Then she jumped down to the ground, a girl not much taller then the truck’s tires, saying, “If the priest will let me, I’m going to talk to the congregation. I would like you to come in and listen. I wouldn’t feel as nervous if you were with me. Please? I can speak in English for you. Most of them will understand.”
Squires shook his head, and kept his eye on Tula until she was inside. After half an hour, though, he did get out and peek through a window, because it seemed strange the way people off the street were suddenly hurrying across lawns to get to the church. The place was already packed, but more people kept coming, some of them chattering on their cell phones, excited expressions on their faces, as they jogged along.
What Squires saw through the window caused him to wonder if Frankie had slipped some Ecstasy into his fresh batch of steroids, the stuff he’d just injected.
That’s how surreal the scene was.
What he saw was Tula, the skinny little girl dressed like a boy, standing at the altar, speaking Spanish in a strong voice, as the priest-a fat little dweeb with no hair-looked on adoringly. Which caused Squires to think maybe the asshole really believed Tula was a boy. But the priest wasn’t the only one giving the girl his full attention.
Sitting squashed together on wooden pews, some of the women were bawling silently into hankies, moved by what the girl was saying. And a line was forming near the altar, Mexican men with farmer’s tans, short little women-some on their knees-apparently waiting to meet the girl when she was done speaking.
But why? Squires moved to a window that was closer to find out.
It made no sense, but what the people wanted to do, he discovered, was kiss the girl’s hand, or hug her, or maybe ask her to say a prayer for them, which Tula appeared to do several times, touching her hand to a person’s head while she muttered words toward the ceiling.
My God, even the priest got in on it, hugging the girl while she touched his dweebish bald head and said something that Squires was close enough to hear but couldn’t understand.
Dumbass, the man thought to himself. Why the hell didn’t I ever learn Spanish?
It was frustrating hearing but not understanding, especially because he was trying to figure out why the girl commanded such respect from so many adults, all of them strangers.
Maybe Tula sounded smarter in Spanish. That might explain it, which caused Squires to spend some time weighing the possibility. It had to be true, he finally decided. In English, the girl came off as pretty damn strange, maybe even nuts. In Spanish, she must have sounded a lot smarter.
Right or wrong, it gave Squires a funny feeling to witness how famous the girl had become. He guessed it was something to be proud of, hanging out with a celebrity, even if the girl’s fans were all Mexicans.
What he was witnessing was impressive, Squires had to admit it. Being with a celebrity was new in his experience, unless he counted Frankie, which he didn’t of course. Fifteen years ago, Frankie had been a minor bodybuilding star-Miss South Florida U.S.A. once and Miss Vermont Bodybuilder three times in a row-which the bitch never stopped reminding him when they got into arguments over which steroids were best for different kinds of cycles.
But being with Tula, the strange little Jesus freak, was an entirely different experience. Squires had never seen anyone look at Frankie the way these adoring people kept their eyes glued to that little girl.
Yeah, sort of proud-that’s the way he felt. And he would have continued watching if a few tough-acting Mexicans-or were they Guatemalans?-hadn’t slipped out the church door to give him their hard-assed beaner glares.
“What you lookin’ at, man?” one of the chilies said to Squires as they walked toward him, all three taking out their gangbanger bandannas, he noticed.
Squires turned to gauge the distance to his truck where he’d stored the Ruger Blackhawk beneath the seat. Not that he needed a gun to deal with these little turds-even with a pulled hamstring-but it was good to know he had options.
He waited until the trio was closer before he said to them, keeping his voice low and confidential, “Hey, I gotta question for you boys. What’s that little girl in there saying that’s so important? Man, even the priest is hanging on every word. How’d she get so famous?”
Squires was trying to be friendly, strike up a nice conversation with these hard Mexicans. But no luck.
The head chilie was easy to pick out. He was the one tying on his blue colors, low over the eyes, as he said something that sounded like, “Choo tryin’ to be funny or what, man? ’Cause choo ain’t funny,” his Mex accent strong.
Not quite so friendly now, Squires told the dude, “You’d be laughing your ass off if I wanted to be funny, douche bag.”
The two beaners moved closer to the head gangbanger, standing shoulder to shoulder, as their leader replied, “We know who you are, man. We know all about the shit goes on out there at your damn hunting camp, too. So get the hell out of here, back to your trailer park that smells of mierda. This here’s a damn church, man. Why you wanna bother us here with your presence?”
Squires was surprised, at first, that the Mexican knew so much about him, but then he wasn’t. Hell, maybe all three of these dudes had lived at Red Citrus for a while. That wouldn’t have surprised him, either, because most of the illegals sooner or later showed up at one of his parks.
“Let me offer you some friendly advice,” Squires said to the men, motioning for them to lean closer. “Pay attention or I’ll rip your ears off and stick ’em up your ass. I asked you a polite question. I expect a nice answer. That girl in there is a friend of mine. Why’s the priest letting her stand up there and talk to the whole audience?”
“Right-t-t-t,” one of the chilies said, feeling around for something in his pocket. “That girl in there, if you say you know her, you lying cono. She’s a saint, man. So you better behave yourself with respect or we’ll run your white ass outta here.”
“Is that what she claims?” Squires asked.
“She talks to God and God answers her back,” the Guatemalan replied, sounding defensive, but pissed off, too. “What proof you want? God is telling her we should return to our homes in the mountains. And not put up with gringo assholes like you. For what? Live in a shithole trailer park like yours? Drive a fancy truck that takes half my pay every month?”
The word “mountains” registered in Squires’s memory, which caused him to say, “I hear it’s pretty nice where some of you Mexicans come from. Even in summer, I heard it’s nice ’n’ cool up in those mountains. That true? What’s a big house and a few acres sell for?”
“A jelly boy like you moving to Guatemala?” the chilie said to him. “Man, don’t even think about it. We don’t want your kind dirtying up our home.” He took a step. “You say you a friend of this girl? I think you full of bullshit, man.”
Squires was looking through the church window again, trying to gauge how pissed off Tula would be if he caused a disturbance outside. No, he decided. He wasn’t going to do it. The girl had already gotten mad at him once today, giving him a look that had made him feel sort of low, like he’d disappointed her. Once was enough. He didn’t want to have that feeling again.
Squires held up his hands, palms out. “Stay cool, amigos. Only reason I’m here is to help the girl find her mama. Ya’ll just run along before the little saint in there makes you come back and apologize to me. Because when she was talking to God, the big guy didn’t send her to you. God sent her to me.”
Smiling, Squires limped back to his truck and waited. The three gangbangers looked at one another for a moment, their faces unfocused, then they obviously decided Fuck it! and went inside the church.
While he was messing with the radio, trying to find some decent news, his phone rang once, but no one was there when Squires answered, saying, “Hello… hello?” during a long silence.