Crooked River(63)

“Um, can I see?”

Flaco, after a hesitation, reached into the oversize pocket of his shorts and pulled out a wad of battered pages. “You read. Tell me this good?” He held the pages out to Smithback, with an oddly tender gesture, as if they were flower petals he didn’t want to damage. “You read?”

“Sí. Con mucho gusto.”

“Carlos, he gone one hour. You finish before then, tell me it’s good.”

Tell me it’s good. Not if it’s good. Smithback nodded, taking the pages gently.

Suddenly, Flaco drew a switchblade and held it at Smithback’s throat. His eyes gleamed again, but with an entirely different kind of light. “You no tell Carlos. No tell Bighead.”

Smithback shook his head. “No, no.”

“Or I say I cut you, trying to escape. I make it hurt.”

Smithback had no doubt that he would. He shook his head as vigorously as the knife would allow. “I won’t tell anyone. It’s our secret. Nuestro secreto.”

Flaco remained motionless for a moment. Then, with a slow grin, he withdrew the knife. “Nuestro secreto. Sí.”

Secrets, Smithback reflected, rubbing his throat as the door whispered shut, were something Flaco appreciated.





36



COLDMOON FOUND THE tiny one-room bar at the very edge of town where Zapatero was said to hang out. He slipped in, hoping to be able to order a beer and take his time getting a measure of the man, but that was a hopeless idea. As soon as he parted the beaded curtain that served as the doorway into the cinder-block barroom, the place went silent and every eye turned on him.

Well, thought Coldmoon, the direct way is sometimes the best way. “Se?or Zapatero?”

A long silence and then a man said, “I am Zapatero.”

“I would like to have a conversation with you,” Coldmoon replied in Spanish. “In private, outside.”

“What’s this all about?”

“Outside.”

“Se?or, I am not used to being ordered around like a peasant.”

If it was going to go that way, it would go that way. Coldmoon approached Zapatero rapidly, before he could even rise from his chair. He towered over him, six feet, four inches, and he used his vantage point to first make sure Zapatero wasn’t armed. The man had no firearm, at least none that was accessible, but a small machete was tucked into his leather belt. The man’s hand went toward the handle.

“Not a smart idea,” said Coldmoon.

The man’s hand paused. “Why do you come here like a cabrón, speaking so disrespectfully to me? I do not know you.”

Coldmoon realized now that his approach had been wrong and that Zapatero was more afraid of losing face in front of this crowd than he was of a confrontation.

“There is no need, se?or, for concern,” said Coldmoon, suddenly polite, trying to pitch his voice into a calmer register. Christ, he still had a lot to learn about dealing with people in Central America. “I have business to discuss with you, that’s all, which may be to your benefit—but it’s of a private nature. Forgive me if I’ve given offense. My name is Lunafría.” He held out his hand.

Zapatero relaxed and took it, breaking into a smile. “Why didn’t you say so before? Let us go outside to discuss. Gentlemen, I will leave you for a moment.”

They went outside.

“Se?or Lunafría? I think you are not from around here, judging by your accent and behavior.”

“I am from the south. Far to the south.” He hoped that Zapatero would accept that, given that the Spanish accents spoken in South America were highly diverse. He knew his Spanish wasn’t perfect, but it was fluent enough that he might pass for someone from another Spanish-speaking country and not, he hoped, identify him as North American.

“Tell me about your business.”

“I’m trying to find out what happened to Martina Osorio Ixquiac, who was in a group you led into Mexico last December.”

“Mother of God, I’m sick and tired of these questions! I did for that group what I promised to do and I know nothing of what happened after that.”

Coldmoon removed a thousand-quetzal note from his pocket. “I’m just looking for information, privately, and I’m willing to pay for it.”

Zapatero did not take the money. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about that group. Who they were, why they left.”

“There’s not much to tell that you can’t see with your own eyes. The country around here is dying. The fields are shriveling up, there are no jobs, there are no doctors, the government ignores us except when the army comes to steal our money and livestock and threaten our wives and daughters. This is no place for a good life. So I help people escape—anyone who wants to go and is physically capable. I am doing God’s work, Se?or Lunafría, to give people the chance at a better life. I bring them north, into Mexico. The Mexican border is only twenty-five miles away, but it is through mountains and most of them have never left this town, so they need my guidance.”

“Once you get them over the border, what happens?”

“I take them to La Gloria, a village in Chiapas along Route 190. There I turn them over to a professional coyote, who takes them north to the United States.”