Chapter Five
At the first light of dawn, I felt someone frantically shaking my shoulder.
A panicked voice whispered in my ear, “What has come over you? Get off the couch and out of the living room before my wife finds you and we both get run out into the street. Do you know what kind of hell she will release on me if she finds you marking up her furniture with your spurs?”
I rolled off the couch and stumbled after Don Topo into the kitchen.
“I stayed out of the bordellos and kept away from Three Card Monte, Jefe,” I said, trying to rub the sleep from my eyes. “I went straight to the bank and came straight home, as you instructed.”
Once we reached the safety of the kitchen, Don Topo’s demeanor softened. “Working men and criminals keep different hours. If a man goes to bed when the sun sets and gets up before the sun rises, he will always be safe. Let us have some coffee.” He poured out two cups.
I drew out a leather wallet from where it had been tucked into my belt. Inside were the certificates of deposit. I placed the wallet on the table in from of Don Topo, and he ran his hand over the outside of the pouch but didn’t open it.
“Don’t you want to examine the receipts?’ I asked.
“No need. I trust you,” he said, and smiled an all-encompassing smile. “What can I do for you to repay the service you have done for me?”
“I want to return to the ranch. I don’t like the stink of the city.”
“You won’t find a wife out in the brush, my son,” he replied.
“I don’t want a wife, Jefe. A brush vaquero is all I ever want to be.”
Don Topo laughed, and I gave him a salute and went out the door.
As I stepped into the street, a vision of Lucinda seductively leading Tiburcio into the little house flooded my senses. I was suddenly walking rapidly with no destination and nothing but a jealous rage for company.
The fog was just starting to give way to the sunrise when I came to Alvarado Street. On the corner of Alvarado and Reynosa stood a stout gray horse, tied to a hitching post in front of one of Monterey’s more modest brothels. The horse wore Don Topo’s brand and a fancy riding rig I recognized as Don Tomasino’s.
I walked to the horse and stroked his neck and muzzle. His skin was cool to the touch, which meant he had probably been standing there half the night, saddled and without benefit of water. I fingered the finely woven horse-hair tie-rope that secured the animal to the hitching post, then walked to the other side and loosened the cinch.
No matter how besotted with mescal he had gotten the night before, a life-long vaquero like Tomasino would still wake up before sunrise. I went to the firewood stack behind the bordello and found a three-foot piece of split pine as big around as my wrist. My selection was still green, which meant it would not break. I smoothed off the rough bark until there was a place to secure a grip. Then I rested the stick against the adobe wall of the building and sat down on my heels to wait.
In half an hour, I was rewarded with the sight of Don Tomasino exiting the whorehouse and unsteadily making his way toward his horse. He squared up to the tie rail, put his left hand on his saddle horn to steady himself, and reached into his pants to free things up so he could urinate. He could have gone to the outhouse behind the building, but obviously the need to empty his bladder had overruled his manners. The sound of the thick stream of yellow piss hitting the dirt road was drowned out by his heavy groan. That was followed by a grunt as he bent slightly to put himself back in his pants.
He pulled out a bag of tobacco from his vest and rolled himself a smoke. His hands trembled slightly as he held the match up to the makings.
I stepped up behind him.
“Would it be possible, Don Tomasino, to get back that knife you took from me?” My tone was polite. “It belonged to my dead father, and I would consider it a favor if you returned it.”
He looked around, bleary eyed. The morning sunshine and his hangover interfered with his vision.
“What? Who are you?”
“Charlie Horn. I worked for you two years ago. You knocked me unconscious with your quirt and took a knife from me. It is all I have to remember my father by. I must request you return it.”
The whoring and drinking from the previous night hadn’t done anything for Tomasino’s appearance. Normally he was closely shaved and sported a clean shirt. This morning his eyes were blurry, salt-and-pepper whiskers covered his face, and his breath smelled like the asshole of a vulture. He peered at me through a haze of alcohol and cigarette smoke. Suddenly his thick eyebrows shot up.
“You’re the kid with the bat ears. What are you saying? I don’t have your knife. Get out of my way or I’ll introduce you to my quirt again.”
We both stood silent. Don Tomasino seemed to have lost his train of thought. It was easy to see he was still drunk as he looked around seemingly disoriented.
He looked back in my direction, surprised I was still there.
“Do you want another beating, you homely white pup?”
“You intend to administer one, jefe?”
Something in the tone of my voice must have alarmed him. His hand disappeared into his vest and came out with my dagger clasped in his fist. I had anticipated the move and stepped just out of reach of the flashing blade. Swiping the knife caused him to stagger. I smiled and retrieved the pine stick from where it rested against the building.
As I circled him, Don Tomasino shifted the knife into his other hand. I stepped into him and smashed the wooden club against his elbow with enough power to elicit a screech. He slashed at me with the knife and overbalanced. I swung again, catching him on the side of his head—and he fell heavily into the dirt.
I swung the club at the outstretched hand holding my knife and heard the sharp crack of bone. Another scream erupted in the early morning light.
As Tomasino was wracked with the dry heaves I reached over and picked up my father’s knife. The whale-bone handle and rusted iron blade felt at home in my hand.
Tomasino was clawing at his pocket. I hit him on the elbow with the stick, reached into his vest, and retrieved a small revolver. I flung the pistol onto the roof of the building.
“You can’t knock me down in the middle of the street,” Tomasino croaked.
“And yet, here you are, reclining in the dirt.”
Tomasino waved his hand in my direction as if he were dismissing me.
“Get out of here, you ugly pup.”
I reached down, grabbed the wine-stained silk scarf tied around his neck, and pulled him off the ground.
“Listen,” I said, “this last blow is for leaving that good Topo Ranch saddle horse without water all night.”
I drew back my pine club, and Tomasino let out a rough cry and threw his hands over his head, falling back to the dirt.
As I looked down on him, a door opened onto the alley. A man with a broom and pail came outside. He tossed the dirt from the pail onto the street and studiously ignored Tomasino’s prostrate body. I had a delicious urge to continue the assault. An early-morning beating would hardly draw comment in the violent town of Monterey. However, accidentally killing this obnoxious bag of guts would create problems for Don Topo. I tossed the club toward the woodpile and went back to the stables to find a horse to carry me back to the ranch.
Scent of Tears
Scent of Tears Page 5
