in the dead. Snapshotting with his eyes the gored and veiny necks without heads. Traced their saucy stains down to desert-spotted shit-kickers. Turning away from the bed, Kay Dog dropped his AR-15 to the ground. Came with a mouthful of odds and ends he could no longer stomach, weighted the earth with chunks.

One of the men who searched Ernesto, Cotto, and the others stepped toward the vehicle’s bed, caught only a glimpse, saw the unsearched pack hanging from Manny, started to approach him from around the other side of the truck. Manny listened to the footfalls while one of the other men tried to take the pack from his shoulder. Manny held the ruck. Telling the man, “This is for the King. Not a gringo fuck.” The man raised his rifle at Manny. Behind Manny, Ernesto, Chub, and Minister lunged toward the other man with the rifle, fists laced tighter than a baseball’s insides as Cotto watched the men bombard the man with knuckles and knees to the ground. All rifles were raised at them. From the enormous cookie-baked home came a man with a raised hand, shouting, “No! Leave them, leave them.”

Manny revealed a psychotic grin. Eyed the shape coming down the wide tiled steps of the home. One foot fell in front of the other. The clomp of his snakeskin boots punched across the rock drive with the tick of dog’s paws, two hounds of black, tan, and white, who stopped when the man stopped, sat on their rears. Standing within the heat of the day, he was a medium-sized man of Spanish descent. Appeared hard as limestone, square shouldered, his black locks short, bristled, and parted down the center. A handlebar mustache plotted above his lip; cheeks looked to have been tunneled out by termites. He wore a white T-shirt beneath a black button-up that held pearl snaps, not buttons. A gold-plated .45 rested in the hem of his pants front, pushed into his gut. He eyed Manny with contempt and held no blink of fear, only power that begged mercy from other men as he arched his right arm up, reached, and pushed away the AR-15 pointed at Manny’s brain. “Kentucky Colonel, lower your rifle.”

The colonel’s face was laced with a marathon runner’s heartbeat. “They’ve wounded Fram and cut the goddamned heads off the others.”

Anger streaked the King’s face as though he’d eaten something tart and foreign and he asked Manny, “Is what he tells me of truth?”

Manny replied, “I know not the names, but yes, the men you employ have been disassembled and strewn in the bed of their truck.”

“You killed some of my best men. And my product, you steal it. Other than being a tough and malicious son of a bitch, what am I to think?”

The two hounds sat beside the King’s left and right, bared taffy-pink gums and bleach-white teeth as they panted from the humidity.

“Your product I did not steal. I delivered it for your eyes to see.” Manny paused, pointing at the walkers who’d been removed and separated from him and his men, standing off in the distance, being searched outside of an enormous barn. “It is with the peasants and unscathed, as you can see as your gringos are removing them from the packs. But you’re a peasant short.”

The King pursed his lips, nodded. Patted each of his dog’s skulls. Snapped his fingers to the man who’d pressured Manny’s skull with the automatic rifle, Kentucky Colonel. Told him, “Go get a count on inventory, see if what he proclaims is true.” Manny watched Kentucky give him a grizzled smirk as he stepped into his train of sight. Only to step away, move toward the peasants, who stood in the heat close to the stable of horses some forty feet away, along with most of the King’s men. The cellophane squares of dope removed and lying on the ground.

The King eyed Manny, stepped away from him, the hounds followed, wagging their tails. The King caught a glimpse of his dead men, came back to Manny, plotted his stance before him. His shiny pistol removed from his waist, Cotto could do nothing but watch from the other side of the vehicle, wondering if this was everyone’s end, or only the beginning.

Behind the King, Kentucky Colonel stood before the peasants. Going over the rucks, pointing and counting, kneeling down. Inspecting the huge rounded squares of cellophane. Grabbing one, he held it up for the King to view. But he had his back turned, was eyeing Manny. His face swelled with repulsion. Kentucky Colonel hollered, “The product is all here and accounted for.”

Manny looked down at the hounds, spoke, “Your dogs, they’re a hunting breed, walkers?”

The King spoke direct and mad. “Yes. Walker hounds. A gift from new business associates in the Midwest, man goes by McGill, Bellmont McGill. And his associate Dillard Alcorn. But we’re not standing here to speak about the breed of my dogs.”

Manny placed a thumb beneath the strap at his shoulder, the King lifted the .45 to Manny’s face. And Manny said, “I’ve a gift for you.”