Cut Throat by Sharon Sala

saw the man’s reaction, then cursed and frowned. He was used to people being shocked by his appearance. The tattoos were fierce. In the past, he’d used them to elevate his badass image. But now, with the burn scars and only half a head of hair, there was an air of pity that came with the shock. That, he didn’t like. Along with a new home, he was going to have to think about some kind of makeover.
     
    When the man on the bike was through the intersection, Solomon accelerated past him. The first thing on his agenda was breakfast, then a Realtor. There were always places for sale to anyone holding enough money. And this being the off-season for tourists, he might get himself a deal. It was about time something started working in his favor.
     
    By his watch, it was almost noon, but he hadn’t reset it since he’d left Texas, and had no idea what time zone he was in or what time it really was. However, he would deal with that later. Whatever time it was, he was still hungry.
     
    As he headed for Abuela’s, he kept checking out places he saw for sale, along with areas that were more remote than others. He had no desire to mix with the population. His requirements were no neighbors, no neighborhood, no lawn to care for. He wanted a place apart, and he had the money to buy it.
     
    American dollars went a long way in Mexico, compared to other countries. The way he figured it, he could live comfortably down here for the rest of his life. Finally he tired of shopping for real estate and began looking for a place that served food. Abuela’s was on the other side of the city,
     
    and he was too hungry to drive that far. By the time he found a place to eat, he was beginning to hurt. He was going to have to squeeze in a visit to a doctor between food and a Realtor.
     
    He wheeled into a parking area beside a small, single-story building and parked. As he exited the car, the scent of tortillas cooking made his stomach growl. When he entered, he had to duck to miss strings of drying red chili peppers hanging from the rafters. He grunted with satisfaction as he noticed there was also a small bar in the corner of the room. A halfdozen posters advertising different beers had been tacked to the walls, and opposite the bar there was an old woman bent over a small fire, slapping raw, uncooked tortillas from hand to hand until they were the desired size and thickness. At that point she flopped them down on an old griddle, letting them cook briefly on one side, then the other, before adding them to a growing stack of freshly cooked tortillas on a small platter beside her.
     
    “Hola,” Solomon said.
     
    The old woman didn’t look up. He frowned and, this time, yelled. “Hey! Old woman!”
     
    “Don’t yell at her. She cannot hear you.”
     
    Solomon turned around just as a heavyset man came out from a back room.
     
    Solomon frowned, then shrugged. No need to make an enemy in the place he intended to live. At least, not yet.
     
    “No offense meant.”
     
    The man stared at Solomon long and hard, making no effort to hide his curiosity at Solomon’s appearance. Finally he nodded.
     
    “None taken,” he said. “Can I help you?” “Bring me a plate of tortillas and beans.” “You maybe want some carne asada, too?”
     
    “Yeah, whatever,” Solomon muttered, and sat down, then pointed toward the bar.
     
    “And a beer.”
     
    The heavyset man eyed Solomon again, as if trying to decide if it was wise to turn his back to him, then finally nodded before moving toward the bar.
     
    Solomon stretched wearily, then sighed as he kicked back in the chair. Things were finally looking up.
     
    Cat flew past the skeletal remains of the gas station and took the left fork, confident she was still on the right road. As she passed, a roosting turkey buzzard took flight.
     
    By now the sun was directly overhead. She glanced at the gas gauge, then frowned. She had a five-gallon can of extra fuel in the back. It wouldn’t be