There was a pump down one side of the building with a boiler that had been blowtorched in half then plunked down in the sand to use as a trough. He removed his vest and shirt to shave. It was then he remembered the crucifix around his neck, the one with the broken cross beam that was his mother's. Realizing it might give him away, he slipped it off and hid it in his wallet.
JOHN LOURDES WENT into the cool and quiet of the church to wait. Something about this mission held him. Inside it was as simple as the faith that inspired it. It was the faith of his mother and her people, the faith that spoke of sacrifice, of mercy and forgiveness.
There was a statue of the crucified Christ near tall as he was beside the pulpit. There was also a pedestal that stood before the side pews holding a statue of the Virgin and Child. That is where he sat. He placed his hat beside him. Light from the windows cast dusk upon the floor. He studied the Madonna's face, the pale skin of the European, the painted stare a conception of immaculate calm and peace. What was it about this place-
'Praying?'
Caught off guard, John Lourdes came quickly around. Rawbone had entered the mission silently. He sat in the pew across from John Lourdes. He glanced at the statue of the Virgin and Child. 'If you're praying to her, forget it. She sure didn't do shit for her son.' Then those dusty loveless eyes motioned toward the cross.
To that John Lourdes had nothing to say. He took his hat and stood to leave. Rawbone motioned he sit again. 'Nothing can happen till dark anyway.'
The son sat.
The father seemed to have something on his mind.
'When you were a detective for the Santa Fe you must have worked the yards by the river.'
'I did.'
'You probably met a lot of people from the barrio.'
'I did.'
'You being part Mexican.'
'I speak the language, if that's what you mean.'
'I was talking about families and such. Knowing families and such.'
'Families and such ... yes.'
Rawbone sat a bit longer, taking in all that was about him.
'Why do you ask?' said John Lourdes.
Something moved those features momentarily.
'Another time.'
He stood.
'We only have tomorrow,' said John Lourdes.
'That's right. Let's see then how that goes. For both of us.'
Had what he'd seen been the substance of unspeakable regret, or unresolved sorrow? And if it was, what of it? As Rawbone walked out John Lourdes asked, 'How do you know this place?'
The father turned and with a way the son well remembered, said, 'I was married here, Mr. Lourdes.' With that he tapped down his derby and started to the door. 'Go back to your mysteries, Mr. Lourdes. I'll be outside ... after I rob the poorbox.'
The river lay in darkness. There were but token lights down by the ferry. Music could be heard coming from the shack on the Rio Bravo side. Rawbone had his bindle open on the cab seat when John Lourdes joined him.
'How do we go about the crossing?'
Rawbone took a bottle of whiskey and a flask from the bindle. 'We ... I'm going entertaining. When it's clear to make the ferry, I'll sight you up with a lantern.'
He walked away with the whiskey tucked up under his arm, whistling as if he were on a Friday night adventure.
The son watched the ferry landing from the adobe wall and smoked. Through binoculars he saw Rawbone approach the shack on the Rio Bravo side. The men, there were three, moved into the doorway light as the flatbed touched shore. Rawbone began talking, pointing with an arm, first in one direction, then the other. But always it was the arm that had the whiskey bottle. His gestures were pure story. The men measured him with their eyes, but it wasn't long before he'd hustled up an invitation into their world.
