Did Paco blab about New Mexico? Have the federales followed our trail here? What has leaked? Calm. Keep calm. It’s ok. Remember the Havana rule: say nothing-twice.
He unbuttons his coat, places his boot on the arm of my chair, and continues. “You think something could happen here and I wouldn’t know? You’re very much mistaken, señorita. From Malibu Mesa to Wetback Mountain and all the way to fucking Vail, I know what’s going on. It’s my job to know. Get me?”
“Yes, señor.”
“The last time I existed in a state of ignorance was Gulf War One. We thought we were the invasion but we were only the diversion. No one’s played me like that since. No one and certainly not some Mex cunt who’s too fucking proud to whore for us. Why are you so fucking proud? You think you’re going to get Jackie here to marry you? You think he’s going to knock you up? Is that your fucking plan? Or is blackmail more your game? Play both angles at the same fucking time?”
The other shining leather boot lands on my chair with a clump. He crosses his legs and those eyes bore into me.
Take it easy, I tell myself. He doesn’t know anything for sure. He’s still fishing. He’s got something but he doesn’t see everything. Yet.
“No answer?” he says.
“I don’t know what you mean, señor.”
“What did you hear? What rumors are they spreading in that Mex motel of yours?”
Spittle flying from his lips. Real anger in his words. And now I’m afraid. Afraid of those big hands more than the gun. Beat me to death with two blows.
Again an image of a naked body, yellow and blue, bloated, a skull for a face, maggots for eyes. That’s me there in that soft brown earth, under those big trees, unloved, unfound forever.
He pauses to get his breath back, squints at me. “Well?” he says.
I’m supposed to answer.
“But I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say truthfully.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about? I think you fucking do. I think someone has been shooting their mouth off and you’ve seen the chance for a few dollars more. A chance for the big score. Is that right? I mean, why concern yourself with blow-job money when you can shoot for millions?”
Anything I say will only provoke him.
He waits me out.
“Perhaps you could tell me what I have done wrong?”
He nods, smashes his fist into his hand, gets up, and walks behind me. I stare straight ahead. If I don’t look back the monster won’t be there. Right, Dad?
A car driving past on the road. A helicopter landing at the Cruise house.
Surely he can’t kill me out here with all these potential witnesses.
His breath against my cheek.
“You were at the Pearl Street Garage in town. Asking questions about an incident last May.”
The grave. The trees.
I’m fucked. Should have bribed Jackson.
Hector’s first rule of police work: secure your snitches. But where would I have gotten enough money on a salary of thirty dollars a month? Burned most of my savings on the coyote. And besides, Jackson told me about you, why wouldn’t he tell you about me?
And now. Fucked.
Don’t say anything. Don’t deny it, just say nothing.
Briggs takes a long breath, breathes out. Cream, coffee, tobacco. “So why does Little Miss Nobody want to know about a dead Mex? What are you, María? A blackmailer? An opportunist? An undercover journo? What’s in it for you, Señorita X?”
His gloved hands pinch a fold of skin at the back of my neck. He twists it.
Pain. Terrible pain as he lifts me off the seat.
“I could fucking paralyze you with this if I wanted to,” he says or seems to say-I can barely hear him through the fire in my nerve endings.
I try to hit his arms. My legs kick out.
“Stop it!”
“Speak, you little bitch, speak and tell me everything. Why did you go to the garage? Did Esteban put you up to this? What does he want to know?”
He squeezes so hard that I’m seeing stars, passing out…
One second, two, blackness.
He lets go the pinch. My head slumps forward.
He’s facing me.
“Why were you at the garage?” he whispers.
Play for time. Big breaths. Got to get out of here. Hit him with something.
“Why were you at the garage?”
“Señor, I think you’re mis-”
He grabs a handful of hair, drags me out of the chair, and throws me to the deck.
“Who put you up to this? Who? Is Esteban too fucking chicken to do his own legwork? How much did he pay you? What’s his angle? What’s his fucking angle? Answer me, you little bitch.”
I try to scramble away from him but he grabs my ankle and pulls me back across the deck. He kneels down on my legs and draws his gun.
“We’re going to get some fucking answers or you are gonna fucking disappear.”
He slides the hammer back on his.38 and points it between my legs.
“Maybe I’ll just blow your cunt off. Won’t be able to whore then, will ya? Won’t be able to fuck movie stars on the side. What’s Esteban’s cut on that little racket? Eh? Still not talking?”
He pushes down on me with all his weight, crushing my thighs. He points the gun at my head.
“Nah, forget that, I don’t want to wound ya. One in the temple, a group of three beside it to triple check. That’s the ticket. Vanish you off the face of the Earth. Message to that Mex bastard: Mind your business, Esteban.”
“Señor, I don’t know what you’re t-talking about,” I stammer.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about?” he says, leaning forward to slap me across the face. My lip catches a ring on his hand and starts to bleed.
“Think I’m stupid? Is that what you think? Think because you fucking speak English you can beat me in a battle of fucking wits? I’ve been through the fucking war, señorita. I’ve been farther than you’ll ever fucking go. Farther than Esteban, farther than all of ya.”
“Señor, I-”
“No. No. Forget it. Don’t talk. I’ll get it from him. You’re history, little girl. Nobody knows you from Adam. You’re life ain’t worth shit. One less dumb whore for us to worry about. Close your eyes, sugar.”
He climbs off me and stands back so the blood splatter won’t get on his coat. He points the gun, squeezes the trigger.
I start to scream from somewhere deep. From New Mexico. From Havana. And deeper still. Louder than the helicopter at my uncle’s house in Santiago, louder than the prisoners in the Cominado del Este.
Scream and scream.
“Jack! Help me! Help me! Jack!”
“There’s no help coming, little sister, this is my t-”
A blur. A smash.
Jack barreling into him. Knocking him down. The gun going off and simultaneously flying out of Briggs’s hand. No bluff. He would have killed me. Jack punching Briggs twice on the head. Briggs thumping Jack on the back of the neck. Jack crumpling. Briggs getting to his feet, kicking Jack in the stomach. Briggs looking for the pistol, looking on the deck, under the chairs, behind him, and finally at my right hand.
“Ok, now, steady on. Hold on a minute. Let me explain something, let me explain just a little.”
I put my finger to my lips. “Ssshhhh.”
He shushes, puts his hands up.
Jack dry heaves and manages to get into a sitting position.
“What’s going on, María?” Jack says, choking out the words.
What to say? “I don’t know, Jack. I think Sheriff Briggs has gotten me mixed up with one of the other girls. Since coming here I have broken no laws and I have kept to my own business. I only want to work hard and stay out of trouble.”
Briggs looking at the gun. Eyes wide. Still can’t believe it. Are you scared? Are you having a premonition?
“What in the name of all that’s fucking holy is going on, Sheriff?” Jack asks, furiously. Boxer shorts, T-shirt, no shoes. His face white with anger. Jack gets to his feet and I offer him my hand. Show solidarity. Jack takes the hand.