In the half shadows of the warehouse the father raised an eyebrow. "A man who can breathe a thought like that has to have a black mark in his life somewhere."
"You have no idea."
Reflection to reflection. The father now cocky and self-possessed. "There's a notion that a hearse should never be cleaned or repaired unless it has a firm booking. Otherwise, if it is readied, it will find itself work. Are you superstitious?"
"No."
"Well, I am. So keep your damn hands clear of it."
RAWBONE WAS SITTING at the kitchen table just as he had the night before, when the phone rang down a hallway. Mr. Hecht entered the room a few minutes later and excused the cook. He had written down the appointed place, the appointed time. He was carrying a leather packet which he set on the table before Rawbone.
West of Calle de la Paz was a ravine that ran all the way to the Rio Bravo. It was also where garbage was dumped. Hours later Rawbone left an urgent message by phone for Hecht to meet him there.
Gulls drifted on the thermals or picked away at the trash. Rawbone smoked and waited alone as a single vehicle struggled its way down that worthless stretch of road.
Mr. Hecht was alone. He looked Rawbone over as he got out of the car. He looked the truck over. "I don't understand," he said. "Why are we here?"
"I'll show you why."
Hecht was led to the rear of the truck, where a tarp was pulled back just enough for him to view what remained of McManus. The old man kept his head at the sight. The leather packet was positioned beside the body. Rawbone held it for Hecht to take. It was blood-stained.
"This one had a different idea about the transaction than you did."
Mr. Hecht waved away the packet.
"THERE'S NOTHING LIKE a finely worked `fuck you,"' said Rawbone. He removed a thin band of hundreds from the packet, then tossed it aside and pocketed the money.
John Lourdes had watched everything from a stand of trees, joining the father only after the dust trailing Hecht's vehicle had passed away. He was looking over a note Hecht had written on his personal stationery. Addressed to a Doctor Stallings, it was about a job and was to be brought to a railroad siding at the junction of the road to Casas Grandes.
"You know who the doctor is, don't you?" asked Rawbone.
"I do. He's in that film."
The father put out a hand to shake, but the son was preoccupied with that letter. "Mr. Lourdes, you have fulfilled your obligation and I, mine. It is time we part ways."
The son looked up. He did not take the father's hand. "I'm sure you feel we're both the richer for our time together ... but we're not near done yet."
TWENTY
"You better just enlighten me to what you meant."
"You speak the same language I do. We are done only when I say we are done."
"Are you trying to roll me into a ditch?"
He grabbed the letter and started to walk away.
"Where are you going?" said John Lourdes. "Not back."
The father held up the letter. "I'm gonna go get introduced to my future."
By the time Rawbone reached the truck John Lourdes had drawn up behind him with his weapon pressed against the back of the father's neck. With that he stretched his arm and took the automatic Rawbone carried.
John Lourdes stood back. He pointed to the rear of the truck. "McManus ... you killed him. I know and Mr. Hecht ... he knows. You might even say he's your accomplice in this. Now if justice Knox went to Mexican intelligence, well-?"
The son now circled the father. "What you said to me back at the river when you ... poisoned ... those three customs agents. `Mr. Lourdes,' you said, `it's a means of holding you to the cross."' There was a flicker of dark accomplishment in his eyes. "We're done only when I say we're done."
"Back there on the street," said Rawbone. "When we were walking to the Customs House and you had that photo. And the note to Hecht. You were plotting then."
"This moment here?"
"This moment here."
As if mocking the father, he said, "Aye. Something pretty close, anyway."
"It does seem like you're a couple of steps up from Montgomery Ward's."
John Lourdes grabbed the letter. "You're gonna deliver this truck and you're gonna get yourself a job and I'm gonna be right there with you and we're gonna find out where this truck is going and who it's going to and why, if it means driving it all the way-"
"I'll be arm-wrestling death first."
"And who says you aren't? Maybe I dusted off that hearse a little in your honor before we left Juarez."
Rawbone changed his tactic. He took out a cigarette and lit it. He leaned back against the truck, stretching his arms across the hood as if he were one broad tendon. "I think I'll just relax here and enjoy the view."
"Listen to me now," said John Lourdes. "I'm not some empty street you're going to walk down and be done with. There is you, there is me, and there is that truck. And that's all. There's no past, there's no future. There is only now. Do you understand?" He pointed his gun at the truck. "That is our world. See the writing there on the sideAMERICAN PARTHENON-that's our world. Nothing else. You ... me ... and this truck. And we're going to drive through to the end .. . together. Wherever that end is. Till all that's left are our bones and a chassis, if need be." He was near out of breath and he could feel his whole body in every branched vein running with rage.
He fought to calm himself. "And when we're done. When I see we're done, then you'll have your immunity. Now . . ." He started toward the back of the truck. "Help get Mr. McManus off the truck and to somewhere more ... befitting his present station."
"What is this really about, Mr. Lourdes?"
The son stopped. His head and shoulders tightened down. He turned.
"Maybe it's that black spot you're carrying around. Or maybe you're desperate to prove what you're not. The ladder is always taller for the small man."
"The teachings of a common assassin."
"I've survived this long because there's legitimacy to me." Rawbone walked to the cab for his bindle. "And what this is really about ... is the practical application of strategy. As seen through the eyes of one John Lourdes."
Rawbone slung the bindle over one shoulder. He took to walking away. The son saw him and called out, "You think you're leaving but you're not."
The father kept on.
"What about your family?"
Rawbone stopped. His face drained of expression. The son had heard himself say the words but there was no thought to them, no preparation, nor plan. They came out as squalls of pure anger, fully formed. Ready, willing and able to draw blood and serve a purpose at the same time.
"You do have a family, don't you?"
Rawbone flicked away his cigarette.
"In El Paso?"
The father did not move. He only swung the bindle up on his shoulder as if he were getting ready to start away.
"Could it be those questions you were asking of me at the church about the barrio, and did I know families there-"
"I have no idea where you're going," said Rawbone. "But I'll send you my regrets once you get there."
John Lourdes approached, his weapon in one hand, the father's in the other. Both were barreled to the ground.
"What if I told you someone at BOI knows of your family. I might even say justice Knox has spoken to a member of your family. Would it mean anything to you?"
The son could see something incubating in the eyes and the jawline of the man before him. I have put the knife to him, thought the son. I have found a place that bleeds. Thank God.
"Take a look out there," said John Lourdes.
He meant the ravine so lined with trash along that runnelled pathway that ran with water when the season warranted.