STANDARD OIL COMPANY
MEXICO
THIRTEEN
It was late afternoon when the truck labored up to the low mud brick wall that flanked the nave and from where they could view the ferry. The church was quiet. A few gulls sat atop the bell tower with its cross. There was no shade save for one manzanita alongside the adobe wall. The men rested there in the stifling heat and studied the ferry.
It was docked on the Texas side. There was a customs shack on each shoreline. On this side of the river, the shack stood within a small grotto of trees. The one on the opposing shore stood bare in a landscape that looked like the unfinished country of God's hand. It was still as a painting down there.
"Keep the truck company," said Rawbone. "I'll go to the river to get the feel of things. See what all we have to deal with."
John Lourdes walked to the truck and removed his shoulder holster and set it on the cab seat. He couldn't help but keep looking at the mission. From the moment they'd driven up to this lonely spot he felt as if voices from the other world were talking to him.
There was a pump down one side of the building with a boiler that had been blowtorched in half then plunked down in the sand to use as a trough. He removed his vest and shirt to shave. It was then he remembered the crucifix around his neck, the one with the broken cross beam that was his mother's. Realizing it might give him away, he slipped it off and hid it in his wallet.
JOHN LOURDES WENT into the cool and quiet of the church to wait. Something about this mission held him. Inside it was as simple as the faith that inspired it. It was the faith of his mother and her people, the faith that spoke of sacrifice, of mercy and forgiveness.
There was a statue of the crucified Christ near tall as he was beside the pulpit. There was also a pedestal that stood before the side pews holding a statue of the Virgin and Child. That is where he sat. He placed his hat beside him. Light from the windows cast dusk upon the floor. He studied the Madonna's face, the pale skin of the European, the painted stare a conception of immaculate calm and peace. What was it about this place-
"Praying?"
Caught off guard, John Lourdes came quickly around. Rawbone had entered the mission silently. He sat in the pew across from John Lourdes. He glanced at the statue of the Virgin and Child. "If you're praying to her, forget it. She sure didn't do shit for her son." Then those dusty loveless eyes motioned toward the cross.
To that John Lourdes had nothing to say. He took his hat and stood to leave. Rawbone motioned he sit again. "Nothing can happen till dark anyway."
The son sat.
The father seemed to have something on his mind.
"When you were a detective for the Santa Fe you must have worked the yards by the river."
"I did."
"You probably met a lot of people from the barrio."
"I did."
"You being part Mexican."
"I speak the language, if that's what you mean."
"I was talking about families and such. Knowing families and such."
"Families and such ... yes."
Rawbone sat a bit longer, taking in all that was about him.
"Why do you ask?" said John Lourdes.
Something moved those features momentarily.
"Another time."
He stood.
"We only have tomorrow," said John Lourdes.
"That's right. Let's see then how that goes. For both of us."
Had what he'd seen been the substance of unspeakable regret, or unresolved sorrow? And if it was, what of it? As Rawbone walked out John Lourdes asked, "How do you know this place?"
The father turned and with a way the son well remembered, said, "I was married here, Mr. Lourdes." With that he tapped down his derby and started to the door. "Go back to your mysteries, Mr. Lourdes. I'll be outside ... after I rob the poorbox."
The river lay in darkness. There were but token lights down by the ferry. Music could be heard coming from the shack on the Rio Bravo side. Rawbone had his bindle open on the cab seat when John Lourdes joined him.
"How do we go about the crossing?"
Rawbone took a bottle of whiskey and a flask from the bindle. "We ... I'm going entertaining. When it's clear to make the ferry, I'll sight you up with a lantern."
He walked away with the whiskey tucked up under his arm, whistling as if he were on a Friday night adventure.
The son watched the ferry landing from the adobe wall and smoked. Through binoculars he saw Rawbone approach the shack on the Rio Bravo side. The men, there were three, moved into the doorway light as the flatbed touched shore. Rawbone began talking, pointing with an arm, first in one direction, then the other. But always it was the arm that had the whiskey bottle. His gestures were pure story. The men measured him with their eyes, but it wasn't long before he'd hustled up an invitation into their world.
From time to time, John Lourdes glanced back at the church. Now he understood why somewhere in the fretwork of his memories this mission had its place.
A LIGHT APPEARED at the river. It began to firefly as the father flagged a lantern with his derby. On the American side a man briefly peered out a shack window as the truck geared through its shifts to the landing. The ferry swayed under the weight of the vehicle, the current slapped dangerously up against its sides. Pulling the haul rope was slow and difficult, and John Lourdes kept a ready watch, knowing at that moment he'd gone past the last vestiges of American law.
As the truck labored up from the ferry Rawbone leapt the sideboard. "So far from God, so close to the U.S.," he said. "Let's get from here."
John Lourdes fed the gas. The engine pulled and they passed slowly the pitiful tarpaper and adobe border station. The acute quiet caught John Lourdes's attention immediately.
No one in sight, the door partly open. He tried to spy in.
"No need to involve yourself, Mr. Lourdes."
There was a faint trace in the father's voice that had the feel of the awful. It wasn't until the last, as the truck veered into the road and away from the shack, he noticed back beyond the doorway in the half dark a chair knocked over. Rising up in him was a stirring uncertainty that John Lourdes, even against his better judgment, needed to address.
He pulled the truck over and jumped down from the cab. He started for the border station.
"I wouldn't," said the father.
FOURTEEN
"Shall we be on?" he asked.
"I forgot, for a moment. You're just a common assassin."
"I beg to argue, Mr. Lourdes. I am a most uncommon assassin."
John Lourdes looked back across the river.
Rawbone repeated, "So far from God, so close to the U.S."
John Lourdes closed his eyes.
"What did you think, young sir? That we would cross just as easy as buying sheets and pillows? A little liquor, a little cash? These campesinos may be street dirt and dumb as a brick, but they can sniff out a score with the truest of them."
"So you just murdered-"
"That's where you're wrong."
The son turned to the father.
"No, no, no. We murdered three men."