by PAUL BENNETT
‘You seem to forget, mister,’ he said — except he didn’t use the word mister, something more maternally related — ‘we’re the ones with the guns.’ He fired a shot at the ceiling to prove his point. A piece of plaster fell down.
I gave Pieter a kick. Now, the kick said. He jumped up to catch the men’s attention and then rolled down to the floor, tipping up a table for cover as he fell.
Bull and I drew our guns and fired. Bull hit the one on the left between the eyes. I went for the heart shot on the one on the right. By the time the men hit the floor they were both dead.
A nervous hush came over the restaurant. Someone started screaming. ‘Phone the police,’ I called to the waitress. She surveyed the scene and shuddered, but went off to the phone. The girl had guts.
I went across to the old woman. There was blood on her dress from where I shot the guy. I inspected her cheek. She’d need stitches, and maybe a lot of counselling. It was going to take her a while to get over this.
‘I got it, mister,’ the young boy said, proudly holding up his phone. ‘I got it all.’
‘So much for the element of surprise,’ Bull said.
* * *
We went viral. By the time we hit Sonora the whole damn country knew our faces. Half the damn world too, I guessed. The kid from the café had posted the video on YouTube, although with a warning about extreme violence, which probably made it all the more attractive to the viewer.
As we were travelling the last few miles along a narrow road to the village, my phone rang. It was Toomey.
‘Boy, do you guys like to put yourself around,’ he said. ‘I’m guessing subtlety isn’t your middle name.’
‘We got caught up in events. Can’t turn back the clock,’ I replied. ‘It should never have happened. The young guys were stupid. If you’re going to rob a place like that, you should wait till the evening when the cash register is full. You had to be there, Toomey. Women, kids, grandmas — they all could have taken a bullet from those guys. They were so jumpy, anything could have happened.’ I caught my breath. ‘So what do you want, Toomey?’
‘Estevez wants to see you. To thank you personally for what you did in his restaurant. All publicity is good publicity. He also wants to talk about his daughter — make you understand the gravity of the situation, as if that wasn’t clear. Be at his place at ten in the morning? Any problems, give me a ring. And, Silver,’ he said, ‘try to stay out of trouble until you snatch the girl. I don’t want the whole world following your exploits. Keep a low profile, huh?’
He broke the connection before it occurred to me to ask him how he’d got my number. Something underhand I guessed. I prepared myself for calls wanting hourly updates.
The village of Santa Rio looked as if time had passed it by. There was a feel of decay about it, of a slow lingering death waiting to come.
There was a central square with a rundown church and a fountain that wasn’t working. Surrounding these was a sprawling collection of adobe houses, maybe a hundred or so, that had once been white. It looked like they hadn’t had a fresh coat of paint in years. This was peasant-farmer country. The inhabitants here would be scratching a living from the land, aided only by mules. You could have used it as the backdrop to spaghetti westerns. I guessed it would be populated by older people — the young would have migrated to Sonora the moment they were old enough to look after themselves. Or maybe even sooner. There was nothing to keep them here.
The house that Stan had rented was on the outskirts of the village, which suited us fine. The fewer people to watch our comings and goings the better. The house stood on its own just before the village. It was painted white, like all the other houses and probably most of rural Mexico too. There were shutters over the windows — handy if under attack. It even had a small roof terrace with views all around. It was a good choice. A mercenary’s choice. Attack and defence in one.
We pulled up outside behind a car we took to be Stan’s hired vehicle. Out of nowhere, a young boy appeared. He looked to be about twelve or so, long black hair, deep brown eyes, and was dressed in a baggy shirt and trousers in a sand colour — or maybe the clothes were white and had been coloured by the earth from the fields. He came up to the car as we got out.
‘Want me to look after your car?’ he said in an accent I couldn’t quite place. ‘You speak English,’ Red said.
‘Si.’
This could be an enthralling conversation, if a little short of syllables. ‘What’s your name, kid?’ Red said.
‘Chico.’
‘Now why should I want you to look after my car, Chico?’ Red asked.
‘Because this is a bad place and bad things can happen to a car. You wouldn’t want that? A scratch, maybe, or even a blade stuck in all your tyres. I will make sure nothing happens.’
That is, he would restrain himself.
‘Give him some money, Red,’ I said.
‘Only American dollars,’ said Chico.
Protection racket and currency trading, too. This kid could go far, although perhaps not in the right direction.
Red pulled out a roll of notes that made the boy’s eyes light up. He peeled off a ten-dollar bill and handed it over. Chico happily accepted it.
‘Want to earn some more, Chico?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said. Although how he was going to guard the car and do something else at the same time didn’t seem to bother him.
‘Stay here for an hour and then you can give me a guided tour of the village.’
He beamed. Christmas and Thanksgiving had come at the same time.
We left him standing by the car and went inside the house.
We stepped into a large room that was surprisingly bright and cool. Stan motioned to a table in one corner. There was a collection of spirits, beers and soft drinks and a few glasses, but mostly cups — it seemed he’d exhausted the house’s quota of glasses. ‘Help yourself,’ he said.
I chose a beer to quench my thirst and wash the road dust from my throat.
‘Beers will get colder once the fridge has been operating a while. I’m still getting the place in order.’
‘You’ve done well in a short time,’ I said.
Everything in the room was neat and tidy. I reckoned Stan had spent time sweeping the floors and scrubbing the wooden table which took up much of the room. The table was set for the five of us, although the place settings didn’t all match. Picky, picky.
Beyond the table was a sofa in front of a small fireplace stacked with logs.
‘Sleeping bags are upstairs,’ Stan said. ‘There’s only two bedrooms so we will have to share.’
It was going to be cosy, but we’d been in a lot worse.
Off the main room was a staircase to the upper floor with its bedrooms and access to the roof terrace where we could have a cool drink and watch the sun go down. There was also a door to a fifteen-foot-square yard of compounded earth. To its right was a small, but adequate, kitchen. There was a delicious smell coming from the oven.
‘I’ve got a couple of chickens roasting with sides of refried beans and guacamole.’
‘What’s guacamole?’ Pieter asked.
‘It’s a sort of puree of avocado.’
Pieter wrinkled his nose. ‘Jesus Christ, Johnny. What the hell kind of place have you brought us to?’
Chapter Seven
Chico was waiting outside when I came out. We walked the short distance into the village and then went clockwise from there.
‘This is the home of Ramon,’ he said when we were in front of the first house. ‘His wife works in the fields while he labours for Estevez. They grow corn and have a pig. They sell some corn at the market in Sonora and feed the pig the rest. Once a year they kill the pig and there is a feast. We all pay money to him for the feast. And so it goes.’
‘This is the home of Pedro,’ he said when we came to the next house. ‘His wife works the fields and he works for Estevez. They grow corn and have a cow.’
‘Don�
��t tell me,’ I said. ‘Once a year they slaughter the cow and have a feast.’
‘You are quick, senor,’ Chico said in admiration.
We came to the last house before the church.
‘This is my house,’ Chico said. ‘We grow corn. My mother and I tend the fields. We don’t have a pig or a cow so have to trade our corn in Sonora to pay for our share of the pigs and the cows.’
I was getting the picture. Whether he really needed the villagers help or not, Estevez was keeping the local economy going. Without him it would not have been worthwhile for the peasants to farm such a small patch of land. They would have drifted away. Estevez was maintaining the traditions as well as exporting the end products to America for his restaurant chain.
‘Here is a bar,’ Chico said, as we came to a small house with a door that opened on to the square. ‘If you have a drink here, maybe they will give me a commission.’
We went in. However else was this boy going to become a business mogul?
The room was the same size as the main room in the house we had rented. It was crammed full of small wobbly tables and chairs made of wicker. Chico guided me to one of the tables. A man drifted over. He had the stereotypical Mexican moustache and was wearing the same outfit as Chico.
‘Tequila senor?’ asked the man.
‘What else do you have?’ I asked back.
‘Just tequila, senor.’
‘Looks like I’ll have a tequila then,’ I said.
‘And for the boy?’ the man asked. I looked at Chico.
‘Tequila,’ he said.
‘Make that water,’ I said. ‘And lay in some cold beers for tomorrow if you want the trade.’
The man went to the bar and poured tequila from an iced flagon into a shot glass. He brought it and a glass of water to our table.
‘That will be five American dollars,’ he said.
‘Five!’ exclaimed Chico. ‘You charge him five and he will never return.’ Chico turned to me for affirmation of whatever he was going to say next. ‘We will pay only two,’ he said, ‘and bring me a lemonade on the house.’
The man bustled away and poured the cloudy juice of lemons into a pottery tumbler and added some sugar and water. He stirred the mixture and brought it to our table. I drank the shot of firewater and, purely so as not to offend the man, ordered another.
‘Is this all you have for entertainment here?’ I asked Chico.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Sometimes we watch the men from the Rojo farm come here and get drunk and fight. That is fun.’
‘How old are you, Chico?’
‘I am twelve, senor. When I am fifteen my mother will let me leave and go to Sonora to stay with my aunt and get a job. I will send money home for her. Maybe she will have enough someday to leave here.’
‘What about your father?’ I asked.
‘He is gone, senor.’
‘Gone away?’
‘Gone dead, senor.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘I am not. He was a bad man. Used to beat my mother.’
‘How did he die?’
‘There was an accident. He fell into a big machine that was harvesting wheat. He was a careless man. He got what he deserved.’
Not a line of inquiry I wanted to take any further. ‘What do you do for a school around here?’ I asked.
‘We have a small school that Senor Estevez built. We have one teacher. She is a kind lady. Doesn’t beat us if we don’t get the right answers.’
‘I would hope not. Is that where you learned your English?’
‘No, senor. Padre Patrick teaches us. He is a good man.’
‘I’d like to meet him,’ I said. ‘He has taught you English very well.’
‘We will go to the church next, senor. The padre always has an open door.’
‘Tell me about Estevez,’ I said.
‘Senor Estevez is a caballero. How do you say? Gentleman?’
‘Si.’ I was absorbing the language like a pro.
‘Without Senor Estevez the village would be deserted. The old ways do not work anymore.’
I finished my tequila and Chico drank the rest of his lemonade. ‘La cuenta,’ Chico called.
I took out a ten-dollar bill and put it on the table. Chico handed it over and the man brought back six dollars in change. Chico looked at the coins and snapped his fingers. The man came back with fifty cents which he gave to Chico, who pocketed it proudly.
‘Now we can go see the padre,’ Chico said.
Inside the church a man was kneeling at the altar praying, with his back toward us. He didn’t turn around. The church was small and reflected poverty. The cross was made of wood, as were the vestments. Although there was the space to accommodate more, there were six rows of seats, each row having ten chairs each side of the central walkway: a visible statement of how much the village had shrunk since the church was built.
The man stood up and turned around. He was wearing a pair of black trousers and a loose white shirt, a crucifix around his neck. He was bald on the top of his head and had long grey hair at the sides. His green eyes were piercing as he looked at me: this would be a man you couldn’t bluff in the confessional. He crossed himself and walked over to us.
‘You,’ he said accusingly to me. ‘You were the one to kill the two men in the restaurant.’
‘Strictly speaking,’ I said, ‘I only killed one.’
‘Do the commandments say “They shall not kill more than one”?’
This was going to be an argument I was destined not to win.
‘Answer me,’ he said.
I placed Chico’s accent now. It was Irish and he had learnt his English from this man.
‘They were bad men who deserved to die before they killed innocent people. It was for the greater good.’
‘And who gave you the right to judge?’
I felt like saying Mr Browning Hi-Power, but resisted it.
‘The old woman who had just been hit on the face with a pistol,’ I said instead. ‘The two little children who had only just started their lives. The rest of the innocent people in the restaurant. You had to be there. And, if you had, it would have made no difference. We gave them the chance to put down their weapons and surrender. They chose to die.’
‘And have you come here to kill again?’
‘Only if we must. Life is something we value. We do not take it wantonly. We are on the same side father, good versus evil, but we act in different ways.’
‘That I find hard to believe, my son.’
I shrugged. There was nothing else to say.
‘Don’t you shrug at me my son,’ he shouted. Fire and brimstone!
‘What are you doing here anyway?’ he said, slightly less angrily.
‘We’re passing through,’ I said.
‘Well pass through quickly then.’
‘We thought we might stick around for the fiesta. Get some local colour.’
‘The only colour you seem interested in is the red of blood and we don’t want any of that spilt at our fiesta. Now, in a few days’ time I will be going away to make preparations for the fiesta. Make sure you are gone before I come back.’
‘Or?’
‘I won’t pray for your heathen soul and you’ll never get to heaven.’
‘I think I’ll take my chances with St Peter,’ I said. ‘Come on, Chico, let’s go before he tries to do an exorcism on me.’
‘Wow senor, you make him angry,’ Chico said when we were out of earshot. ‘I have never seen him so mad. Not even when my sister robbed the poor box to buy our mother a birthday present.’
I looked at him, startled.
‘It was only a small birthday present, senor,’ he said in her defence. ‘Did you really kill a man like the padre said.’
‘He was a bad man who had to die. If I’d let him live then sooner or later he would have killed someone, perhaps more than one.’
He looked up at me in awe and reached up to take my hand.
; ‘But the padre is right,’ I said, ‘killing is wrong. You should only kill as a last resort.’
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Will you kill anyone in this village?’
‘Depends if there are any bad men here.’ He thought about it for a while.
‘Do you want to see Senor Rojo’s house?’ he said.
Interesting pause. ‘Let’s go to your school first. A school is more important than any one person. A school is an investment in the future.’
‘If you say so senor.’
The school was out of place. It was built of brick. Faded by the sun, granted, but still a change from the monotony of white adobe. There was a solid wooden door that opened into a narrow corridor. There were just two doors leading off the corridor. The one on the left opened into a large classroom with around thirty desks. There were lots of posters and drawings on the walls, suitable, it seemed, for teaching a wide age range. The walls were lined with bookcases well stocked with books in Spanish and English, again for a wide age range. The room was crammed with small desks and chairs, too many to count easily. On a low raised dais was a large table behind which sat a woman in her thirties marking exercise books. She looked up as we entered, gave me a smile and Chico a frown.
‘I apologise for interrupting,’ I said. ‘I asked Chico to show me your school.’
‘That seems to be the only way to get him here,’ she said. ‘Chico, where have you been this afternoon?’
‘I was helping this man,’ he said. ‘He is a stranger to our village and I didn’t want him to get lost. That would have been rude, no, senora?’
‘Chico has an answer for everything,’ she said to me.
‘I’m finding that out,’ I said. ‘My name is Johnny Silver. My friends and I are here for a while. Chico is being very helpful, but we will try not to keep him away from his studies.’
‘Senora Sanchez,’ she said, standing up and extending her hand for a formal handshake.
She was tall and slim with dark hair, along with most of the people we had seen so far, cut into a neat bob. Her white blouse and black skirt were business-like and, with a pair of black-rimmed spectacles, made her seem as if she were deliberately conforming to some occupational stereotype. She eyed me warily as if about to study my every reaction.
