“Patton! Dammit, I’m losing my patience!”
Slaton was fifteen yards away now… then ten. Vinnie switched off the safety on the gun. He noticed he was breathing rapidly now; way too loud, he thought, sure that Slaton would hear him.
No, ol’ Sal was all right, Red figured, after the Italian had bought yet another round-the fifth, for anyone who was counting. For a Yankee, the man knew how to have a good time.
Sylvia brought Sal change for a hundred again. Red wondered why Sal always used the big bills instead of the change from earlier rounds.
Sal, evidently feeling the liquor, held up a bill and said, “Hey, Sylvia. Fifty bucks if you show us your tits.”
Ears perked up all around the bar.
Sylvia, drying a glass, casually said, “Add a zero to that and you got a deal.”
Men hooted and hollered, and Sal looked around at the regulars. “All right, anyone willing to kick in some cash?”
No hands went up.
“How ’bout you, Red? Wanna see her twins?” Sal grinned at his drinking companion.
“Hell, like my daddy always said: If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em both.” The crowd roared.
After the laughter subsided and it became apparent there wasn’t going to be a floor show, Sal said, “Geez, what time is it? Twelve-thirty already? I gotta go.” He slurped down the fresh scotch. He laid another hundred on the bar in front of Sylvia. “Get these guys another round, will ya. And the change is for you, sweetheart.”
Sylvia nodded and winked.
At twelve forty-five, Maria Consuelo Garcia Rodriguez was awakened by the sound of a garage door creaking as it trundled upward along its tracks. Seconds later, she heard the slamming of a car door and then the groaning of the garage door coming back down. Maria’s small one-bedroom cottage was behind the garage, which was attached to the end of the Mamelis’ house.
She knew her boss had left a few hours ago, and she assumed it was him returning. His wife, Angela, had already drunk herself into a stupor and gone to bed, a little earlier than usual. Maria knew this was not good. She was afraid she was due for another one of Mr. Mameli’s late-night “visits.” The thought of it-of his sweaty, flabby body lying on top of her-sent a shudder down her spine. She pulled the covers tightly around her, as if that might help ward off his clumsy advances.
She heard the familiar clicking of his Italian shoes on the concrete driveway, receding toward the house. Tonight, it seemed, she was in luck, and he would not be visiting her. Or maybe he wanted to check on his wife first, to make sure he would not be caught.
Lying there in the dark, feeling empty and lonely and far from home, Maria could not help but remember the first time Mr. Mameli had approached her. Mrs. Mameli was away on a shopping trip, and Mr. Mameli had asked Maria if she would fix a hem in his pants. Si, she said, happy to help. Then he’d proceeded to take them off right in front of her. Maria blushed and turned away, only to feel his thick hands on her shoulders, then reaching around her to cup her breasts. Maria had resisted, she had pleaded and begged, but Mr. Mameli would not listen.
She pulled away from him, and then she saw a side of him she had never before seen. He grabbed her firmly by the wrists, hard enough to leave a bruise, and told her she had better do what he asked or he would turn her in to the INS. I’ll send you back to your little mud hut in Guatemala, he had said. Maria wanted to pretend that she didn’t understand, but it was too late. The fear already showed in her face. So, with bile in her throat, Maria had given in.
Thinking back on it, Maria began to shake. Her cat, Tuco, jumped up into the bed and nestled beside her, as if to comfort her. Tuco was a beautiful black cat, a stray she had taken in last spring. She glanced over at the corner of the room, where Pablo, her bird, was sleeping in his covered cage. Pablo was also a foundling; one she had nursed back to health after she had discovered him, only a few days old, with a broken wing, in the garden. He was a healthy bird now, black like Tuco, handsome, with a long beak and bright eyes. His wing, however, had not mended properly and he could not fly.
Tuco purred loudly and Maria smiled. She remembered the day last week when Tuco had saved Maria from Mr. Mameli’s groping hands. Mr. Mameli had come to Maria’s cottage while Mrs. Mameli was taking a bath. He climbed on top of her, but before he could complete his filthy act, Tuco jumped on his back and hissed. Mr. Mameli shrieked like a small girl, pulled on his clothes, and left the cottage, careful to avoid the cat. He appeared to be afraid of Tuco, and that made Maria giggle.
There were times when Maria became so depressed she wanted to return to her home in Quetzaltenango, to forget her dreams and accept the life she had been given. After all, what chance did she have as an illegal alien? She had always hoped to fall in love with a wonderful American man, raise a family, and then, when the time was right, go to college. She wanted to be a doctor. She felt she had a healing heart, and that a career in medicine was her destiny. Her amigas back home had laughed when she told them that. Maybe they were right; perhaps it was silly. After all, she had been in the United States for two years now. She was twenty-three years old, and she felt that time was slipping away.
When Maria got this way-a heavy feeling in her heart-she often meditated. She would light candles, play some soothing music, and sit peacefully on the floor.
Weak batteries saved Emmett Slaton’s life. He was five yards away from Vinnie, playing the light all around the cedars, but the beam was apparently too faint for the old man to pick Vinnie out through the thick, low branches.
“Aw, to hell with you,” Slaton grumbled. “Stay out here all night and see how you like it.” The old rancher retreated toward the house and Vinnie’s nerves began to settle down. After a few moments, he heard the front door close, and he finally released his grip on the cold steel of the.38.
CHAPTER NINE
When John Marlin woke up Tuesday morning, his brain was pounding against his skull and he felt as if he had little individual sweaters on each of his teeth. Now he remembered why he didn’t hit the bourbon too often. It was five A.M., but he just couldn’t sleep any longer. So he walked to the end of his driveway and grabbed the newspaper.
Back inside, he was greeted with a front-page headline that blared, ACTIVIST BREWS UP BIG TROUBLE. Marlin chuckled. The story-another piece by Susannah Branson-recounted the coffee-throwing episode of the morning before. It stated that Inga Mueller, a Minnesotan, was being held on a variety of charges, including assaulting an officer.
Near the bottom, Inga was quoted: “I’m just trying to draw attention to the plight of the red-necked sapsucker. It’s an endangered species, but nobody seems to care. They live only in cedar trees, so we need to stop cutting the cedars before it’s too late.” Well, at least Inga was getting the ink she wanted. Marlin was surprised Susannah hadn’t called him for a quote. She must have gotten everything she needed from the police report.
Marlin glanced through the rest of the paper, then took a hot shower, swallowed a couple of aspirin, and headed out the door.
He wasn’t going anyplace in particular, just cruising. He stopped at a few meat lockers-places that typically opened at sunrise to accommodate hunters-to check the quality of the deer brought in so far. The drought in the spring had been tough on the regional deer population, but they seemed to be rebounding nicely. Marlin saw several nice bucks, with antler spreads hovering around the twenty-inch mark. Couple of nice does, too, much fatter than he had expected. Seeing a healthy deer herd always put Marlin in a good mood. Animals often had to struggle against the cruel whims of Mother Nature, so it was nice to see the deer thriving.