dollars for this ancient six-cylinder Plymouth, having saved the money for it over a period of nearly a year. It had not been easy. Almost every penny he earned went toward the support of his wife and seven children.
“ Steal it?” the bandit said. “Listen, fool, I wouldn’t steal a piece of shit like this. I only steal cars my sainted mother would not die of shame to see me driving. I wouldn’t stoop so low as to steal this stinking car.”
“I’m very glad to hear that,” Diego said, looking both relieved and somewhat injured, “even though I don’t think you truly realize what a good car this—”
“I’m just going to borrow the damned thing. Now get out— everybody ! Start walking back the way we came. Move!”
They got out and began walking. They heard the motor grinding as the bandit tried to start it, heard his faint cursing of the recalcitrant engine.
“The son of a bitch is going to have to hitch another ride to make his getaway,” Francisco muttered.
“The shoemaker’s children go barefoot,” Alfonso said, “and the mechanic’s car needs a mule to pull it.”
“ You shut up,” Diego said, pointing a finger in Alfonso’s face. “Don’t say another word—not you!”
Alfonso put up his palms defensively and backed away.
The motor finally clattered to life and they stopped walking and turned to look. A single headlight beam poked out in front of the car into the gathering gloom and then the transmission shrieked as the bandit worked it into gear. Diego groaned and said, “Doesn’t that bastard know how to drive ?”
The Plymouth lurched onto the highway and began a ponderous acceleration, trailing a thick plume of dark smoke and grinding loudly every time the bandit worked the column gearshift. Then the car went around a wide bend in the road toward Immokalee, still some fifteen miles away, and the taillights disappeared.
They spoke little as they trudged along the shoulder of the road. Except for Diego, the only legal citizen among them, they all ducked down in roadside ditches or ran into the pines to hide every time headlights appeared on the highway. One never knew when those lights might belong to la migra.
Diego put his thumb out to every car and truck that came flashing up from behind them. But the Sunday evening traffic was sparse and none of it even slowed down for him. His rage increased with every vehicle that sped past. He shook his fist at the shrinking taillights and bellowed, “Bastard! God damn you! Are you afraid I’m going to rob you, you son of a bitch? God DAMN you!”
He swore as fervently every time he caught sight of Alfonso, who was keeping a careful distance behind all of them.
“‘Stop for him, he’s a Mexican!’“ Diego mimicked sarcastically, glaring back at Alfonso. “You are a stupid shit!”
“I think we ought to hang him from one of these trees,” Francisco said, and Alfonso dropped a few feet further behind. He was keeping uncharacteristically mute in the face of his fellows’ rancor.
VI
The sky was gray with dawn light when they at last reached the town limit. A couple of ragged men sat on the curb in front of a convenience store and looked upon them with curiosity as they walked by. Julio glanced back just as Alfonso slipped away into the shadows of a side street and disappeared. A little farther on, Francisco said, “Look!” and pointed down the block to their right. The Plymouth was parked at the end of the street. Diego let out a whoop and jogged toward it.
“Good,” Francisco said as he and Julio followed after him at a walk. “Now he can give us a ride to the market.”
When they got to the car Diego was staring in horror upon the freshly crumpled right front fender. “Look,” he said, pointing at the damage. “Just look what he … what that dirty prick … look how he did. He steals my good car and can’t drive it twenty miles without wrecking it. That son of a bitch should be in prison. Look! ”
Julio
“ Steal it?” the bandit said. “Listen, fool, I wouldn’t steal a piece of shit like this. I only steal cars my sainted mother would not die of shame to see me driving. I wouldn’t stoop so low as to steal this stinking car.”
“I’m very glad to hear that,” Diego said, looking both relieved and somewhat injured, “even though I don’t think you truly realize what a good car this—”
“I’m just going to borrow the damned thing. Now get out— everybody ! Start walking back the way we came. Move!”
They got out and began walking. They heard the motor grinding as the bandit tried to start it, heard his faint cursing of the recalcitrant engine.
“The son of a bitch is going to have to hitch another ride to make his getaway,” Francisco muttered.
“The shoemaker’s children go barefoot,” Alfonso said, “and the mechanic’s car needs a mule to pull it.”
“ You shut up,” Diego said, pointing a finger in Alfonso’s face. “Don’t say another word—not you!”
Alfonso put up his palms defensively and backed away.
The motor finally clattered to life and they stopped walking and turned to look. A single headlight beam poked out in front of the car into the gathering gloom and then the transmission shrieked as the bandit worked it into gear. Diego groaned and said, “Doesn’t that bastard know how to drive ?”
The Plymouth lurched onto the highway and began a ponderous acceleration, trailing a thick plume of dark smoke and grinding loudly every time the bandit worked the column gearshift. Then the car went around a wide bend in the road toward Immokalee, still some fifteen miles away, and the taillights disappeared.
They spoke little as they trudged along the shoulder of the road. Except for Diego, the only legal citizen among them, they all ducked down in roadside ditches or ran into the pines to hide every time headlights appeared on the highway. One never knew when those lights might belong to la migra.
Diego put his thumb out to every car and truck that came flashing up from behind them. But the Sunday evening traffic was sparse and none of it even slowed down for him. His rage increased with every vehicle that sped past. He shook his fist at the shrinking taillights and bellowed, “Bastard! God damn you! Are you afraid I’m going to rob you, you son of a bitch? God DAMN you!”
He swore as fervently every time he caught sight of Alfonso, who was keeping a careful distance behind all of them.
“‘Stop for him, he’s a Mexican!’“ Diego mimicked sarcastically, glaring back at Alfonso. “You are a stupid shit!”
“I think we ought to hang him from one of these trees,” Francisco said, and Alfonso dropped a few feet further behind. He was keeping uncharacteristically mute in the face of his fellows’ rancor.
VI
The sky was gray with dawn light when they at last reached the town limit. A couple of ragged men sat on the curb in front of a convenience store and looked upon them with curiosity as they walked by. Julio glanced back just as Alfonso slipped away into the shadows of a side street and disappeared. A little farther on, Francisco said, “Look!” and pointed down the block to their right. The Plymouth was parked at the end of the street. Diego let out a whoop and jogged toward it.
“Good,” Francisco said as he and Julio followed after him at a walk. “Now he can give us a ride to the market.”
When they got to the car Diego was staring in horror upon the freshly crumpled right front fender. “Look,” he said, pointing at the damage. “Just look what he … what that dirty prick … look how he did. He steals my good car and can’t drive it twenty miles without wrecking it. That son of a bitch should be in prison. Look! ”
Julio
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