He had trouble getting that much out at the bridge, let alone anything else. We went through in a breeze. I repeated my warning before we reached the US inspection station. Two minutes later we were back in El Paso, and I felt better. Trouble in Mexico I didn't want. Authorities there have a nasty habit of tossing a gringo into a flea-infested calaboose and conveniently losing the key. Sometimes a man can buy his way out, but sometimes he can't.
That left Jimmy.
"Drive up one of these side streets," I told him.
I le got the whole picture immediately on a big screen. Me nearly let the wheel go completely. "S-Senor, don't do lines thing," he stammered. "I beg of you, don't do—"
"Left, Jimmy. Now." The car lurched as he yanked convulsively at the wheel. The street lights were conveniently spaced. I estimated we were a half-mile from the motel, comfortable walking distance. "Pull over," I ordered. "Between the lights." He did so, babbling unintelligibly in a half-English, half-Spanish, high-pitched wail, "Dump your pockets out on the seat," I demanded. "Be quick."
It was dark, but I could see. About the third item he showered on the seat was a pocketknife of the type known along the border as "Nacional." Heavy bladed and in a solid casing, it's a lethal weapon. Jimmy was still turning out his pockets when I picked up the knife and opened it.
I don't know if he heard the snick of the opening blade or saw the movement of my arm, but he screamed hoarsely and went for the door handle. I grabbed his collar and jerked him back. He collapsed on the seat beside me, his high, keening voice yammering. I hit him in the belly to shut him up.
In the sudden silence I took his sweaty neck in my hand and found the carotid artery with my thumb. I opened the door on my side. A carotid can be messy. I didn't want to get splashed. I braced my heels against the floorboard and reached for him with the blade.
Then I hesitated.
In the quiet I seemed able to think—for the first time since I'd seen red dust clinging to this man's shoes. I'd been so upset at my own stupidity in letting the fool follow me that I hadn't thought the situation through.
Alive, he'd talk.
Later, if not sooner.
That I knew.
But dead, his body would talk, perhaps even more to the point. His cousin expected him back with a tale of where Jimmy had followed the turista and what profit might be wrung from it. If he didn't come back, the cousin would eventually call the police. They'd have little trouble tracing Jimmy to the agency. I had had the motel call the agency. And the motel would furnish the police with a description of me.
And of the Ford.
It would make me too easy to find.
Dead, the man was an anchor around my neck.
Alive? Better, although not much better.
I clicked the knife blade shut. "Sit up and listen to me," I said.
He gave a kind of shuddering sigh. "Por Dios, S-Senor, I implore—"
"Shut up. Drive back to the motel."
It took him a full minute to get the car started. His coordination was gone. He drove like a sleepwalker, his face like yellow wax in the light from the street lamps, his eyes sneaking looks at me. The car bounced high as he turned too fast into the motel driveway. For a second I thought we might take out a unit before he hit the brake and we skidded to a stop.
I got out of the car, then motioned at him. "Take off, man. Get lost."
He stared at me suspiciously from behind the wheel. Was it a trick? It didn't take him long to decide if it was, that he still liked it better than where he'd been. He tramped on the accelerator, and his car hit the street doing forty-five, tires squealing in the night.
I watched him go.
Jimmy had been right up to the gates, and he knew it. Given his type, la-should head straight for his bed and stay there with the covers over his head for three days.
But I couldn't count on it.
Five minutes after his tail-lights winked out of the motel driveway. I was headed east again in the Ford.
III
In a way it was odd about that fat kid's family leaving town that time. Six years later it was my family who were going to leave.
The way it happened was like getting struck by lightning.
I was eighteen, in my senior year in high school. It was late in the spring, and after a succession of chill, rainy days we'd finally caught a hot one. I had my sweater over my arm when I came out the school's back entrance and cut through the parking lot on my way home. I saw four policemen standing in the middle of the lot, and I wondered what they were doing there.
I knew one of them, Harry Coombs, and I nodded as I passed the group. He said something to the others, and the biggest one, who had been standing with his back to me, turned around to look. "You," he said to me. "Come over here."
I went over to them. I knew who the big one was without really knowing him. His name was Edwards, and he was a sergeant. He was a beefy type with thinning red hair. I didn't like him. No good reason. His voice was too loud. He took up too much of the sidewalk when he swaggered by. Things like that.
He looked me up and down when I stood in front of him. "What d'you know about hubcaps missing from the faculty cars three times a week?" he demanded. He looked hot and uncomfortable, still in his winter uniform.
"I don't know anything about it," I answered him. And I didn't, except what I'd been hearing in school assemblies for the last month.
The lower lip in his red face swelled pugnaciously. "Harry says you spend enough time in this parking lot to tell us what's going on," he continued aggressively.
"I said I see him going through here on his way home from school most days!" Coombs cut in.
Edwards paid him no attention. "Well?" he said to me.
"You think whoever's doing it waits for me to come by so I can see them?" I was mad. "Or maybe you think I'm doing it?"
"I'll ask the questions," he snapped, scowling. "What's your name?" I told him. I was liking him less and less every second. "Now you know you must've seen what's been goin' on out here." He said it almost coaxingly. "Who are you covering up for?"
I looked at Harry Coombs to see if Edwards was kidding. Coombs looked away uncomfortably. "Look, you can't mean it," I said finally. "I don't—"
"Answer the question!" he roared.
I started to walk away. Edwards grabbed me by the arm. I've always hated having people put their hands on me. I jerked my arm out of his hand. He probably outweighed me three to one, but I caught him on the wrong foot. He staggered sideways two or three paces. His red face looked bloated.
My sweater had fallen from my arm, and I stooped to pick it up. Edwards kicked me, hard. I went over and down, flat, skinning my palms on the parking lot cinders.
I scrambled up and went after him, the hate of the world in my heart. Harry Coombs clamped me in a smothering bear hug before I could reach Edwards. Coombs kept muttering in my ear, but I was struggling so hard I couldn't hear what he was saying. I kept yelling at Coombs to lei me pi, my head twisted over my shoulder. I never even saw Edwards when he stepped up and slapped me heavily In the lace.
"Goddammit, Sarge!" Coombs said angrily. His grip on me relaxed, then tightened again when I lunged forward.
"Shut up, you!" Edwards barked at him. "This is a wise guy. We'll take him down to the station and talk to him."
"Then take him down yourself," Coombs said. He released me. "I'm on duty on the beat here."
"You're on duty where I tell you you're on duty, Coombs," Edwards warned. "Get him in the patrol car, an' get in yourself." The sergeant clumped heavily back to the other two officers who had been standing by silently.