by Aimée Thurlo
“It’s not really that hot outside today. It’s in the mid-seventies, really nice.”
As he walked out, Regina came over. “If we’re lucky, he’ll get just a little warm working outside. Then maybe he’ll unbutton his shirt, roll up his sleeves, and we can enjoy the view.”
Leigh Ann laughed. “It’s a shame he’s not interested in women. He’s sure nice to look at, rugged and a bit on the wild side. That long, warrior hair just adds to the package.”
Ambrose came back inside and went to the soft drink machine. “Ben was always scrappy, but skinny as a rail back in high school. The army’s really filled him out. Have you ladies noticed?”
Leigh Ann smiled. “Big wide shoulders and a great butt—not that I’ve been checking him out, of course. If I were a few years younger…”
Ambrose laughed. “I’m glad to see you’re finally doing some window-shopping. For a while there…”
“Yeah, I know. It’s taken me a month of Sundays to figure out that I’m not over the hill yet.”
“It’s tough to start again, sweetheart. My partner and I were together for almost five years, then he moved out one afternoon without so much as a ‘Go to hell.’ The house feels real empty.”
“The problem with changes like those is that sooner or later we end up having to take another giant leap into the unknown,” Leigh Ann said. “You seem to like stability as much as I do, Ambrose. So how on earth did you end up becoming a silversmith? Though you’re a true artist, that’s got to be a very uncertain business.”
“I knew from day one that it would be tough to get established, but I was sure that I’d always be able to sell enough to keep food on the table and a roof overhead,” he said. “These days, people know my name and my work, so it’s a lot easier.”
He stopped at the door and turned around. “So what do you think? Shirt open and cuffs rolled up? Red headband and the stereotype silversmith look? The ladies might like that.”
“You’re definitely eye candy,” Regina said, smiling.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
“Sleeves folded halfway up your forearm, and no more than two shirt buttons undone,” Leigh Ann said. “It’s more fun when you leave a little to the imagination.”
“You’ve got it.”
“Now, let me get that big folding sign,” Leigh Ann said.
A half hour later, the rate of cars pulling into their parking lot had almost tripled. Ambrose was very well known, easy to talk to, and women, by and large, just loved him. They’d sold the pieces almost as soon as he finished them.
It was long past regular closing time when Leigh Ann began locking up, starting with the back door. There were no customers with Ambrose now, so it was a good time to call it a day.
Leigh Ann was crossing the store toward the front entrance, intending on thanking Ambrose and helping him gather up his things, when she glanced out the window. Three high school boys in baggy pants and T-shirts were standing beside a double cab pickup parked in front of one of the six-inch-high concrete barriers along that side of the building. Their body language suggested trouble, and as she stopped and listened, Leigh Ann realized they were yelling crude obscenities at Ambrose.
Leigh Ann picked up an axe handle from hardware and went out onto the porch. It was time to run off the vermin. She walked past Ambrose, who’d come out from behind his table. He was standing at the top of the wooden steps, ready for a fight if it came. His huge fists were curled and ready.
Although she knew he could take out half a dozen guys like these without breaking a sweat, she wasn’t going to let things get that far. There was no way she was going to have a call to the sheriff’s department create more bad publicity for The Outpost and undermine all their hard work.
“You boys can take that trash-talking right off this private property. I won’t have it, you hear me?” Leigh Ann hollered.
“We’re just trying to toughen up the faggot,” one of the boys wearing a studded leather vest yelled.
The other teens with him laughed and jeered. “You stay out of this, Mama Cougar,” the guy in the vest added. “Unless you’re looking for a ride—if you know what I mean.”
Leigh Ann heard the door open behind her. Esther stormed outside, holding her Bible out like a sword. “Now, you all listen, and listen good. You, Charlie—I know your father. I taught him in Sunday school when he was half your age. He’d beat your butt with a razor strap if he ever heard you sassed me. And you, Petey,” she said to the kid in the vest. “Your mother works two jobs keeping you and your three sisters fed. You want to be a real man? How about helping your family by getting a job instead of driving around making trouble? And you—” She moved toward the smallest of the three, a boy about seventeen with a black eye. “—your father’s a pastor—a man of God. What would he say?”
“Dad says all fags go to hell.”
“Then I’ll be praying for him to see the light. The good book says, ‘Judge not, lest you be judged.’ Hatred’s not part of the Lord’s teachings.” She waved the leather-bound volume at them. “Now, you all git, right now!”
Seconds later, the parking lot was empty, and not one blow had been exchanged. “Esther, you’re really something,” Leigh Ann said.
“Sometimes a little guidance outside the home does wonders for children who need to learn to treat their fellow man right.”
As Esther went inside, Ambrose looked at Leigh Ann. “For a moment, I thought she was going to smack someone with that Bible.”
“I’ve got to say she sure got their attention. That’s the thing about Esther. When she gets mad, you’re not just dealing with a five-foot senior. You’re dealing with the wrath of God.”
“Amen to that.”
“Let’s wrap it up,” Leigh Ann said, smiling. “It’s been one very long day.”
EIGHTEEN
Ben and Jo had been on the road for close to five hours and were now passing along I-25 through the Bosque del Apache Wildlife Refuge south of Socorro. Most of the preserve to the east along the river provided food and shelter to everything from deer and coyotes to many species of migratory birds.
As the interstate took a more southwesterly turn, Jo looked in Ben’s direction, now watching him rather than the scenery beyond. “It’s good to have someone share the all-day drive to Juárez and back. It’s easy to zone out.”
“The desert’s beautiful this time of year. Did you notice all the birds back there? Early migration, maybe?” He gestured toward the river with his right arm.
She nodded, noting the jagged scar that cut a path along his powerful biceps. “That looks like it might have been a nasty wound. What happened, you get caught on some barbed wire?”
Ben glanced at her, then back at the road. “It’s my lucky bullet wound. Another foot to the left, and I would have been history. The sniper who fired that bullet hurried the shot and revealed his position. Before he could correct, I was able to reduce the threat.”
“To do what?”
“I killed him.”
“Oh.” The use of jargon and the lack of emotion in his voice told her that there was a lot more to that story. As with his father before him, the more detached Ben sounded, the more involved he actually was. Over the years, she’d learned that sometimes, men outwardly expressed the exact opposite of what they were feeling.
“Was it difficult doing that kind of work for the army?”
“You mean being a sniper?”
She nodded.
He shrugged. “A lot of people think that a sniper’s just a highly trained killer, but that’s not it at all. Our mission is to take out the enemy before they can harm our own. We’re there to save lives. Often, we’re the only real-time eyes on a target, but a battlefield is in a constant state of flux and things can go wrong in a hurry.”
“Like you getting shot?”
He didn’t answer.
“It’s the memories that work against you, isn’t it?” she asked softly, wishing she could help him see the value of an Enem
y Way Sing.
“There are some things in life you can’t outrun or forget,” he said.
Seeing the lack of expression in his eyes, she yearned to do something. “Is there any way I can help you deal with this?”
He glanced at her in surprise. “What could you do?”
“I don’t know. I was asking you.”
He shrugged. “It’s all part of combat—war. Most soldiers come back with baggage, and some of us handle it better than others. The army also makes shrinks available to anyone who chooses that option. Either way, once I’m out of the army for good, I’ll move on and let time bury those memories.”
* * *
They approached the port of entry at Ciudad Juárez around three in the afternoon. Ben stretched in his seat as if working out the kinks while they waited in the traffic line.
“You’ve been at the wheel since Albuquerque. Want me to drive now?” Jo asked him.
“I’ve got it,” he said.
“It’s easy to get sleepy on long drives.”
“I don’t sleep much. Don’t need it,” he said. “Infantry’s trained to do most of the fighting at night, and that tends to turn your day around. I sleep when I get tired—and when it’s safe enough to do so.”
“I tend to wake up at around three in the morning, then stay up thinking.”
“About what?”
“My life, my goals, wishes,” she said, her voice thoughtful and far away. “Sometimes, no matter how hard we work, some doors refuse to open and the things we want most end up falling by the wayside. Walking in beauty means seeing there’s harmony and balance even in plans that fail, but knowing when to let go of a dream … that’s always the hardest part.”
“What do you wish for, Jo?” he asked softly.
“To go with blessings before and behind me,” she said, remembering and repeating the words of the Creation Chant. “But until I figure out why someone is targeting the trading post, that’s not going to happen.”
After paying their toll and passing through the checkpoint, they drove away from the crowded port of entry area into Juárez’s business district. Halfway down a hot, wavy asphalt street was a large cinder block and metal warehouse covered with graffiti.
“Does León still have his apartment on the second story?” Ben asked, looking up at the barred windows.
“As far as I know. If he asks us up, accept the invitation,” she said. “After we go through the customary rituals, I’ll take León aside and break the news to him that The Outpost will be carrying fewer Mexican-made rugs in the future. That’ll be hard for him to hear, but don’t interfere. I’ll handle it.”
He watched her. “You’re testing yourself? You want to see how well you deal with things like this.”
She nodded slowly. “Your father would have done what was necessary without making an enemy or losing a supplier. I don’t know if I’ve got the same gift, but I’m about to find out.”
“Once the warehouse door is open, keep a lookout for anyone who appears to be watching us from passing vehicles. There’s a drug war going on here, and they sometimes take it out on U.S. citizens,” Ben said.
“And here I was thinking you’d be relaxing today. Is this the real reason why you wanted to come along?” Jo asked.
Ben nodded. “Except for IEDs, it’s probably safer in Baghdad or Kabul right now than it is here.”
“I’ll be careful.”
They found a parking place along the crumbling concrete curb just a few feet from the big metal overhead door, which was closed and padlocked at the bottom. The entrance, just to the right, was locked, too, to her surprise.
Jo rang the bell, and León answered a few minutes later. Despite the heat, he was wearing a long-sleeved, sweatstained cotton shirt.
Seeing Jo, he gave her a quick smile, then looked up and down the street. “Once I open the door, pull inside quickly,” he said, using a key on the padlock. He then called out in Spanish for someone to open the warehouse door. “We’ve been having problems with thieves lately.”
As soon as Ben drove into the bay, León lowered the door, then signaled to a young man who looked like he was sixteen at most. “Las alfombras,” he said, ordering him to bring the rugs.
The boy nodded and hurried off toward a pallet covered by an old blue tarp.
“It’s good to see you again, León,” Jo said.
He nodded absently. “Until you called a few hours ago, I’d been wondering who’d be picking up the shipment,” he said, hurrying into the office, a partitioned cubicle open to the warehouse from the waist up.
Something wasn’t right; Jo could see it in the way León was acting. He was wary and nervous. Normally, his wife would have come down to greet them and ask them about the trip. They’d then go upstairs for Mexican Cokes and pastelitos. Business was usually conducted in a leisurely manner here in Juárez. Yet the outbreak of violence, like a festering wound, destroyed everything that surrounded it. Times had changed.
“León, is it safe for you to do business with us?” Jo asked.
“I’m as safe as anyone else is these days,” he said, then looked at Ben. “I was sorry to hear about your father’s passing. At first I was told it was suicide, but when I called the trading post a few days later, Señora Leigh Ann said he’d been murdered.”
Ben told him what they knew. “We will get to the bottom of it. I won’t give up until I have answers.”
León’s face went one shade paler. “Be careful. Sometimes knowing too much isn’t a good thing. People who see or say too much often end up dead.”
“I’ll risk it. My father deserves justice, and that means exposing whoever killed him.”
León nodded absently and looked away. “Miguel, what’s taking so long? Get the rugs into the back of the Ford. Ahora mismo, muchacho.”
Jo recognized the words “right now.” It was clear to her that León was worried. His wife, Teresa, continued to remain out of sight.
She considered asking León about his wife, but coming from her, someone he’d met only a few times, it would be seen as an intrusion.
She waited until all but a few of the rugs had been loaded into the back of the Expedition, then brought up the subject of future orders.
“Almendariz Imports and Exports has had a long association with The Outpost,” she said, handing him the check for the rugs.
He jammed it into his pocket without a glance. “Over the years, Tom and I became good friends. I’ll miss him. When he and I first started doing business, things were less … complicated. These are very bad times.”
“Business at our end is changing, too. The economy has hit all small businesses hard. That’s why I’ll be reducing our next order by twenty-five percent.”
He stared at her. “I thought the last order sold very well. What’s wrong? You haven’t received any advance orders?”
“Yes, we have. All the Chinle-design rugs in this order have been presold. That’s why we’ll continue carrying those for a while longer. Eventually, my plan is to phase out imports and carry Native American rugs exclusively. Of course, if that doesn’t work out, we’ll adjust our orders.”
He nodded, then hurried to the window and glanced outside through the heavy welded steel bars. After exchanging some quick words with his young assistant, he returned to join them.
“Traffic is light right now. You should leave before people start getting off work. We’ll see you next time.”
León’s good-bye was so quick and devoid of the warmth he’d shown Tom and her in the past that it left her at a loss for words.
“What’s wrong? Is it the drug gangs?” She hadn’t meant to pry, but the words slipped out before she realized it.
“Very much so. It’s dangerous in Juárez right now. People are getting killed for no reason at all. You need to go,” he said, handing her the bill of sale and the paperwork they’d be needing for customs.
With Jo at the wheel, they soon left Ciudad Juárez. At the port of entry checkpoint
on the El Paso side, they were motioned out of line for a customs search. She gave them her driver’s license, the paperwork for their cargo, and waited while the inspectors verified the number of rugs and looked around for contraband.
One of the border guards approached Ben and asked for his ID. Seeing the military ID, the man smiled. “I’m ex-army too,” he said. “You’re a long way from Kansas, soldier. You with the First?”
Ben nodded.
“Hooah, soldier. I served with the Seventh Field Artillery,” the older of the guards said after having checked the underside of their SUV with a long-handled mirror. “Saw a lot of action during Tet.”
“Vietnam is ancient history, Chuck. I served a tour with the Tenth Mountain, First BCT in Afghanistan,” the younger, Hispanic-looking guard said. “No jungle, but the insurgents are harder to spot and it’s colder than camel shit in winter. Snipers are everywhere, but I’d still rather walk into an ambush than be sitting on my ass and drive over an IED.”
“I remember passing through Kunar Province,” the young guard added, nodding toward Ben. “Saw some of your people. What unit were you with?”
“Third BCT,” Ben responded.
“Heard that the First took a lot of casualties during their first deployment. You going back this year?” he added.
Ben nodded. “In about six weeks, give or take.”
“Stay safe, soldier,” the older guard said, waving them on.
“Yeah,” Ben said. “You, too.”
They drove into El Paso, one of the safest cities in the Southwest, though ironically, it was adjacent to the current murder capital of the world.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Jo said. “By the way, did you notice anything unusual about our visit to León’s? Other than the paranoia, that is.”
“Yeah. I’ve never been there without being invited for a merienda, a Spanish version of an afternoon tea. Their dinner hour is around eight or nine at night, so they eat midafternoon to help tide them over.”
“Something really felt wrong back there, and I don’t think it’s just the danger from the cartels either.” She closed her eyes for a brief second, took a long, deep breath, then expelled it slowly.
