“I didn’t think you were so soft-hearted. Do you consider what happens to the poor Chicano in El Barrio when you repo the car he needs to get to work in?”
“Yeah, I consider the consequences. And I come up with this: He knew what he was getting into when he signed the contract. All the repossessions I go out on are at least two months’ delinquent. So tough shit.”
“You’re a tough nut to crack, repo.”
“So are you.”
We both got a laugh out of that one. For the second time that day I pulled my Camaro over the concrete divider, giving the undercarriage a good wracking. As I hit the dirt road, I turned on my high beams, throwing light on small hills of brown scrub, dust, and a rodent family on the move. I took it slowly, staying squarely on the road. This time I drove all the way up to the death shack, turning the car around so that I could drive straight out.
There was a large Coleman lantern in my trunk. I lit it and mounted it on the hood of the car to provide light to work by. A slight breeze cut through the stench of the rotting greyhound pups in the front yard, leaving just a smell redolent of meat left out too long. I got the shovel and the large five-cell flashlight, which I handed to Omar.
“Dig this scene,” I said, “you’ll never see another one like it. The man who killed your brother is in the shack.”
Omar followed my directions, playing his light over the dead puppies. He seemed to be hesitant about going into the shack, though, like a kid at the amusement park with a ticket for the haunted house, knowing it’s the real thrill, yet afraid to go for it. “Go on, Omar. Get it over with. I want to get out of here.”
He nodded and walked up the steps while I began to dig, I was at it for about three minutes when he came crashing out the door, bent over and holding his stomach. He went around to the side of the shack and vomited, then retched dry, his whole body shaking with each convulsion. Finally he finished and walked up to me. He was pale and the look in his eyes aged him by ten years. “Jesus,” he said.
“Did you enjoy that?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, “I wanted to look at his face, to try to read it, but there was no face to read. God. There were these bugs coming out of his nose and his guts hang... Jesus.”
“He’s been dead at the least three days. Have you had enough?”
“Yes.”
“Then you go and sit in the car. I’ll bury him and we’ll split.”
I dug some Kleenex out of my back pocket, tore off a few small pieces and wadded them into my nostrils. Carrying the flashlight that Omar had left on the ground, I entered the shack. I was somewhat inured to violent death and stiffs, but Fat Dog’s was too much: the stench crept through the wadded-up Kleenex and my eyes stung from the acidity of rotting flesh. I grabbed the corpse by both wrists and pulled. The left arm came loose at its socket, flying up in the air, spraying decomposing matter. I lost my balance and almost fell, letting out a strangled cry when a viscous glob of rented flesh flew up and hit me in the cheek. I brushed it off and took a moment to compose myself, then grabbed Fat Dog by the ankles and began pulling him toward the door.
I was about to begin my descent down the three shallow steps when I heard a gunshot ring out from the direction of my car. I dropped Fat Dog’s ankles, grabbed my flashlight, and pulled my .38 from my waistband. Flattening myself up against the wall, I took frantic deep breaths to stifle my fear and allow my mind to operate. Some seconds passed, then I heard voices speaking in Spanish. Through the door crack I saw the shapes of two men approaching the shack. I waited. As they got closer, I could see that the man on the left was carrying a rifle, held in the crook of his arm, pointed downward.
When they were about two feet from the steps, I swung out and flashed my light dead in their faces and fired all six shots into them at chest level. They both went down and I hurled myself back against the inside wall and reloaded from the loose shells I kept in my back pocket. I heard moaning and in the next instant a volley of rifle shots tore into the shack, splintering the wood around me. I grabbed hold of a chunk of the splintered wood and yanked, cutting my hand in the process. I stuck my flashlight in the hole and surveyed the scene: one man lay in front of the steps; I couldn’t see the other man, the one with the rifle, until an instant later when I heard a weak thumping and stifled moaning coming from the steps. He was trying to crawl into the shack, his rifle held out in front of him. I held my breath for a few seconds, then as I saw the rifle barrel make its way into the shack, I padded over and flattened it to the floor with my foot. The man who held it looked up at me from his place on the steps. I couldn’t discern his features, but I could see a bright trickle of blood dripping from his mouth. It was over for him. I placed my gun up against his temple and squeezed off three shots. His head burst inward like a crushed eggshell. I walked over to where the other man lay. I was sure he was dead, but I emptied my remaining three rounds into the back of his neck anyway.
I walked back to my car, knowing what I would find. Omar Gonzalez lay dead, sprawled across the front seat, shot in the head. There was very little blood, the bullet obviously still embedded in his brain. I pulled him out by his arms and carried him gently to the incomplete grave I had intended for Fat Dog. If Fat Dog had deserved better, then Omar Gonzalez had deserved the best life had to offer. It took me half an hour to bury him. When I finished, I tried to bring to mind a Dylan Thomas poem about “Death having no dominion,” but I couldn’t recall the words.
I went over to the car and siphoned gas into a gallon can and carried it to the shack. I dragged the two killers inside to rest beside Fat Dog. After lifting their wallets, I doused the three bodies with gasoline and dropped a match on them. As they started to burn, I thought what a fitting end it was for Fat Dog.
By the time I got back to my car and pulled out, the shack was engulfed in flames. I headed straight for the toll road. Before I got there, I realized I was weeping for the first time since my early childhood discovery that tears did no good. Now they were streaming down my face and I was trembling like a child. For the third time in one day, I banged my car across the concrete divider. This time I was going south, toward Ensenada and an all-night liquor store.
9
I don’t know how I made it into Ensenada or even why I fled south, deeper into a foreign country. When a body cries “alcohol,” logic does not apply. Driving the winding coast road, I passed two toll booths and headed south. I shielded my dirt- and tear-stained face from the toll takers, handing them a dollar bill and zooming past with what I hoped passed for a friendly wave. My body was functioning — the ritual of driving, of keeping all senses alert to the needs of the road, kept me from breaking down into total hysteria — but my mind wasn’t. Fear, and the inchoate realization that my life had exploded into irreparable fragments kept my head slamming painfully, causing the windshield and highway to blur in front of me.
After a while, my panic became almost familiar, and the edge of it softened. I knew there was a panacea that would put everything in perspective: booze. And the only thing that mattered now was getting it.