Dove Season

by Johnny Shaw

“Can they see us?” I asked. “I couldn’t see a goddamn thing inside that shit.”

  “Don’t matter,” Bobby said. “They know we’re here. Pendejo can smell a trap. Good on him.”

  Buck Buck yelled, “You want I should fire a warning shot over their bough, captain?”

  Snout laughed.

  Bobby walked to the middle of the road. He held his arms out to his side, the shotgun held firmly in one hand, daring Alejandro to try something.

  “Come on, motherfucker,” he yelled. “Let’s get this done.”

  Slowly the headlights receded. The van backed up and disappeared into the sunless pitch.

  For ten minutes, we waited for the van to come barreling through the smoke at any second. That was how Buck Buck ended up putting a big hole in the grille of our former fourth grade teacher’s Olds. It really was an accident. Buck Buck was on edge, and his reflexes were quick. A car came through the smoke. He turned and fired.

  Mrs. Knipp was shaken up. That tends to happen to eighty-three-year-old women when you fire a shotgun at them. To her credit, she pulled over slowly despite the steam from her exploded radiator.

  She stayed in the car. When we ran to see if she was okay, she rolled down the window and the first words out of her mouth were, “Buck Buck Buckley. I should have known. That day I caught you playing with yourself behind the cafeteria, I should have known you’d eventually try to shoot me.”

  Bobby and I laughed until she gave us a glare. She was serious, like this had been inevitable.

  I thought Buck Buck was going to cry. He spent the next five minutes promising to take care of all the repairs personally and anything else she needed.

  “Please don’t tell my mom,” Buck Buck pleaded.

  “I didn’t tell your mother when you wouldn’t stop flashing your pecker at Peggy Miller at recess, did I?”

  “No.”

  “What did I do? What did I tell you?”

  “You told me the next time I took it out, you would snip it off. Then you took out your scissors and cut them in the air. And then I peed myself.”

  “That’s right. And you stopped.”

  Buck Buck nodded, as if he had learned a valuable lesson. I missed the moral, but apparently Buck Buck and Mrs. Knipp had a far more complex relationship than I had ever realized. I had also forgotten how much of a little perv Buck Buck had been.

  Eventually, Buck Buck helped Mrs. Knipp into his truck and they headed into town.

  Because we didn’t have a war room, Bobby and I made do with the tailgate of his truck. Our strategy session consisted of drinking beers from Bobby’s cooler, calling Alejandro an original combination of expletives, and throwing rocks at a nearby telephone pole.

  As the excitement waned and her hangover returned, Angie crashed and fell asleep in the front seat of her truck. I found a blanket behind the seats and did my best to shade her.

  Snout went back to tending the burning Sudan grass. Despite my vocal reservations, he kept his shotgun strapped to his back. Apparently, “no fucking Mexican cocksucker was going to fucking catch him with his fucking dick in his fucking hand.” With arguments as strong as that, I’m surprised Snout hadn’t joined the debate team in high school, instead of regularly drinking stolen butterscotch schnapps under the bleachers during third period.

  When Griselda’s patrol car roared through the thinning smoke, Bobby and I dove for our guns. Snout flipped his shotgun to ready. I guess we were still a little jumpy. Luckily, Buck Buck was already on his way to town and all our reflexes sucked. We recognized the two-tone sedan with blue and red lights on top before we accidentally knocked out a couple of shots.

  “I put in a call for the van. Sent it out as a ‘wanted for questioning’ since he didn’t really do anything. Probably back in Mexico, but it should come up if he tries to cross again. All we have is the vehicle. He can easily use another car, so you best still be on your guard.” Griselda had joined us in the back of Bobby’s truck and grabbed a beer from the cooler.

  “I ain’t going to keep looking over my shoulder,” Bobby said. “That shit’s going to end.”

  “If you’re planning on doing something illegal or stupid or both,” Griselda said, “I don’t want to hear it. I’d rather you kept your stupid on the inside.”

  “I’m just saying,” Bobby said. “This is bullshit, that’s all. Fucking bullshit. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Mr. Morales,” I said.

  “What about him?” Griselda asked.

  “Angie and I saw Alejandro coming out of the bar. He knows Mr. Morales is Tomás’s grandfather. He might’ve gone over there to get information about Tomás. Or to…?”

  Griselda downed her beer and jumped to her feet. “I’m on it.”

  “I’m coming,” I said.

  She paused for a moment, but it didn’t take much thought. She shrugged and motioned to her patrol car. “If you’re coming, let’s go.”

  I turned to Bobby. “If Angie tries to go off on her own, don’t let her. Make sure you or Snout go with her. If it’s Snout, no crazy-ass shotgun. A pistol, fine, but nothing too big. Next time I see him, he should still have all nine of his toes.”

  “I’ll be done with the burn in an hour,” Bobby said. “My house, carne asada, lunch.”

  I nodded, ran to Griselda’s car, and hopped in. The car was moving before my door closed.

  On the drive to Morales Bar, Griselda updated me on the progress of Yolanda’s murder investigation. Griselda drove ninety miles an hour with one casual arm on the window like a Sunday drive. Considering the events of the day, she even let me smoke in her patrol car. So long as I gave her one of my cigarettes.

  “Still fighting to keep it a homicide. Blunt force trauma, coroner said. The wound was deep. From the photos, it doesn’t look like it could be from the fall. Hoping when we comb the bottom of the well, we find a rock or whatever that did it. We find that, we find a bit more of the story. There’s a lot of broken concrete around the pump.”

  “I don’t need the details,” I said. The image of Yolanda’s dead eyes and wet black dress returned.

  “Sorry. I do that. You get lost in the job sometimes. Desensitized is what they call it. All the crazy you see becomes normal, and normal becomes crazy.”

  “Probably why you’re with Bobby,” I said, smiling.

  “I know that was a joke, but probably right. Maybe. I know I can’t do normal. Whatever that is.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t even figure how things have escalated to the point they’re at. I track it in my mind, but I can’t find where it went nuts. Not too long ago, I was spending my days trying to make my dying father laugh. And before that, doing shit all.”

  “Life’s crazy, yeah?”

  “Where’re you with Bobby’s list?” I asked.

  “Just getting started. The way things work down here is, I got my cases, but I also got my regular shifts. So while I’m doing my interviews, a lot of them on the phone which isn’t optimal, I also got to drive the ditch banks and help lost hunters. Without time and resources, I’m trying my best to keep Yolanda from getting lost in the system.”

  “That’s something.”

  “I’ll work the interviews. Everyone I can find. But a lot of people were there. And a few Mexican nationals, I’m going to have a hard time talking to. Including your friend, Tomás. On top of it, everyone was intoxicated. I drew up a timeline. The doc placed the time of death at between one thirty and two in the morning. I’m focusing on finding the people who were unaccounted for then.”

  “Based on what?”

  “People’s accounts. Foggy, drunken memories. Bobby gave me a starting point. And Mr. Morales seems to have a practically photographic memory for the events inside his bar. Whether he’s been drinking or not.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

  Griselda continued. “I got no reason to believe this was anything more than one person. So, I’m taking what each person says, who they saw, what they
were doing, and cross-referencing everyone’s story. It’s going to take some time, but it’s already starting to give me a picture, at least from what we got so far. If two, three people say they remembered, say, Mike Egger playing pool the whole time, then I take that as gospel. He’s off the list.”

  “Taking the nicest and Catholic-est guy on the face of the earth off a list of possible suspects, that’s big news.”

  “Just an example.”

  “So, the gazillion-dollar question. Who’s not accounted for?”

  “Yeah, that’s what sucks. Almost everybody. Including you and Bobby, Buck Buck, and Snout. I think I’ve scratched like five people off my list. So far the real problem is figuring out who all was there. I got three or four high school kids that nobody can ID. Most likely from Calexico, but who knows. Then there’s another half dozen out-of-town hunters and a few field-workers. The bar was open and serving. If I hadn’t been on duty, I would’ve been there. And I never even met your father.”

  “It was a good wake.”

  We pulled into the empty dirt lot in front of Morales Bar. Both Griselda and I cautiously got out of the patrol car. The constant volley of distant shotgun fire played soundtrack to our approach. Griselda kept one hand on her sidearm. She turned to me.

  “Get back in the car,” she said.

  “Fuck that,” I countered.

  She gave me a stare and shook her head, but didn’t say or do anything to stop me. With one hand on the door, Griselda nodded her head silently as if counting to herself. She quickly opened the door and entered the dark bar, pistol still in her holster, but unsnapped and ready. The door closed behind her. I yanked it open and followed her into the hot, empty room.

  While Griselda gave the room a visual once-over, I found Mr. Morales behind the bar. On his back. He was alive, but it looked like he’d been worked over pretty good. His right eye was swollen closed, and dried blood painted his face coming from one ear, his nostrils, and the side of his mouth. His broken right arm was bent at an unnatural angle that made me recoil.

  I leaned down next to him and started when his head turned to me, showing a bloody jack-o’-lantern grin. “Fucking pussy hit like my great-grandniece.”

  It was unsettling to me that this was the first time I’d ever seen Mr. Morales smile.

  “Here,” I yelled at Griselda.

  She ran to my side, cringing at the sight of Mr. Morales.

  “You better get an ambulance down here,” I said.

  Griselda nodded, took one more look at Mr. Morales, and ran outside.

  I leaned in, putting one hand on Mr. Morales’s shoulder. I was afraid to move him, but I wanted him to know that I was there. “We got help coming,” I said.

  He shook his head and then spit a bloody gob against the back of the bar. His voice was quiet, but strong. “Who’s going to work the bar? I ain’t never closed in over forty years.”

  “That’ll get figured out. Can’t worry about that.”

  “Who’s going to work the bar?”

  “Okay, I’ll find someone. Jesus Christ.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Someone. I’m starting to understand why they beat your old ass.”

  “Not that fucking Bobby.”

  “Shit. I’ll find someone. I have no fucking idea. If no one else, I’ll do it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Finally.”

  “You can keep it shut during the day, but come six or seven, I want them doors open. Don’t fuck it up,” he said.

  “What’s to fuck up?” I said, insulted.

  “It ain’t as easy as you think.”

  “Sure. How does it go? I give the customers money and they give me beer, right? Or, oh, it’s so confusing,” I said. “I know you’re all beat to shit and all, but where did you learn how to ask for favors?”

  “People show up, the doors are closed, they won’t come back.”

  “It’s covered. You probably look worse than you are. You’re going to be fine.”

  “I know I’m going to be fine. This wasn’t my first hiding. My arm hurts like hell and I’m going to piss blood for a week, but past that.” He started to sit up, but thought better of it and lay back down.

  “Was Alejandro looking for Tomás?”

  “Of course, estúpido. If he hadn’t punked up and brought another cabrón, I would’ve got a few more punches in. Tagged him a pretty nice one.”

  “You tell him anything?”

  “What’s to tell? I don’t know where Tommy is. Wouldn’t’ve told him anyway, but I ain’t had nothing to give. Gave me the beating ’cause he was scared.”

  “Yeah, he looked real scared when he was chasing me.”

  “Shit scared. He’s playing tough, but he knows that Tommy is going to kill him. Makes him dangerous, yeah? Knows he’s cornered. Can’t just leave town ’cause where the hell’d he go. If he has money maybe. Mostly he knows he’s got to stay and die, so he’s going to die fighting.”

  “But he’s the one coming after us, after you.”

  “Try to understand it. He got no choice. I know my grandson. Alejandro can’t hide in Chicali, and he can’t go mano-a with Tommy. He’s going to look for some angle, some back alley, some last ditch. He’s scared. Should be, too. Tommy ain’t the kid you knew.”

  “Yeah, I kind of got that.”

  “Mi hija’s boy, he ain’t afraid to be what they call pocho. An American playing Mexican when he needs to. Heard someone use the word Trisket ’cause it’s nothing but a brown cracker. Tommy, he ain’t got the past. The Life. You grow up like Alejandro, in a colonia near the dump, scraping by, selling fucking gum, stealing scraps—you don’t got hope to hold you back. You only got survival. Doing what you need to stay alive. Tomás thinks he has a future. Alejandro knows he doesn’t. He’s got nothing to lose.”

  “You sound like you feel sorry for him.”

  “Kid like Alejandro, he couldn’t be anything ’cept who he is.” Mr. Morales shook his head. He closed his eyes. “Damn, my balls hurt.”

  Griselda walked back inside. “How’s he doing? I got an ambulance coming up from Calexico. Ten, fifteen minutes.”

  “Hey, sweetness, honey, muchacha,” Mr. Morales said to Griselda. “Be an angel and pop a beer for me.”

  “He’s going to be all right,” I said.

  They put Mr. Morales into the back of the ambulance. He refused to leave until I once again promised that the bar would be open for business that evening. After the ambulance drove south, Griselda and I walked across the street to my house.

  “This has gotten out of hand,” Griselda said.

  “You’re telling me?”

  I had no idea what to do. For the time being, I was going to grab my stuff and stay at Bobby’s until we knew what was going to happen with Alejandro. I also grabbed two boxes that Angie had marked “Jack’s Papers.” If I was going to hole up, I’d need something to read. Why not dig into my father’s past and explore his innermost secrets?

  The flames rose a foot, ignited by the dripping fat of the carne asada. The meat sizzled on the barbecue as Bobby flicked at the thin strips with a pair of tongs. He took a mouthful of beer and spit-taked it over the flames. The smoky steam filled his backyard with a savory aroma.

  I sat with Angie, Griselda, Snout, and Buck Buck, each of us on lawn chairs around a plastic table. Each with bottles of beer in our hands. In the center of the table was everything we needed for our meal: flour tortillas in a warmer, guacamole, homemade salsa, chopped onions, cilantro, and a cooling earthen pot of refried beans. It all looked and smelled so good that nobody faulted Snout when he stuck his two fingers in the beans and scooped out a mouthful.

  When Bobby finally brought the big plate of sizzling meat to the table, we were all so famished that for the next fifteen minutes not a single word was spoken. All communication was made through pointing and grunting, combined with facial expressions that suggested the continuum from gastronomic bliss to “Ouch, I just bit the in
side of my cheek.”

  When food tastes that good, you want to savor it, but your mouth won’t let you. It’s uncontrollable, acting on its own. I didn’t even stop chewing when I bit my finger trying to jam the fat end of a burrito into my mouth.

  Nothing like the simple pleasure of good food to put things in perspective. Well, not really. Even filet mignon and caviar isn’t going to make a person forget that there’s a homicidal Mexican in a canary-yellow shirt looking to bleed you.

  Sated and full of meat, I lounged on Bobby’s sofa and closed my eyes. The food and lack of sleep threatened to carry me away. If not for my damn brain, I might have snuck in a nap. No such luck. It had its own agenda. It wanted to examine my life.

  For the last ten years, I had never planned more than a week ahead. That’s the way I liked it. I wasn’t attached or tied down to anything. Not to places I lived or even the people around me. I had people I cared about. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t walk away. The people and places would always be there. No reason I had to be. Just like with the people in the Imperial Valley. It didn’t matter how long I was gone. They would be there when I returned.

  I had never had a job that I wouldn’t have left at the drop of a condescending remark. I had never had a boss that I wouldn’t tell to fuck off, if they got mouthy. That’s the beauty of a shitty job. There was always another slightly less shitty job waiting. I was just smart enough and just stupid enough to get by doing a hundred different menial chores.

  But now I was home. Back home and contemplating staying. Some of it was beyond my control. I now owned a house. I owned a farm. I had three hundred and sixty acres of arable land. I owned all sorts of crazy shit that I had never wanted. Hell, I owned an antique tractor that hadn’t run when I was a kid and was still sitting in the exact same spot on the edge of the property. What the hell was I going to do?

  “What’re you thinking about?” Angie leaned over the back of the sofa, looking down at me.

  “Nothing. Stuff,” I said.