twenty-one

A blazing sunset colored the end of Grant’s second day in Absolution. Scattered clouds along the horizon became torn shreds of golden fire. The sky turned from powder blue to burnt umber, and stars began to blink on the edge of night high up in the darkening stratosphere. The bleached white walls of Macready’s compound were painted red by the dying sun as Grant pulled the hearse up to the gates.

The cowboy looked shamefaced in the passenger seat. The other fella had been left at Sixto’s. Grant didn’t need both of them to prove his point. He sounded the horn, then waited. Thirty seconds later, the gates swung open and Grant drove into the courtyard. The hacienda looked even more like the Alamo in the evening light. Flickering torches burned from brackets on the walls. More for effect than for light, Grant reckoned. Macready seemed to like playing with the Western image.

There was a lot of activity in front of the garages and barrack block. Men packing equipment into canvas bags and strip-cleaning their weapons on blankets spread across the porch. Mercenaries. The ex-military types he’d seen on his last visit. Grant parked the hearse on the opposite side of the courtyard.

Smoke drifted across the patio. At first Grant thought the torches were burning oil, but then he caught a whiff of cooked meat. The barbecue pit was going full tilt. Three men in cooks’ whites were turning steaks on the grill and working a rotisserie loaded with skewered birds. Hot fat flared and spat. Portable heaters battled the cool night air, and patio lights illuminated the table where Grant had sat with Macready. Several more tables had been set up around the barbecue pit. Waiters brought out beer coolers and bottles of wine. Heavy candles flickered on the tables. Again, more for effect than illumination.

Macready stood in the doorway to the hacienda.

Grant nudged the cowboy to get out of the hearse, then he did the same. They walked side by side up the patio steps. Macready barked an instruction to one of the waiters, then turned his attention to Grant. The cowboy was limping slightly to avoid crushing his swollen balls. Macready threw him a hard glance and jerked his head in dismissal. The cowboy went inside, leaving the two men to talk. Macready leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms.

“I guess you’re not passing through after all.”

Grant stood in front of him. “I found a reason to stick around.”

Macready smiled. “And it’s a good reason. She’s a beauty, ain’t she?”

“When she’s not marked up.”

“That is a regret of mine. Scott don’t know much about restraint.”

“Just so you know. He touches her again, it’ll be me not showing restraint.”

“That’s between you and him. Me? I’m only interested in business.”

Grant stepped aside to let a waitress pass. “Party planning? That your business, is it?”

Macready unfolded his arms and pushed off from the doorframe. He walked across to the table and surveyed the preparations. The barbecue pit was spitting fire. The extra tables were set. The only things missing were the guests and the food. Grant followed Macready. The cooked meat made his mouth water. He couldn’t help licking his lips. Macready noticed.

“No. I just like to treat my men right. Before going into action. You’d be welcome to join us. If you were one of my men.”

Grant wondered what action he was sending his men into. The mercenaries who were busy preparing for battle. He’d worked with soldiers of fortune before during his army days. He didn’t like them. A professional soldier had pride in his regiment and unit. Mercenaries only respected the money. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers when trying to find out what Macready was up to.

“As opposed to being one of your cats.”

“Cats or employees. If they do their job, they’ve nothing to fear.”

“And what job’s that?”

Macready scrutinized Grant as if sizing him up, gauging his strengths and weaknesses. The man in black looking to hire a new hand. Veiled eyes noticing everything. Instead of answering, he asked a question of his own. “I understand you ran into a little trouble near the border.”

“Down that way. Yeah.”

“But not with the border guards.”

“It was a long way from the border.”

“Involving Mexicans though. Right?”

Grant didn’t answer, waiting to see where Macready was going with this.

“Friends of Eduardo Cruz?”

Grant noticed a change in tone. Harder. He shrugged as he answered.

“Acquaintances of a patient.”

“Husband of a battered wife is what I heard.”

The head cook stepped back from the barbecue and held up a metal triangle and a stick. He rattled the stick around the frame, signalling that dinner was served. The men across the yard finished what they were doing and began to drift towards the tables. Grant was aware of the approaching menace, but the men seemed more interested in the food than in Grant. He turned back to Macready.

“I can’t abide a wife beater. A man or a sleeveless vest.”

Macready ignored Grant’s answer.

“Three men with guns. You were unarmed.”

Grant almost said that he used to patrol West Yorkshire with nothing but a stab vest and a baton but stopped himself just in time. Admitting to being a cop didn’t seem like the way to go here.

“Just me and the hearse.”

“You acquitted yourself well. You and the hearse. Caused a fair bit of damage though. No burgers and ice cream on the 170 for a while.”

“Maybe they can come here.”

Macready waved a hand towards the barbecue pit. “We don’t flip burgers here. We eat real meat.”

Then he pointed at the hearse parked in the shadows. “I don’t think Hunter Athey will be too happy with you.”

Torch flames reflected off the windows, highlighting the one that was missing and the bullet holes punched in the bodywork. Grant looked at the damage, then turned back towards Macready. “I filled it up, though.”

Macready’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I heard about that too. Petrol fumes and coffee stains just follow you around.”

That wasn’t a question so Grant didn’t answer. Macready stopped smiling. “You and other people’s vehicles don’t mix either.”

“It’s not me. Other folk seem to have a problem with that.”

Macready stuck his hands in his pockets and studied Grant. He let out a sigh and appeared to make a decision. The smile was back on his face.

“That’s as maybe, but it relates directly to what I propose. If I was to offer you a seat at my table. And gainful employment.”

Grant waited for the proposal.

Macready let the moment stretch a beat before continuing.

“You ain’t too good with foreign cars and hearses, that’s a fact. What are you like driving a truck?”

Texas claimed its steaks were the best in the world. Grant had heard that claim before. In Adelaide they considered Australian beef to be the best. He’d had a steak in Denver once, and they reckoned Colorado beef was the best. Whatever the truth, one thing was for certain: Texas steaks were the biggest he’d ever eaten. Thick and wide and melt-in-your-mouth gorgeous. Throw in a few fries and a side of coleslaw and this could almost be the perfect meal.

Apart from the company.

There wasn’t much small talk, and nobody got too friendly. There was none of that laughing and joking associated with most dinner parties, and nobody drank too much. The beer cooler was there for everyone, or wine if that was their choice. The men surrounding Grant drank one or the other but only one drink each. Nobody was going to get drunk on the eve of combat. These guys might be mercenaries, but they were observing military discipline. Polite in the presence of strangers. Not too friendly with the new man. He remembered that from his army days. Replacements died early. Nobody wanted to get too friendly with them. Grant wondered who he was replacing. Not the cat, he hoped.

Music played in the background, some middle-of-the-road, easy listening stuff. Knives and forks clattered on plates. Ice clinked in glasses of water, served as a side order with the beer and the food. People talked in small groups. There was some backslapping and a few raised voices but nothing too energetic. It was a scene Grant had seen many times during his military career and not too infrequently in the Westerns he’d watched growing up. If this were a spaghetti Western, Clint Eastwood would be sitting quietly while the Italians roared with laughter and badly lip-synced dialogue. The head villain would bring out a suit of armor and use it for target practice while the Man with No Name pretended to get drunk.

Macready didn’t bring out a suit of armor. Grant didn’t pretend to get drunk. Nobody was getting drunk tonight. There was work to be done. Trouble was, apart from knowing he was going to be driving a truck, Grant didn’t know what that work would be. It involved heavily armed men and big lorries and the cover of darkness. That was all he knew.

Melted wax ran down the sides of the candles like blood and pooled across the table. The flames flickered in the still night air. The wall-mounted torches did the same. One by one the soldiers finished their last supper and pushed empty plates away. They drained their beers and swilled it down with iced water. Even the music became quieter. Preparations were almost over.

Macready waved a hand.

Waitresses cleared the tables.

Grant took a drink of water and slid his glass across the table. Light reflected off the flat, calm surface like a puddle in a footprint. A low, dull noise began to compete with the music, as if the bass was turned up too loud. The smooth, calm surface in Grant’s glass broke up as vibration shook the ground. Concentric circles in the confines of the glass. The noise grew louder. A noise that seemed to be coming from everywhere and yet from no direction in particular. It changed from an aimless muttering into something more solid. The sound of big, throaty engines coming from outside the compound walls.

Macready stood and everyone fell silent.

“Grab your gear, boys. Time to saddle up.”

The mercenaries collected their equipment and moved towards a dried-out wooden door in the compound’s side wall. Grant followed, awaiting instructions. The door led to the outside near the abandoned athletics track. There were no streetlamps. The Christmas Mountains in the distance were picked out by moonlight and starshine. The trucks parked in line along the finishing straight were thrown into silhouette. Big desert-camouflaged military trucks, their unit insignia standing out in the cold blue light. They weren’t army surplus. They were still in service. This was an army-approved operation.