along on bare, bloody feet behind the van, his shackled wrists clicking together, his arms outstretched, those pitiful screams tearing his sandpaper throat.
Christ, the poor bastard sounded like an animal or something. What’s that they say? Like a lamb going to the slaughter. It was a hell of a sound, especially with noon coming on. Not the kind of memory a man wants rattling around in his head when he’s just started thinking about lunch.
My guess is that the border patrol boys were of the same opinion, but I have my doubts. But whatever their reason, it seemed that they were tired of the naked Mexican, too.
The van picked up speed. The Mexican tripped. For a second he looked like a man diving into a swimming pool.
Only for a second, though.
The rest of it didn’t take long. The road, all sand and grit and gravel, skinned the Mexican raw in the time it took me to swallow around the lump in my throat.
I was quiet. The Mex kept on screaming, though. I could hear him above the smooth purr of the van’s engine. And then the driver cut to the left, tearing through a tangle of mesquite and golden brittlebrush as he picked up speed, and pretty soon the Mexican wasn’t screaming anymore.
The van didn’t head back to the dirt road, though.
It came in my direction.
I glanced down at the hole I’d dug. I did some quick calculations. The hole was big enough for a coyote, but something told me that it was going to have to be a whole lot bigger.
I picked up my shovel and got busy.
Rudy Duran unchained the Mexican’s corpse. Rudy’s dad was born in Mexico, but Rudy was born right here in Amigo. I’d known Rudy since we were kids. To me, he was hardly like a Mexican at all.
Rudy’s partner, Wes Baker, watched me work. At least I think he watched me. Those mirrored sunglasses make it hard to tell sometimes.
“You should have seen it, Roy.” Wes shook his head. “Me and Rudy are sittin’ in Carmelita’s, watchin’ the strippers and havin’ a couple beers — ”
“We’re off duty,” Rudy put in, as if it mattered. “We worked graveyard last night.”
“Yeah,” Wes said. “Anyway, I had barely blowed the foam off my first Bud when this scraggly-ass wetback comes stumblin’ in, nekkid as a jaybird.”
“Lookin’ all around but can’t see a damn thing,” Rudy said. “He’s desert blind.”
“The Mex bumped into Conchita Morales, who was doin’ a lap dance for Ted Miller. ’Chita barely got out of the way.”
“And Ted ended up with a couple hundred pounds of naked Mexican in his lap.”
“Yeah,” Wes said. “And you know how jumpy ol’ Ted is. Christ, he shoved the Mex this way. Then that way. But he couldn’t budge the wetback. And all the while Ted’s holdin’ onto one of those froo-froo drinks of his. Somethin’ all green and frothy with a swizzle stick in it. Ol’ Ted didn’t want to spill a drop. Those drinks cost money.”
“Five bucks a pop.” Rudy shook his head. “Unless it’s happy hour.”
“This sure as hell wasn’t happy hour.”
“Except for the Mex.” Rudy laughed. “Roy, you should have seen him. Hoppin’ around like a fat jumpin’ bean, yellin’ and screamin’ that same shit they all yell.”
“As if the whole damn world’s comin’ to an end.” Wes paused, like he was waiting for the story to settle in. He gave me just enough time to roll the Mex into the grave and cover him with a coyote blanket before asking, “Roy, you know why that Mex stuck to Ted’s lap?”
“No,” I said. “Why?”
“Well, the boy might have been blind, but he could feel. And after gyratin’ on top of Ted’s tent pole for a minute or two, the Mex figured he deserved that twenty Ted had slipped Conchita for the lap dance.”
Wes stared at me. I think. Like I said, with the mirrored shades it’s hard to tell.
I figure he wanted to see if I’d laugh or not. I didn’t laugh, though. I just stared up at the blue sky and thought it over.
“Twenty bucks,” I said finally. “Damn. I’m in the wrong business.”
Rudy nearly split a gut. Wes joined in, hee-hawing like a damn burro. I kept quiet and shoveled dirt into the grave.
“Twenty bucks,” Rudy said when he’d calmed down. “Man. You should have seen the look on ol’ Ted’s face. I wonder if the faggot actually came. I’d give twenty and then some if I could see it all again.”
“Well, the world ain’t gonna end for a long, long time,” Wes said. “I bet you’ll see it again. Sooner or later.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And for free, too.”
By the time I finished working, I was good and dirty.
Wes wasn’t. He was all spit and polish, crisp uniform creases and not one stain on him.
Looking at us, you’d figure that Wes had been the high school quarterback or the star baseball pitcher. Some kind of jock, anyway. But the truth was that Wes wasn’t much on sports at all.
I was. Hell, I was a three letter man in high school. Baseball, football, and track.
I was the one who went to college, too. Not that it did me much good.
I went to college because I figured they’d teach me the things I needed to know. But they hardly taught me anything. All they did was ask questions, and pretty soon I got to thinking that no one at college knew anything. Not for sure, anyway.
Crazy questions. I couldn’t see the point to them then, and I can’t see the point to them now. Like this one professor I had for a philosophy class. He asked us all kinds of nutty questions. You know the kind of stuff I mean. Like:
I mean, who gives a flying fuck?
But I stuck it out. I’m not a quitter. Four years. Then I went out in the real world, and pretty soon I forgot those questions, because there just didn’t seem much use for that stuff in everyday life.
I stayed away from Amigo for about ten years. I went through three jobs. Got married, got divorced. I can’t tell you why a lot of it happened. Sure, I could give you an explanation. I could tell you my side of the story. I could blame my bosses or my wife. I could blame caffeine or stress or the fact that my dad hit the road when I was ten years old.
Think about it. People look you straight in the face and tell you things all the time. Television newscasters, politicians, preachers and pundits. Even your best friends. But you never know if they’re telling the truth.
It’s no different with me. No one has to tell the truth. It’s real easy to lie. That’s one thing I learned all on my own. The truth is elusive. It’s slippery.
And the way people talk about it, like it’s the holy grail. Like they have an INALIENABLE RIGHT TO KNOW THE TRUTH.
Jesus. Some people want to know everything. But it’s probably best to forget the truth altogether. That’s what I think, anyway. Because the truth can be an anchor around your neck. Forget it, and keep moving the best way you know how, and you’ll be a whole lot happier.
But there are some things you never forget, no matter where you go, no matter how long you’ve been there. Like for instance I never quite forgot the things I learned growing up in Amigo. The farther away I got from it — in time, in distance — and the more I saw of the world removed from Amigo, the less I understood why I ever left at all.
Amigo is a simpler place, with simpler rules. Maybe that’s why I came back. I understand how things work here.
