It took him three false starts before he got across, running. He followed the winking neon of taverns and hamburger joints, and soon enough could smell the garlic and hot sauces of a Mexican caf?. He followed the aroma down a side street until he saw ahead a splash of red and green neon announcing the Colima Caf?; the smell drew him like a kiss. Hurrying toward the small white house, he pushed inside.
Red checkered oilcloth covered the tables. The fly-specked walls were decorated with sombreros, faded pi?atas, and beer posters. The hot, meaty, spicy smell made him think he’d stepped into heaven. He chose a small table, sat with his back to the wall, fingering the sauce-spotted menu, though he knew what he wanted. He sat holding the menu before him, surveying the room.
A man and woman sat two tables down: tourists, all dressed up. Three Mexican men in denim overalls occupied the table in the middle of the room, drinking beer and wolfing tacos from a heaped plate. At a table near the window were two young husky Mexican men dressed in flared jeans, tight T-shirts, and expensive boots, a dozen empty beer bottles on the table between them. Each had several self-inflicted tattoos on his arms, crosses and initials, the kind the peacock punks in the joint gave themselves with the help of a sharp instrument and blue ink. Lee tucked the scene away as he watched the waiter approach wiping his hands on his dirty apron. He ordered chorizo, two eggs over easy, tortillas, refried beans, and a bottle of beer.
The waiter grinned.“You miss breakfast, se?or?”
Lee smiled back at him.“I missed this kind of breakfast.”
“?Qu? clase cerveza, se?or?”
“Carta Blanca. Pronto, yo tengo sed.”
The waiter scurried for the kitchen, he was back at once with the beer. Lee tilted the bottle and let the icy brew slide down, then ordered another. The ferment they made in prison, from prunes and apricots pilfered from the kitchen, faded into welcome oblivion. When his meal came he covered it with salsa and savored it, too, trying to eat slowly and get the most from every bite, but too soon it was gone. He wrapped the remains of his beans and chorizo in the last fresh, hot tortilla. When finally he pushed back his chair and fished in his watch pocket for money, the two twenties and the five came out together. Annoyed, he peeled off the five and pushed the twenties back, but one of the Mexican boys tapped the other on the shoulder, watching him. Lee paid the bill and left quickly, knowing too well what was coming.
He was barely out the door when he heard it close a second time, and one of the young men shouted,“Hey,hombre viejo. Wait up.”
Lee turned to face them on the empty side street. The two approached him side by side, walking with a belligerent swing through the green river of neon, the taller one casually tossing a small object hand to hand, and Lee caught the gleam of a switchblade. The young man’s voice was soft, casual, and sure of himself. And they were on him, moving in close. “We want the money in that little pocket of yours, se?or.”
Lee smiled.
“If you do not give it to us, old man, I’ll show you what this can do.” Again he tossed the knife, watching Lee.
Lee judged his timing and distance. When the knife was in midair he stepped forward on his left foot, did a snap-kick that brought the toe of his right boot crashing into the guy’s testicles. As the young man doubled over, grabbing himself, Lee dropped to a crouch and scooped up the fallen knife. He hit the button releasing the six-inch blade, swung it up in an arc at the man on his left. The blade traveled horizontally, hitting him just below the belt buckle to deliver a gut gash. Bright red blood splashed up across his white T-shirt and down the tight flared pants. The young Mexican looked down, gasped at what he saw, clutched his gut, and fled.
Lee knelt beside the fallen youth. He was curled up groaning, holding his crotch. Lee rolled the boy over, wiped the blood from the knife onto the boy’s nose. “Old man, am I? If I ever see you again, you little pussy-ball scumbag, I’ll cut your nuts off and cram them down your throat.” He closed the switchblade, stuck it in his back pocket, stood up and headed for the train station.
Back on the train, as they got moving, Indio’s industrial buildings edged past and then its small old houses, and then outside of town began the dizzying corridors of towering date palms fanning swiftly past, making him giddy if he watched for too long. Closing his eyes, he wondered if those two youngbraceros had signaled a new pattern in his life, one where he, an old worn-out gringo, stood at the mercy of the young and belligerent field hands with whom he would be working—but then suddenly the cat was with him again, easing Lee, curling up against his thigh, invisible but warm and purring, and Lee felt steadier. Ghost cat, spiritcat, perhaps from a brighter dimension, Lee was grateful to have Misto near him.
He guessed when he got to the ranch the big yellow tom would have no trouble hiding himself, moving about invisibly; or perhaps he would make himself boldly known among the barn cats and the other ranch animals. He just hoped Misto would stay with him; the tom had been with him at McNeil both as mortal cat and as ghost, the little spirit proving to Lee beyond doubt that a vast and intriguing universe awaited somewhere beyond, a realm far more intricate, and perhaps far kinder, than this present world seemed to offer. Lee thought the ghost cat might know almost everything Lee himself had experienced in his life. He wasn’t sure what that added up to, but the thought was more comforting than annoying, that the friend from his childhood cared enough to know about him and to stay with him.
As the train picked up speed, the fanning of the palm groves so dizzied Lee that he turned again from the window. Dozing, it seemed he was a boy again, back with Russell Dobbs reliving, almost as if it were his own life, the tale of Dobbs’s bargain with the dark spirit, with the haunt that visited Lee himself too often, cold and tenacious. All the long-ago gossip that Lee had heard as a child seemed to come together now, as the cat lay with his paws on Lee’s arm, looking up at him, looking wise and all-knowing. As Lee dreamed, was it Misto himself who filled in the small, sharp details of the confrontation between the devil and Russell Dobbs? When Lee woke, he seemed to know the story more clearly, small details had been fitted into place. Could he still hear Misto’s whisper—or was it Lee’s own silent thoughts whispering, over the rattle of the train?
10
Having agreed to certain terms, Russell Dobbs spread the word quickly that the Northern& Dakota out of Chicago would be carrying a heavy payroll and that he meant to take it down. He put out that information in ways that would not be traced back to him, he let it be known that he would slip aboard at Pierre and work the job from inside the train, alone and that he meant to leave the train with half a million in cash.
His plan worked out very well. The five Love boys, and the three Vickers brothers lay in wait for the Northern& Dakota, stopping and boarding the train at different points, both sets of brothers unduly heated and aggressive with the promise that Russell Dobbs would already be aboard. Dobbs waited in the woods, quieting his horse as, inside the train when the brothers discovered each other, a small war fought itself to a bloody finish. When it was all over he rode away hoping he’d seen the last of the Loves and the Vickerses and of his phantom visitor.