The Weather and Women Treat Me Fair (7 page)

“Where to?” Luke asked.

“Turn right like you’re going up to Cambresto Lake.”

Luke made the turn. “So, you’re goin’ to let me in on what we’re goin’ to?”

“Turn left up here. Just about there.”

There were a number of trucks parked about in no one particular way. Men were walking into and congregating about the wide doors of an old barn. The house that went with it was long ago abandoned, a corpse of a building just lying on the hill above.

Luke turned off the engine and looked around. “Moonie, this has all the earmarks of a cockfight. I don’t need this.”

“It’s not a cockfight. Shows how much you know.” Muñoz got out of the truck and pushed the door shut.

Luke got out. “So, what’s going on?”

“You’ll see.”

They walked toward the barn. As they passed a pickup, Luke caught in his eye the face of a dog. He stopped and gave her a rub behind the ears. He studied the hollow, intense eyes and began to feel unsettled.

“No, Moonie, I’m not goin’ in there. It’s a fuckin’ dogfight.”

“So?”

“So, I’m not goin.’”

“You ever been to one?”

Luke shook his head.

Muñoz grabbed him by the arm. “It’s something to see. Something to see that you’ve never seen.”

Luke let himself be dragged in. Men sat and stood around, some with dogs beside them in cages. All the dogs were silent, not a whimper, not a bark. The men barked, betting and ribbing and eager for the upcoming fight between a black pit bull and a brown-and-white one. The dogs stood in corners of a small corral, leaning toward the center, keeping their masters’ muscles tight against taut ropes. The men yelled in Spanish and English. The dogs just stared at each other, like it was their business, like boxers.

Muñoz pulled Luke to the corral. Luke was saying to himself that he didn’t want to see this, but he couldn’t pull himself away. What he wanted to do was run out and call the state police, but that would have only gotten him killed. Sick as it made him, as embarrassed as he felt because of it, in some way he wanted to see.

Then they let the dogs go. There was no stalking, no circling. The black dog ripped into the shoulder of the other, drew blood and bit again, moving sideways against the grip the brown-and-white had on his upper foreleg. The men shouted, more money changing hands. The masters yelled commands. Luke observed the different styles of fighting, the way the black dog sought to lessen the effect of the bite on his leg by moving into it. Then he heard the leg snap. The black dog yelped and for a second let off chewing at the wide hole he’d made in the brown-and-white. He let off for a second, and that was it. A charge turned him over, and the brown-and-white tore into his chest. The master of the black turned away in disgust. Luke was running out before he could see the heart of the animal exposed. He vomited outside between a pickup and a Pinto wagon.

He raised up to find the eyes of the dog he had petted earlier, still tied and standing in the bed of the truck. He went to the animal, and before he knew what he was doing, he had her untied. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to his truck, put her in the cab.

“Hey”, somebody yelled, then ran into the barn.

Luke sped away, back to the road and through Questa, where he turned south and headed for Taos.

Luke wanted to kick himself. The owner of this dog would get the word somebody had taken off with his pooch, and the chase would be on. These people took this dog business seriously. He looked at the brindle pit bull, reached over and scratched it behind the ear. He could take the dog to the state police and tell them about the fighting, but his truck had been seen, so he would still be in trouble. The dog stared ahead through the windshield, not smart-looking, not stupid-looking, just there.

He stopped at a Texaco mini-market gas station. The dog sat quietly while he pumped five dollars of regular into the tank. He made kissing sounds and talked to the dog while he screwed on the cap. While he was inside paying the cashier he watched an over-sized Buick with Oklahoma plates pull up alongside the pumps just beyond the truck. The pit bull was out before the car had stopped good and the driver could open his door. There was a small collie in the car, and the pit bull wanted it. There was a little girl in the back with the collie and she was screaming, she was so frightened.

Luke ran out. The man held at bay behind the wheel glared at him. Luke found that he himself was afraid to reach for the dog’s collar to pull him away. The pit bull was not barking, but growling in a low rumble and leaping at the window, his jaws snapping, sounding like a big book being slammed shut.

The man looked at Luke. He realized now that the dog was with him. “Do something,” the man mouthed the words behind the rolled-up window.

Luke took the rope from the bed of the truck. He formed a loop and dropped it over the dog’s head. He gave a strong yank and jerked the dog off her feet. He climbed into his truck from the passenger side and slid over, pulling the dog in behind him. He held fast to the rope while he started the car. He took off, the passenger-side door swinging shut as he curved out onto the highway.

The Okie was out of his car and yelling at him. “What kind of idiot has a dog like that!”

Luke threw the rope at the dog’s face. “Christ,” he said. “I drag you away from a slaughter and—” He stopped. He’d taken the dog, he guessed, because he had failed to see anything vicious in her face. Now, he didn’t know what to think. “Bad dog!” he said. If the dog heard him, she wasn’t impressed. Luke began to wonder what he’d gotten himself into. What was he going to do with this dog? He couldn’t take it back to Questa: he’d return it and they’d beat the shit out of him. He couldn’t let it go in Taos: the damn thing would kill every dog in sight. And what if the asshole whose dog it was called the cops and reported it stolen, description of truck and thief included? No, the guy was dogfighting. He wouldn’t call the police. Would he?

Luke cursed the dog. Then he decided that this was all Cindy’s fault. He pulled into the parking lot behind the plaza and considered that. If Cindy hadn’t told him about the geek from Texas, then he wouldn’t have blown off his ride and ended up with Muñoz at a dogfight. So, here he was, thirty-seven dollars down the drain, a savage dog beside him and some crazy dogfighting banditos hot on his tail. All the fault of a woman. Cindy. She should have this dog.

He started the truck. Dusk was corning on. It would be late when he reached Red River. Especially since he had to go around the other way, through Angel Fire and back through Eagle Nest to avoid Questa and the boys.

It
was
late when he rolled down the mountain into Red River, and he was asking the same question then that he had been asking the whole way. “What the hell am I doing?” There was no place he knew to look for Cindy. Hell, he didn’t even know if they were in Red River. He had it in his mind to cruise up and down the single drag of town with an eye out for her. He was beginning to think that maybe he
had
taken a fall off that bull and dinged his head up pretty badly.

Up and down the road, the dog looking out the window at the car lights and store lights and people.

Luke studied the Texans, the dog, the night. He stopped the truck and led the roped dog behind the tavern where he tied her to the bumper of a shiny car. He walked back to his pickup, smiling at pretty, narrow-nosed, blonde women, climbed into his pickup, and drove away toward Oregon.

Esteban

The van had pulled off the road east of Flying Mountain and followed a faint, tire-rutted trail. It just sat there, dusty blue on the white flat. Nothing moved. There was no breeze. Cole Dixson parked his rig beside Winston Keeler’s.

“Anything?” he asked, taking his rifle from its rack.

Keeler continued to peer through the field glasses. “Nope.” He lowered them, reached into his jeep through the window, pulled out a shotgun.

“What do you think? Sleeping?”

Keeler looked at the sun, raked sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Doors are closed. Probably empty.” He spat tobacco juice. “I been here half an hour waiting for you and ain’t shit moved.”

“Let’s go.”

The men made their way cautiously toward the vehicle, moving away from each other as they drew nearer. Waves of heat rose from the ground and the van looked unreal in the haze. From about thirty yards it was clear to Cole that the front seats were empty. He fanned Keeler onto the rear. At the van, Keeler stood to the side of the rear door and pounded on it with the butt of his shotgun. Nothing. Cole nodded, widened his stance and raised his rifle. Keeler jerked open the door, took a quick glance, fell back a step.

Cole stepped closer. All four were dead, lying on the floor. One was a kid. “Jesus.”

Keeler pointed at a hibachi next to a wheel well. “Trying to hide and cook,” he said. “Dumbshits.”

The sun was beginning its downward slide. Cole parked in a diagonal space in front of the border patrol station in Henning. Keeler pulled in beside him. They went through the door, Keeler tossing an arm around Cole’s neck, saying, “You can’t let this stuff bug you.”

Vivian, the dispatcher, sat at her board. She leaned back and swiveled in her chair as they walked the length of the counter and around. A thin white hand pulled some of the platinum blonde hair from her face. “Pretty bad?” she asked.

Cole lit a cigarette and nodded, shook the match out, leaned against the inside of the counter. Keeler fell in behind a desk, tossed his hat on the rack behind him.

“Your brother called,” Vivian told Cole.

“Yeah?”

“Wants you to call him back.” She switched the air conditioner in the window beside her down to low. “How many?” she asked.

“Four,” Keeler said.

“One was a kid,” Cole said.

“He said it was important,” Vivian said.

Cole looked at her.

“Your brother.”

“He’s a goddamn lawyer. Everything’s important.”

Keeler laughed. “How’s it feel to be the black sheep of your family?”

Cole exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. “Funny.”

“What do your folks say, black black sheep?” Keeler laughed again.

Vivian shook her head. “Winston, you’re retarded.”

“That’s impossible, Viv,” Keeler said. “I ain’t never been tarded in the first place.”

“Where’s everybody?” Cole asked.

“Tuck’s ridin’ the corner.” Vivian glanced at her pad. “And Bernard, he’s out at Pancho Villa. A couple of campers say they got shot at.” The phone rang and she answered.
“Puede hablar más despacio?”
She switched the air conditioner off altogether.
“Dónde?…Si…Si.”
She hung up. “Somebody shot Bernard.”

Cole mashed his butt out. “Where is he?”

“The clinic in Mimbres.”

Keeler was up, hat in hand. “You got gas in your ride?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

“You call me you hear,” Vivian said as they left.

Babies cried in the clinic waiting room. Cole and Keeler stood at the unmanned desk. Most of the patients were children. Latin parents were often superstitious about their own illnesses, but conscientious about seeking medical care for their young ones. Cole glanced about the room. Mothers looked away from his uniform. He knew some of them were illegals and they knew he knew. He’d seen most of them for a year or more and had known it.

“Hey!” Keeler shouted down the corridor.

A young woman came from a room and walked toward them.
“Que le ocurre?”
She tugged at her nurse’s whites.

“I’ll tell you what the trouble is,” Keeler said. “We’ve got a friend here and we want to see him.”

“What’s his name?”

“He was wearing a uniform like ours!” Keeler said.

“Bernard Walker,” said Cole.

The woman didn’t answer, pretended to look through papers on her desk.

Cole and Keeler exchanged glances. Cole tapped on the papers in front of her. “Walker.” He studied her eyes.
“Es grave?”

She laughed. She gestured for them to follow her down the hallway. They did. In an examination room they found Bernard, flat on his stomach on a table, his gray beard pressed into a pillow with a paper slip. There was a white towel draped over his rear.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Keeler asked.

“Son of a bitch shot me in the ass.”

Cole pulled up a corner of the towel and peeked.

“Get away from there now,” Bernard said.

“You don’t look very shot.” Cole let the towel down.

“Damn pea-shooter twenty-two.” He scratched his beard on the pillow.

Cole stepped back and looked at the prone figure. “You’re not a very long person, are you?”

“Who was it?” Keeler asked. He was at the window, peering out at the dusty alley through drawn blinds.

“It was a kid.”

The doctor came into the room. “Somebody shot your friend in the ass,” he said.

“So we see,” said Cole. “How is he?”

“I don’t know. How was he before?”

“Comedian,” Bernard said.

“The bullet didn’t penetrate very far. It almost bounced off.”

“It hurts like hell.”

“You’re just embarrassed,” Cole said.

“Am not.”

“Butt-wound Bernard,” sang Keeler.

“Cut that out.”

“That’s a good name for you. Butt-wound.”

“Stop it before it sticks.”

“Lie still,” Cole said. “You might shake something loose. You get a good look at the kid?”

‘“You get a good look at the kid?”’ Bernard repeated. “Hell no. Look at where he shot me. I got eyes in the back of my head?”

“I thought you might have been running away or something.”

“You know, I won’t always be stretched out on this table.”

Cole turned to the doctor. “When can he leave?”

“He can get up now.’ Then to Bernard, “Change the bandages a few times a day.”

“Okay, doc.”

Keeler left the window. On his way by he slapped Bernard through the towel. “Let’s roll, butt-wound.”

“Fuck! Keeler, I swear—”

“We’ll be waiting outside,” Cole said. “Where’s your rig?”

“Out on the road.”