by Young, D. L.
He deserves what’s coming to him, I tell myself, this silver-tongued scam artist. Given the opportunity, he’d slit every one of our throats without a second thought if there was something in it for him.
At this point I usually turn away, so I can’t see or sense the subject. It’s an ugly thing to watch, the way a person’s face changes the moment they realize they’re going to die. Some panic and try to run, some beg for mercy. Others nod and look to the ground, unsurprised, as if some long-expected bad news has finally arrived. It’s a hard memory to shake afterwards, even when some crooked thief has more than earned it.
All I have to do is shake my head, like I’ve done so many times before. One small gesture from me and they’ll drag him kicking and screaming out into the desert and shoot him like a dog.
“Dime, niña,” Guzmán says, his voice rising a notch. “¿Sí o no?”
Lela nudges me with her elbow and I snap back to the moment. Every pair of eyes focuses on me in anticipation. Some fear me, some respect me, some want to fuck me. The tent blares with the unspoken din of Guzmán’s men. How I wish I could turn it all off.
I look at blond ponytail. Vain, greedy blond ponytail. The last remnants of his confidence ebb, then disappear altogether. He finally seems to understand what’s happening.
Fuck it.
I turn to Guzmán and nod. “He’s fine.”
“Muy bien,” Guzmán says. “I’ll meet with him in the morning.” Then he turns and leaves, followed by his security detail.
It fills me with a strange kind of satisfaction, the way Guzmán believes me, how completely he takes me at my word. Makes me wish I would have lied to him long before now.
But it’s nothing more than a reprieve for blond ponytail, a stay of execution. When they figure out his deal is a bullshit scam, they’ll shoot him in the head and dump him in the desert. A meal for coyotes and vultures, like all the others who dared to pull one over on the great and powerful Guzmán.
And then after they take care of him, they’ll come for me.
***
If you’d like to read the rest, check out the Soledad page on my website for links and more information.
About the Author
D.L. Young is a Texas-based writer. An avowed language freak, he’s fluent in Spanish and speaks passable Portuguese (the Brazilian flavor). He’s also the founder of the Space City Critters Writers Workshop, a member of Mensa, an English football fan, and a cigar lover. His fiction has appeared in many publications and anthologies.
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Acknowledgments
Writing is a solitary act. Utter crap, that oft-quoted phrase. At least in my case it is, especially with this book. I can’t imagine having pulled this off without a huge amount of help and encouragement from so many. First and foremost, I’m indebted to my family, who graciously gift me the time and space to pound out the words. I can’t express what a blessing it is to have this kind of support.
A special thanks also goes to my local critique group. Dusty, Kevin, Austin, and Chrissa, your feedback and insight have been incredibly valuable to this collection. And just to clarify, that’s only an expression. I’m not talking royalty checks or anything here. I may be thankful, but I’m not a sucker.
Finally, I’m especially grateful to Cassandra Rose Clarke, whose presence in my writing life has been the most wonderful of surprises. Cassie, thanks so much for your support and inspiration.
