Under the Skin

“He said you work for a powerful man named Don Rosario.”

I waited.

She looked up. “He believes you are a pistolero for this man.”

I looked out the window at people passing by on the way to the next part of their lives. Then turned back to her and shrugged and said, “People who gossip like to dramatize things. I collect money for my employers. I drive here and there and collect account payments and bring them back to the office. To tell the truth, it’s pretty dull work.”

“Do you always have with you the pistol you had last night?”

“I sometimes collect a lot of money in a day’s work, and the world’s full of thieves. I’ve gotten used to carrying it.”

All true.

She studied my eyes like she was trying to see behind them. “Senor Avila says everyone of La Colonia is pleased that you live among them. They feel protected by the nearness of you.”

I didn’t know what to say to that so I just shrugged.

Lynette delivered breakfast to a nearby table and then asked if we were ready for more coffee. I checked my watch and shook my head. “We have to get.” I left the money for the bill on the table, including a bigger tip than usual.

I took her hand again to cross the busy street and we didn’t let go of each other till we were back at La Colonia.

At the Avila front door I said I’d come by for her just after dark, about six-thirty. I told her to wear her bathing suit under her dress and bring a towel.

She said she’d be ready, then waggled her fingers at me and went inside.

I headed for the Club.

As he had told his wife he would do on his way back from Galveston, Oscar Picacho stopped off in Corpus Christi to visit with his cousin Ernesto. They went fishing in the bay in Ernesto’s boat and caught snapper and dorado and they filleted and grilled the fish in Ernesto’s backyard. They smoked cigars and got happily half-drunk and told funny stories of their boyhood days in Reynosa. It had been an altogether fine time. And now, on this late Saturday morning more than three days after leaving the Avila house, Oscar Picacho steers his trusty green Model T onto the narrow dirt driveway alongside his Brownsville home.

He calls to his wife as he comes through the front door and into his small living room and catches only a glimpse of Teresa where she sits on the sofa—her eyes large and terrified, her hands gripping her knees—before Angel Lozano’s pistol barrel crashes into the side of his head and the room tilts and he hears Teresa’s scream as something distant and cut off almost as soon as it begins and he is only vaguely aware of hitting the floor on his face.

He regains consciousness to find himself beside his wife on the sofa, his hands tied behind him, his face and mustache dripping with water flung on him to bring him to his senses, his shirt soaked. The right side of his head feels misshapen and pains him from crown to jaw. Teresa now with her hands bound before her and a gag in her mouth, her face bright with tears.

Angel Lozano and Gustavo Mendez loom over them, their foul mood in their faces, a mood made worse by their having been cloistered in this little house for more than two days while they awaited Oscar’s return. In that time they have learned much from Senora Picacho: that the Picachos had known the girl as a child in Veracruz and always loved her and despised her parents for their miserable neglect of her, and in their letters to her over the years they constantly reminded her that she was always welcome in their home, which was why she had come to them on fleeing Las Cadenas; that the girl—Daniela, as the woman called her—had told the Picachos of her abduction from Veracruz by a rich but evil one-eyed man named Cesar Calveras who had put her through a terrible ordeal over the following months at Las Cadenas before she was able to effect her escape, but she had not told them of her marriage; that the Picachos had offered to let her live with them for as long as she wished and that she had accepted—and accepted as well Oscar Picacho’s invitation to accompany him to Galveston Island on his annual trip to celebrate New Year’s Eve at a party with his favorite nephew, Roberto Avila; that they had departed for Galveston on the day before Angel and Gustavo showed up, and that with them had gone another Picacho nephew, Felipe Rocha, who had been a Brownsville policeman until he was fired last year for stealing several pistols from the station arms room and, though it was never proved, selling them across the river; that Senora Picacho herself had not gone with them because she did not like car trips, that she had never been to Galveston, and that she had no idea where in that town Roberto Avila lived.

Angel and Gustavo had had no choice but to wait for the trio to return. When they finally heard the rattle of the Model T as it pulled into the driveway, they told Senora Picacho to sit on the sofa and make no sound of warning or the last thing she would see in this life would be the deaths of her husband and nephew and dear friend Daniela. But the only one to come through the door had been Oscar Picacho.

Now Angel Lozano grabs Oscar by his wet hair and yanks his head around so he can see Gustavo holding a knife to the senora’s throat. The woman is close to hysteria.

Angel demands to know exactly where the girl is—and without hesitation Oscar tells him.

Shortly thereafter Angel and Gustavo slip out of the house and casually make away along the tree-shadowed sidewalks of the quiet neighborhood. At a Ford dealership a few blocks farther on they pay cash for a new sedan.

It is almost noon when they reach the main highway and turn north, Gustavo driving, being careful not to exceed the speed limit, Angel studying the open road map on his lap and calculating mileage and driving time. Allowing for reduced speeds in most of the towns they will pass through, he estimates they will get to Galveston around midnight.

It will be more than a week before neighbors become sufficiently concerned about the Picachos—having seen neither of them in that time and their car unmoved from the driveway—to call the police. An officer will investigate and discover the bodies in the house, both of them with drapery cords tight around the neck.

Had I told her the truth about my life on the ranch and how I came to leave the place, I would’ve had to tell at least a little about Frank Hartung. He was Uncle Cullen’s oldest friend. He had a ranch in New Mexico and had a good foreman he could trust to run things in his absence when every so often he’d come see us for a few days’ visit. We’d meet him at the Marfa station—Uncle Cullen and Aunt Ava, me and Reuben—and then take supper at a cafe before making the long drive back down to the YB in Uncle Cullen’s old Studebaker truck.

Frank had a funny habit whenever he sat down to a meal with us at the house. He’d never take the first bite of his food until Uncle Cullen had eaten a mouthful of his own. He’d watch Uncle Cullen chew and swallow, then they’d stare at each other for a moment, then Uncle Cullen would shrug at him and they’d both grin and Frank would start digging into his own plate. It was some kind of private joke between them that always made me and Reuben chuckle—even though we didn’t know why it was so funny. But Aunt Ava didn’t much appreciate their comedy. She always gave the two of them a tightmouth look and sometimes shook her head like she couldn’t understand how grown men could act so silly. I don’t recall that she ever said anything about it except one time when I was about eight years old. “For God’s sake, Frank,” she’d said, “do you think I’m out to poison the bunch of you?”

The remark set Frank and Uncle Cullen to laughing so hard they almost choked on their beef—and Reuben thought that was so funny his milk came out his nose.

In some ways Frank Hartung was more of an uncle to me than Uncle Cullen was. Maybe because no matter how hard Uncle Cullen tried to treat us the same, Reuben was his flesh and blood and it was only natural that he’d be the favored one. But Frank never had any children, was never even married, and since he was so close to Uncle Cullen I guess he probably saw me like a nephew, maybe even a little like a son. Whenever the four of us shot pool together at the house, it was always Uncle Cullen and Reuben against me and Frank, and we almost always won. Uncle Cullen taught me how to ride, but Frank Hartung taught me the most important things I came to know about horses and riding them well. Even when the four of us were out riding the backcountry together, Frank would be