“Are you sure you really want to do this?”
Grant stood in the shade of a dried-up ironwood tree and looked into dead black eyes. The eyes didn’t flinch. The sun beat down. The look told Grant one thing for certain. Yes, Tony Bohorquez really did want to do this.
Jim Grant had never been to Mexico. Being so close now, he decided to take advantage of a few days’ leave to cross the border and take in some hot Latino tourist attractions. Boquillas del Carmen probably wasn’t at the top of anybody’s must-see list. Staying at the Buzzard’s Roost hotel was likely right at the bottom.
Air brakes hissed as the Big Bend tourist bus pulled to a stop on a dusty street that was only missing a stray dog and some tumbleweed to have stepped right out of a spaghetti Western. The dried- up tree at the end of the street was just begging for a hanging. The other three passengers stepped down from the bus and wiped sweat from their brows. A young couple on their honeymoon and a big man with eyes so dark they were almost black. Grant was the last one to step on Mexican soil. Even the soil wasn’t welcoming. It was dry and dusty and baked to extinction.
“This is it?”
Grant looked along Main Street. He only assumed it was Main Street because the deserted thoroughfare looked to be the only street. There was a scattering of adobe buildings with hitching posts for the tourist donkey rides and something a bit more modern at the far end.
The bus driver followed Grant’s gaze and shrugged. “Use to be busier.”
Grant turned to the driver. “When?”
“Back when use to cross Rio Grande in rowboat and ride to town on donkey.”
“Before John Wayne, then?”
“Before nine eleven.”
Grant nodded. Boquillas Crossing was still a rowboat on a rope stretched across the river, but the rusty old school bus, painted white to reflect the heat, had replaced the donkey. 9/11 had a lot to answer for. Before then, Boquillas del Carmen relied on tourists coming across from Big Bend and had around three hundred residents. After the attacks, the border crossing was closed down, and the town withered and died. Just nineteen families scraped a living off land not inclined to let you scrape a living. The crossing had finally reopened this year, and the bus was an attempt to kickstart the tourist industry again. Judging by this trip, they had a long way to go.
Grant checked the banknotes in his wallet. He still had trouble spotting the fives from the hundreds since they were all the same size and color. He took three one-dollar bills and handed them to the driver.
“Thanks. You have set times for taking us back?”
The driver jerked a thumb at the hanging tree. “Ring the bell. Noise carries.”
Grant listened to the dull silence. If sound carried, there must be a lot of very quiet people around here—or nobody at all. The newlyweds crossed the street to get out of the sun. The big man disappeared around the back of the bus. Their footsteps were silent puffs of dust. There wasn’t even the sound of the wind because there was no wind. Then a few tinkling notes of guitar music drifted down the street, and Grant spotted the Park Bar in the distance.
The driver used a lever to close the door and spun the bus in a tight circle that raised a cloud of dust and put the bus back facing the river. Boquillas Crossing was a mile and a half away on a sharp bend in the Rio Grande—a wide, flat beach beyond the end of town. The bus disappeared around the hardware store trailing dust. The newlyweds walked along the shady side of the street toward the music. Grant waited for the dust cloud to settle, then followed them. The big man with the dead black eyes was nowhere to be seen.
Park Bar was a long, wide adobe building baked white in the desert sun. It sported a red and yellow Carta Blanca sign on the roof and pale blue piping on the columns along two sides. At night the sign would be lit up. During the day it looked as sad as the Licores Mexicanos signage painted along the roof’s leading edge. The signage had almost faded to nothing. The translation underneath had fared better. Mexican Liquors and Cold Beer. Beneath that, just in case patrons didn’t know where they were, handwritten script declared this as Boquillas del Carmen, Coahuila, Mexico. The windows had wrought-iron bars on the outside—the doors too. Full length with cracked glass, not the old Western saloon doors that always flip-flapped when you went through them. There’d be no flip-flapping today. The doors were wedged open, allowing the music to spill along the street.
The newlyweds disappeared through the door. Grant stood outside for a moment while his eyes scanned the dark interior. Country and western music from a jukebox washed over him—some cowboy singer who was pretty good with a guitar. Grant caught a line from the lyrics halfway through—something about crossing the Rio Grande—and smiled. He hadn’t marked Boquillas del Carmen as somewhere that would have a song written about it. He saw the newlyweds turn to each other when the next line—about a gringo honeymoon—came out of the ancient jukebox in the corner. He was pretty sure they were smiling at each other.
If Grant had been paying attention, and if their faces weren’t shrouded in gloom, he’d have noticed that the couple was a little old to be newlyweds. Not teenage lovers but approaching thirty with life baggage. And they weren’t smiling; they were exchanging a sad moment as the song proclaimed they were dreaming without end. It didn’t look like they believed that line; for them, the end was very much in sight. Grant wasn’t thinking about that as he stepped into the cool, dark interior. He was wondering where the big man from the bus had gone.
“Beer supply is”—the bartender shrugged—“very thin.”
There was a mousetrap and a sign on the end of the bar. to registar a complaint press red button. A red cork had been fastened to the trigger for unwary fingers. Grant stood at the bar and looked at the shelves. There were a few bottles of tequila and yellowish mescal, but no beer.
“You can say that again.”
The bartender jerked a thumb toward the border crossing. “Boss didn’t believe they were going to open it.” He shrugged again. “We’re not stocked up. I call him again yesterday, but he still don’t believe it.”
“Sign outside says cold beer.”
The bartender kicked a cooler beside his feet. “We got cold beer. Just not much of it.”
Grant looked across at the newlyweds sipping bottled beer at a table near the door. That was two bottles less from the Park Bar’s dwindling supply. If Boquillas got a rush on, they’d be in real trouble.
He decided to help them out. “You got cold Pepsi?”
The bartender paused wiping the glass he was polishing. “You aren’t from around these parts, are you?”
“Mexico?”
“America.”
Grant didn’t think his Yorkshire accent was that strong. “You noticed, huh?”
The bartender opened the cooler, brought out a familiar-shaped bottle with its red label, and popped the lid. He didn’t offer a glass. “This is the land of Coca-Cola, not that Pepsi shit.”
The cowboy stopped singing about a gringo honeymoon, and there was a pause while the jukebox selected something else. Grant took advantage of the interlude.
“Must be good having a song written about you.”
The bartender went back to polishing glasses that nobody drank out of. “Robert Earl Keen. He came here once.”
“You must have made quite an impression.”
Another pause in the polishing and a nod farther up the street. “The other, here. The Buzzard’s Roost. He did a lot of jamming there.”
“And immortalized it in song?”
“That’s what singers do.”
Grant paid for the Coke and took a cool, refreshing drink. “And the line about the cowboy running from the DEA?”
“That was there too.”
“Should make for an interesting night. That’s where we’re staying.”
The bartender stopped polishing and put the glass on the bar. There was an electronic whine and a click from the jukebox, then Marty Robbins began the guitar intro to “Ballad of the Alamo.” An odd choice for a small bar in Mexico.
The bartender shook his head. “No, you aren’t. It’s an abandoned shell now. Roof blew off years ago.”
Grant stood opposite the crumbling walls and knew one thing for sure. The roof might have blown off in a windstorm, but the hotel had been burned out long before that. The other thing he knew was that it wasn’t the same Buzzard’s Roost the tourists were staying in tonight.
The sun had moved west across the hard blue sky and was now dipping toward the cliffs on the Texan side of the Rio Grande. Shadows crawled across the river basin toward the old mining town, but Boquillas del Carmen stood atop a rise of land in blazing sunshine. The hanging tree provided little shade. The elevated plateau provided even less.
“Mister. We need to check in together. It is part of the package deal.”
Grant looked at the female half of the newlyweds and realized this wasn’t entirely a gringo honeymoon. Her clothes and features might project the all-American woman, but the hint of an accent gave her away. The husband, on the other hand, was a dyed-in-the- wool Texan complete with cowboy boots, Stetson, and faded jeans.
“Yeah. We better stick with the game plan.”
Grant turned away from the burned-out shell toward the modern building at the top of the street—the only two-story structure in town. Even though it was newer than the rest of Main Street, the Buzzard’s Roost was still a fading hacienda with all the color sucked out of it by the desert sun. There was a covered porch along the front with stone arches that supported the balcony. The flat roof had a false front, just like in every Western Grant had ever seen, and that’s where the painted sign was: The Buzzard’s Roost. Same as the Park Bar, in case the guests didn’t know where they were, handwritten script declared Boquillas del Carmen, Coahuila, Mexico.
The newlyweds stepped into the shade of the front porch, and Grant followed. He glanced over his shoulder. “We seem to be missing one.”
The husband was unconcerned. “I’m sure he’ll be along.”
Contradicting his wife’s assertion that they should stick together. Or making sure Grant didn’t wander around on his own while the big man with the dark eyes did exactly that. Grant still wasn’t suspicious of the married couple. Not until he saw the reaction of the reception clerk when they approached the desk.
The short, round Mexican behind the counter did a comedic double-take, then disappeared into the back office. Two more Mexicans sitting with their feet up on a dining table in the lobby dropped their feet to the ground and slid their chairs back. The scraping on the tiled floor was like chalk on a blackboard. What little noise there was dried up to silence. A clock ticked at the bottom of the main staircase.
The Texan looked around, a nervous tick forcing him to wink. The woman pushed her shoulders back and held her chin up. Whatever tension was in the air, the woman ignored it. She walked to the counter and dinged the old brass bell next to the register.
Grant watched the dynamic change. The two Mexicans went from surprise to dull insolence. The Texan stood beside his wife and put an arm around her shoulders, either giving her the support she needed or taking strength from her stance. The desk clerk came back out. He kept his head bowed but his eyes on the woman. His voice was a gravelly whisper.
“You should not have come back.”
The woman put steel into hers. “He knew that I would.”
“It is a bad choice.”
“It is the only choice.”
The clerk was almost pleading. “After all this time.”
“They reopened the border.”
The husband laid a hand on the counter. “And the crossing goes both ways.”
The woman put her reservation documents on the counter. “We’re tourists.”
Grant was running different scenarios through his head, but the thing that stuck was another line from the song at the Park Bar about a cowboy running from the DEA who left his wife and family. Grant thought about drug mules and deals gone wrong and all the variations thereof. He also thought about a vacation rapidly turning to rat shit and tried to reverse the trend. “Yeah, me too. You got my room key? I’d like a shower.”
The desk clerk became all business and took Grant’s reservation papers. He ticked all the forms and filled in the register and unhooked a key from the rack behind him. The key ring jingled in the silence. Grant nodded his thanks and glanced around the lobby and dining area. The two Mexicans were giving Grant the evil eye. Grant smiled and headed for the stairs.
The newlywed’s backup man from the bus didn’t come in. Drug deals always had a backup man. That meant that, in the eyes of the Mexicans, Grant just got voted man most likely to.
Grant dropped his overnight bag on the bed. The room was square and plain and functional: a bed and a chair and a chest of drawers. The door was solid, but there was a glass door onto the balcony. Even if Grant wedged the chair behind the main door, the balcony was the weak spot. If the Mexicans decided to take out the backup man, that’s where they’d be coming from. If was a big word. It spoke of uncertainty and possibilities. This was supposed to be a one-night stay on a two-day trip. Grant wondered why every time he took a vacation life conspired to throw a spanner in the works.
Keep out of trouble. Don’t get involved. The words of Inspector Speedhoff when Grant had been sent to Boston. It didn’t look like it was going to happen here anymore than it had in Massachusetts. He didn’t want to get mixed up with smugglers and their internal problems and vowed to keep as much distance as possible between him and the newlyweds. It was a good idea, but the road to hell was paved with good intentions. Grant’s good intentions lasted fifteen minutes. Until he heard the thump and the slap and the woman cry out in pain.
There were two more Mexicans in the lobby when Grant looked down from the top of the stairs. None of them were very tall, but all were solidly built and muscular. Hard times in a desert town would do that to a man. The craggy features and scarred fists spoke of very hard times indeed. A breakfast table had been pushed to one side and two chairs knocked over. The Texan was on the floor between the four men. The woman was being held back by the strongest. The desk clerk went out through the back door.
Grant took a few moments to assess the situation. It didn’t take long. The clerk didn’t want to get involved. The woman had tried to intervene and been slapped for her trouble. The Texan was bleeding from the head and mouth. The four Mexicans were taking turns kicking him while he was down. That didn’t seem fair to Grant. Slapping women was an even bigger no-no. The backup man still hadn’t shown up.
Keep out of trouble. Don’t get involved.
Not likely. Grant came down the stairs on the balls of his feet, knees flexed for easy balance. He wasn’t trying to be quiet, it just worked out that way. He was more concerned with drawing attention away from the injured man and staying loose. He kept any threat out of his voice, aiming for light and chatty.
“I thought you were supposed to hang piñatas outside.”
Four sets of eyes turned toward the man coming down the stairs.
Grant reached the bottom and leaned on a wooden chair next to the clock. “And hit it with a big stick.”
The clock ticked.
The lead Mexican kept hold of the wife. “We can get sticks if you want.”
Grant rested a hand on top of the chair. “For the piñata or the woman? Wife beating’s pretty low, even for a Mexican.”
The leader let the woman go. “You think we low?”
The clock ticked.
“I think you’re somewhere between dried snot and that stuff I’d scrape off the bottom of my shoe.”
He had their attention now. The Texan managed to shuffle back out of the kicking circle. The woman cradled his head and cried. Grant’s hand went from resting on the chair to gripping it, ready for action. The Mexicans formed a semicircle in front of him and braced themselves for the charge. Santa Anna at the Alamo. Making Jim Grant Davy Crockett. Maybe Robert Earl Keen or Marty Robbins could write a song about this.
The clock ticked.
Grant’s fist tightened on the chair, ready to whip it up. The semicircle spread to form a wider front. Grant’s eyes darted from the man on the left to the one on the right. The leader was second left. The first one Grant would have to disable. The leader feigned a lunge, then backed off. Grant didn’t fall for the distraction. He didn’t focus on any one of them but kept soft eyes on all four. Four against one wasn’t good odds. He had no illusions that he was going to come out of this unscathed. He lifted the chair and held it tight against one side like a lion tamer.
The clock ticked. It was time.
Grant flexed his knees and tightened his grip on the chair. He leaned forward slightly, putting his balance on the balls of his feet, ready to move. The four Mexicans hunched their shoulders like rugby forwards. Then a young voice screamed out from the office door—“Mommy!”—and a five-year-old girl rushed into her mother’s arms.
The dynamic changed in an instant. The woman dropped the Texan’s head and embraced her daughter. The Texan’s head banged on the floor, but he didn’t seem to mind. The desk clerk didn’t seem to mind either as his face struggled between happiness and worry. The Mexicans seemed to be the most worried, and that surprised Grant. In his experience, street brawlers weren’t bothered about having children witness their fights. This child must be a special case because the leader threw a worried glance toward the staircase and took half a step backwards. The other three caught the look and did the same.
“Mommy. Mommy.”
The girl was crying with joy. The mother held her tight, whispering her name as if afraid talking too loud would awaken a sleeping dragon.
“Anarosa.”
The embrace was bright and heartfelt. Grant lowered the chair but didn’t relax his stance. This could still kick off. The thing that did change was his thoughts about drug smuggling and deals gone wrong. It looked like this was about something more primal: maternal instinct.
A door slammed upstairs, and everyone looked up. The sleeping dragon. The man leaning over the balcony was dark and powerful and brought drug dealing back to the fore. He could be Pablo Escobar’s long-lost brother—only Mexican, not Columbian. He came down the stairs with an easy grace that belied the fact he could probably have everyone in the room killed with the click of his fingers. The dynamic changed again. Tension filled the lobby.
“You should not have come back.”
The mother held her daughter and nodded toward the desk clerk. “He already told me that.”
“He was right.”
The man reached the bottom of the stairs, and the four Mexicans stepped back. Grant put the chair down. The movement drew the man’s attention. He looked Grant up and down, then nodded.
“You were protecting her. I respect that. But whatever she told you is a lie.”
Grant shook his head. “Not me. I’m a tourist.”
“And you were just rearranging the chairs, yes?”
“No. I was going to knock his teeth out with it.”
“That would be unfortunate. We do not have a dentist in Boquillas.”
“But you have a hotel.”
“It is good for business.”
“What business is that?”
The man smiled. “Same as yours. Tourism.”
Grant decided to prod a little. “Across the border? Using mules?”
The man kept the smile, but his eyes turned cold. “We don’t use mules. Donkeys. For the tourists.”
“Because I heard that mules go north—into Texas.”
The smile faded. “You a cop?”
Grant shook his head. “Not today.”
“Well, today, as a tourist, you can take a donkey ride. You can book them anywhere in town.”
He turned his attention to the mother and daughter. They were huddled together between the tables. He straightened the chairs and offered a hand to help them up. The mother took it reluctantly and sat on the nearest chair. The daughter stood beside her, arms tightly wrapped around her mother. The dragon spoke in rapid Spanish, making hand gestures and movements, first to her and then to himself, then another gesture waving the Texan away. Grant didn’t understand the Spanish, but the body language was clear. The woman belonged with the dragon and the Texan should have stayed away. A contradiction to the “you should not have come back” statement. If Grant was reading this right, the girl was being kept as insurance that the woman did come back. The Texan was the fly in the ointment. And the backup man from the bus, whom the Mexicans thought was Grant.
The dragon became a concerned father. His voice was soft. “Anarosa. Please.”
He held a hand up and clicked his fingers. The desk clerk rushed over and guided the girl toward the office. The father figure put on his sad face and spoke in English. “A young girl should not witness such distressing things.”
He looked around to show he was addressing everyone. “It would be remiss of me to allow it.”
He shrugged and held his hands out palms up. “What kind of guardian would I be?”
He clicked his fingers again, and the Mexican heavies surrounded the intruders.
“So your reservations have been canceled.”
Grant’s overnight bag dropped on the floor in front of him. He looked up. There were two more Mexicans at the top of the stairs. That made six plus the head man. The Texan helped his wife to her feet and headed toward the front door. Grant picked up his bag and followed. The dragon called after the woman.
“Marissa.”
He waved at the dining tables.
“Join us for breakfast. With Anarosa.”
Marissa didn’t trust herself to speak.
“Come alone. Or you will never see her again.”
She didn’t nod or shake her head or show any sign of acknowledging the threat. All three went out the front door into the gathering gloom. Dusk had settled. The sky was still blue but darkening toward black. Down the street, the red and yellow Carta Blanca sign flickered into life. The light was a beacon for thirsty travelers. Grant looked at it, then turned to Marissa and the Texan.
“Let’s go have a beer. We need to talk.”
Before they could agree, the big man with the dark eyes came out of the shadows and stood in front of Grant. His hands balled into fists. Grant took a step back.
“Is that a no to the beer?”
The Park Bar was busy for a midweek night. That meant one man drinking at the bar, an aged couple sitting at a table, and two young men shooting pool on a torn, faded table in the back. The jukebox filled the air with melancholy cowboy music.
“Don’t they know any happy songs?” Grant set the tray on the table and sat down.
Marissa picked up a beer. “What’s there to be happy about?”
Grant pulled up a chair from the next table and sat down. “Not getting punched in the face by your uncle?”
Marissa put the bottle down. “Sorry about that. He thought you were with Vasquez.”
Grant took a sip of chilled Coca-Cola. “And Vasquez thinks I’m with you.”
“You are, now. Sorry about that as well.”
The introductions had been made on the way down the street. Marissa Bohorquez was an unmarried mother five years ago, the father killed in one of the local drug wars. She met Jake Slade a couple years later on a trip to Texas and married him after a whirlwind romance. Domingo Vasquez didn’t like that, having designs on Marissa himself, so he snatched Anarosa as punishment until Marissa came around to his way of thinking. Mother and daughter were kept apart by circumstance and the lack of a nearby border crossing. Until now. Marissa’s uncle on her father’s side watched Vasquez refit the Buzzard’s Roost in preparation for the new border crossing. Tony Bohorquez saw the chance to snatch Anarosa back and booked the sightseeing tour for his niece. Then Jim Grant became involved and got them all kicked out of the hotel.
“That wasn’t my fault.”
Marissa almost choked on her beer. “You were going to attack Vasquez’s men with a chair.”
Grant raised his eyebrows. “They were kicking the shit out of Jake at the time.”
Jake rubbed his sore ribs. “I can vouch for that.”
Tony Bohorquez turned dark eyes on his niece. He spoke with a thick accent. “Marrying a gringo annoyed Vasquez.”
Marissa held Jake’s hand and looked at her uncle. “He wasn’t happy when I was dating a Mexican.”
Bohorquez shook his head. “Everyone knew that Vasquez wanted you for himself.”
Marissa put it more bluntly. “He didn’t want me sleeping with his business rival.”
Grant sought clarification. “Tourist business?”
All three looked at him. Marissa answered. “The drug business. They didn’t fight over me. They fought over land.”
Grant thought he knew the answer to his next question. “And?”
Marissa squeezed Jake’s hand. Bohorquez answered for her.
“The hotel burned down. Anarosa’s father was killed. Life went on.”
Grant nodded. “The phoenix has risen from the ashes.”
Marissa looked confused. “Phoenix?”
Grant waved a hand toward the hotel. “Buzzard.”
Marissa sighed. “Yes, he built a new hotel. Boquillas Crossing is open. And this time I will not leave without my daughter.”
Grant toyed with his bottle but didn’t drink. Balls clacked together on the pool table. A different cowboy sang a different song, just as sad as the last. It appeared there were no happy endings in country and western. Didn’t look like there were any happy endings in Mexico either. He stopped toying with the bottle and looked at the little group of exiles.
“He’s got six men over there.”
Bohorquez leaned forward. “More.”
Grant looked at Marissa. “And you’re just going to walk in and take your daughter from him.”
Marissa shook her head. “No. I’m going to have breakfast with them.”
She smiled.
“You’re going to walk in and take my daughter from him.”
The sun rose early. It was already high in another cloudless sky by the time sizzling food smells drifted across the street. An old man led a line of donkeys to the hitching post and tied them up ready for the tourists. Bells around their necks rattled. Bottles clinked in the quiet morning air as the bartender put his empties out behind the Park Bar. The red and yellow Carta Blanca sign looked faded in the morning light. The Licores Mexicanos signage looked even worse. High above the Rio Grande an eagle soared, its head tilting from side to side while it searched for prey.
“Are you sure you really want to do this?”
Grant stood in the shade of the dried-up ironwood tree and looked into dead black eyes. The eyes didn’t flinch. The sun beat down. The look told Grant one thing for certain. Yes, Tony Bohorquez really did want to do this. Grant turned his attention to the Texan.
“And you?”
Jake nodded.
Grant waved a hand toward the Buzzard’s Roost.
“We’re just going to march over there like The Wild Bunch?”
Bohorquez looked confused. “Wild bunch?”
Jake explained. “Old Western starring William Holden.”
Bohorquez understood. “I see it on movie channel.”
Grant looked at them both. “How’d that turn out?”
This time Bohorquez looked exasperated at the oblique line of questioning. “What you saying?”
Jake explained again. “He’s saying we’re all gonna die.”
Grant shook his head. “I’m saying The Wild Bunch went storming in, guns blazing”—he made gun shapes with both hands and mimicked firing them—“and the Mexicans shot them to pieces.”
Jake looked doubtful. “I got a gun. Back home.”
“In Texas?”
“Yeah.”
Grant lowered his hands. “Best place for it. They’d out-gun us anyway.”
Bohorquez leaned on the tree. “They will not shoot while Anarosa is there.”
Grant pointed out the obvious. “They will after she’s gone.”
He held his hands out, palms up, to show they were empty. “Unless I show them we’re unarmed.”
Bohorquez shook his head. “Vasquez won’t believe you.”
Grant rubbed his chin. “I think he will. How about this?”
He explained his idea. It only took a few minutes. The plan, the timing, and what he wanted each of them to do. When he finished, he waited for their response.
Silence washed over him. The donkeys shuffled at the hitching post down the street. The bartender noticed the group under the hanging tree and went back inside the Park Bar. The eagle continued looking for prey. Jake was struck dumb. Bohorquez broke into a smile.
“You one crazy son of a bitch.”
Grant smiled back and stepped out of the shade. The sun was hot on his back. His footsteps puffed up little clouds of dust but made no sound. He turned to Jake and jerked a thumb at the tree.
“Okay, then. Ring the bell.”
It felt like the longest walk of Grant’s life. Side by side with Tony Bohorquez, they left the hanging tree behind them and walked along Main Street into the sun. High noon, except it was only breakfast time. There were adobe buildings on either side. They passed the string of donkeys at the hitching post on the left. They passed the burned-out shell of the original Buzzard’s Roost on the right. Up ahead, the hacienda that had become the new hotel shimmered in the heat.
Breakfast smelled nice. In the lobby dining area Marissa would be eating with her daughter and the man who had stole Anarosa away. Vasquez would be gloating over the woman he thought he was about to reclaim.
Grant and Bohorquez approached the front porch. Behind them, the bell rang one last time, then fell silent. The bus driver had been right. Sound did carry in Boquillas del Carmen. A motor started up somewhere in the distance. The eagle gave up and drifted across the border into Texas. The two men exchanged a glance, then Bohorquez went around the side of the building. Grant looked at the front door and let out a sigh. He went through the archway onto the porch, then began to take his clothes off.
Breakfast was a private affair, just Vasquez and Marissa and Anarosa. They were sitting in the far corner of the lobby’s dining area at a table set for three. Nobody else was having breakfast. There were no other guests. The tourists had been kicked out of the hotel yesterday. It was a private affair, but not a cordial one. The atmosphere was tense even before Grant entered the lobby. He noticed that as soon as he walked through the door.
Vasquez sat with his back to the reception desk. Anarosa was a quarter turn to his left, facing the staircase. It was Marissa who saw Grant first, and the surprise on her face couldn’t hide the smile. This wasn’t what she had expected when she’d said, “You’re going to walk in and take my daughter from him.” She brought up a hand to cover her mouth, but her eyes said it all. Vasquez caught the expression and turned around. The look on his face would have been comical if the situation wasn’t so serious.
“What you doing, man? This a family breakfast.”
The desk clerk looked up from his paperwork and jolted awake. He glanced at Vasquez and then up to the banister rail at the top of the stairs. Two of Vasquez’s men were leaning on the railing. This was a low-risk meeting so he hadn’t deployed the full team. Grant doubted the rest would be very far away. At the sound of their boss’s voice they stood upright and were just as shocked as Marissa.
Jim Grant crossed the lobby and stood in the middle of the floor. He was naked except for his black K-Swiss tennis shoes. The white socks were pushed down to the ankles to show he had no weapons tucked in them. He held his arms out to either side with his hands open, then did a slow turn all the way round until he faced front again.
Marissa giggled at the No Entry tattoo just above Grant’s backside. Anarosa turned to see what the fuss was all about and let out a little yelp of surprise. Vasquez covered her eyes with one hand like a protective parent.
“You got no shame?”
Grant lowered his arms. “I got no gun. Wanted to make sure you knew that.”
“I understand that. Now cover yourself up. We got a child here.”
Grant shrugged. “Don’t have any clothes.”
Vasquez snapped his fingers at the desk clerk and waved toward the office. The little Mexican dashed over and hustled Anarosa to safety. Grant’s eyes followed her until the door closed. He relaxed and turned back toward the table. Marissa glanced beyond Grant to the front door, but nobody else came in. This wasn’t the plan they’d discussed over beers at the Park Bar. It caught her by surprise as much as Vasquez. Good. Grant liked to keep the opposition off guard. If Marissa had known what Grant was going to do, she might have let it slip. The fact that she was shocked too made Vasquez’s confusion all the greater.
“You jus’ made a very big mistake.”
Vasquez snapped his fingers again, and the two heavies came down the stairs at a rush. They spread out at the bottom, but since there were only two of them, spreading out didn’t help much. Grant walked toward Vasquez, who pushed his chair back and stood up. Face off. The Mexican drug dealer and the naked man. Neither of them was armed. A lifestyle choice for Grant. Unnecessary for Vasquez; he had two armed men to protect him.
Being naked had two advantages. First was that nobody ever wanted to grapple with a naked man. He remembered back in Yorkshire when a young constable was trying to restrain a naked woman who was cutting herself with a broken mirror. The inexperienced cop was more worried about where to grab her than the makeshift blade. Grant walked past Vasquez, and the drug dealer stepped aside in disgust. The second thing was that it gave the opposition a false sense of superiority. Being fully clothed and armed meant their reactions were slower because they thought they had the upper hand. A slow draw is a bad draw, even against an unarmed man.
Grant grabbed the nearest chair and jabbed it forward. Lion tamer. The first man’s gun arm was caught between the chair legs, and Grant twisted it clockwise fast and hard. The arm broke at the wrist, and the Mexican dropped the gun. The second man tried to speed up his draw but was distracted by his colleague’s scream and Grant’s swinging nakedness. Even in communal showers men didn’t like looking at other men’s cocks. The combination gave Grant just enough time. He brought the chair round to block the gun arm at the same time as he stamped down on the Mexican’s knee. It buckled in the wrong direction. The gun went off, sending chips of terra-cotta tile ricocheting across the floor. The man went down, trying not to move his crippled knee.
Grant turned, put the chair down, and snatched up both guns. Now the swinging dick was armed and dangerous. He kicked the chair toward the man with the broken arm.
“Sit.”
He sat. The other Mexican lay on the floor. Vasquez was stunned by the speed in which everything had turned around. From three to one against an unarmed man to being the underdog in a fight that was already lost.
The gunshot was the worrying thing. That was going to bring the cavalry. Santa Anna’s reinforcements against the lone defender. The Alamo was going to fall—unless the Alamo got out of there fast. The office door opened, and the desk clerk came in clutching the side of his head. Vasquez shot him a glance, and realization dawned on his face. Grant pushed him down into the seat and yanked his jacket down backward so that it trapped his arms against the back of the chair.
“Adios, amigo.”
An engine revved outside. The front door opened, and Tony Bohorquez stuck his head through the doorway. He nodded once, then retreated to the Big Bend tourist bus. Anarosa looked out of the back window and waved at her mother. Grant helped Marissa to her feet.
“Time to go.”
Vasquez didn’t try to get up. His men would be here soon. “You won’t get away with this.”
Grant looked down at him. “Yes, I will. Because you love the girl as much as the woman.”
Their eyes locked, and Grant knew he was right. However ruthless Vasquez was in business, his first reaction on seeing Grant naked had been to protect the child. Taking the girl had been a way to get his woman back. There was no defending the method, but the motive was love. No way would Vasquez risk the girl getting caught in the crossfire. Grant popped the magazine out of each gun, then dismantled the slides and barrels and trigger mechanisms. He dropped the pieces on the floor.
“All’s fair in love and war.”
The engine revved, and the driver sounded the horn.
Grant nodded at the drug dealer who was also just a man. “You’ll get over her.”
He wasn’t sure he really believed that, but it was something to say. He turned and went out the door, snatched his clothes up off the floor, and got on the bus. The driver spun it in a tight circle that raised a cloud of dust and headed back down Main Street. As the bus passed the hitching post, Jake led the string of donkeys across the street and tied the other end to a flagpole to slow down any pursuers. He jumped on the bus and sat with his wife and stepdaughter.
Tony Bohorquez turned his dead black eyes on Grant. Grant met the gaze and nodded. In the back of his mind he could hear the gentle twang of guitar music and Robert Earl Keen singing about celebrating a gringo honeymoon. The sentiment seemed entirely appropriate as the bus sped toward the boat on a rope and a short ride across Boquillas Crossing.
Listen to Robert Earl Keen’s “Gringo Honeymoon” here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gWANCXep4SY