still Kelly listened, knowing how easily drunk talk moved
from the bar out onto the street. The voices rising for a moment and then dying
away as the men drank. She watched and listened, trying to identify those who
were the loudest. A big man named Andy Strope seemed to talk the most, his voice
carrying above the rest. Mike Shore was also there and Steve Herman, but the
rest of the men in the group either stood with their backs to her or she didn’t
know them. After a while she said to Tom, “You don’t have to worry about
protecting anyone, Tom.”
“Everyone has to make a choice,” Tom said, his
voice low against the background noise from the bar.
“I know,” Kelly said, “but your choice has already
been made.” She looked at him to see how he’d taken it. She was about ready to
call it a night. All she’d meant to do was come by and let Dario know she was
still around, that she hadn’t forgotten about him, or what he might represent.
Whether the boy lived or not, it didn’t matter in the bigger scope of things. If
Dario was cartel, there was no way a boy like Gil was going to speak out against
him.
Tom finished his beer and looked over at his
father. “You about ready, old man?” Luis nodded, he put his hand out on the
table and steadied himself for the move. “I know you don’t need any looking
after,” Tom said, watching Kelly where she sat, “but I’m looking out for you all
the same.” He put a hand under Luis’s armpit and pulled him up, the old man
wobbling a bit as he found the floor.
Kelly nodded to Luis and the old man nodded back.
She watched Tom go and then, when the door closed behind them, she finished her
beer and brought the bottle over to the bar.
Medina broke away from the group of men and came
over. He was looking at the empty beer bottle in her hand. “¿Otra?”
“No, not tonight.” Kelly handed him the bottle.
Past the group of roughnecks, she saw Dario standing just inside his office
door, watching her or the door behind. When she looked over her shoulder and
then back at the office, Dario had closed his door.
I t was a little past nine when the sound of the explosion came to Dario where he sat at the bar drinking his morning coffee. The windows rattled in their casings and he looked toward the street, from which the sound had come, and from where he could see the morning sun falling through the dust-stained glass onto the barroom floor, as if through a diffuse curtain.
At the age of thirty-four he was still alive, even though he’d never expected as much, and he thought constantly of his death and how it would occur. All of it, the bar, the town, the shipments he held and then sent north, like any other place he’d been while working for the cartel. It was all the same to him, the same job, filled with the same thrills and boredom, the same highs and lows. He couldn’t have said it any other way, because, as he saw it, there was only this—there was only this life, this present. Though he hoped almost every day for something more.
Sliding from the stool, he went to the window and looked out on the street, where over the buildings he saw a growing trail of smoke rising into the air. Unlatching the heavy wood door, he went out onto the street where several cars had already stopped in the middle of Main, the drivers out of their vehicles looking to where the black smoke crested the edges of the buildings to the west.
He wore a thin linen suit on his slim frame, and as he turned the corner off Main and came within view of the hospital, his jacket billowed behind him. His shirt open at the neck and a sheen of sweat already showing on his ashen skin. The only thing left of the county cruiser a charred and black body in the hospital drive, still smoldering, the tires and the last of the oil burning away. A crowd grown around the carved-out wreckage as the first group of volunteer firemen made an effort against the flames.
Dario had heard about Gil the night
from the bar out onto the street. The voices rising for a moment and then dying
away as the men drank. She watched and listened, trying to identify those who
were the loudest. A big man named Andy Strope seemed to talk the most, his voice
carrying above the rest. Mike Shore was also there and Steve Herman, but the
rest of the men in the group either stood with their backs to her or she didn’t
know them. After a while she said to Tom, “You don’t have to worry about
protecting anyone, Tom.”
“Everyone has to make a choice,” Tom said, his
voice low against the background noise from the bar.
“I know,” Kelly said, “but your choice has already
been made.” She looked at him to see how he’d taken it. She was about ready to
call it a night. All she’d meant to do was come by and let Dario know she was
still around, that she hadn’t forgotten about him, or what he might represent.
Whether the boy lived or not, it didn’t matter in the bigger scope of things. If
Dario was cartel, there was no way a boy like Gil was going to speak out against
him.
Tom finished his beer and looked over at his
father. “You about ready, old man?” Luis nodded, he put his hand out on the
table and steadied himself for the move. “I know you don’t need any looking
after,” Tom said, watching Kelly where she sat, “but I’m looking out for you all
the same.” He put a hand under Luis’s armpit and pulled him up, the old man
wobbling a bit as he found the floor.
Kelly nodded to Luis and the old man nodded back.
She watched Tom go and then, when the door closed behind them, she finished her
beer and brought the bottle over to the bar.
Medina broke away from the group of men and came
over. He was looking at the empty beer bottle in her hand. “¿Otra?”
“No, not tonight.” Kelly handed him the bottle.
Past the group of roughnecks, she saw Dario standing just inside his office
door, watching her or the door behind. When she looked over her shoulder and
then back at the office, Dario had closed his door.
I t was a little past nine when the sound of the explosion came to Dario where he sat at the bar drinking his morning coffee. The windows rattled in their casings and he looked toward the street, from which the sound had come, and from where he could see the morning sun falling through the dust-stained glass onto the barroom floor, as if through a diffuse curtain.
At the age of thirty-four he was still alive, even though he’d never expected as much, and he thought constantly of his death and how it would occur. All of it, the bar, the town, the shipments he held and then sent north, like any other place he’d been while working for the cartel. It was all the same to him, the same job, filled with the same thrills and boredom, the same highs and lows. He couldn’t have said it any other way, because, as he saw it, there was only this—there was only this life, this present. Though he hoped almost every day for something more.
Sliding from the stool, he went to the window and looked out on the street, where over the buildings he saw a growing trail of smoke rising into the air. Unlatching the heavy wood door, he went out onto the street where several cars had already stopped in the middle of Main, the drivers out of their vehicles looking to where the black smoke crested the edges of the buildings to the west.
He wore a thin linen suit on his slim frame, and as he turned the corner off Main and came within view of the hospital, his jacket billowed behind him. His shirt open at the neck and a sheen of sweat already showing on his ashen skin. The only thing left of the county cruiser a charred and black body in the hospital drive, still smoldering, the tires and the last of the oil burning away. A crowd grown around the carved-out wreckage as the first group of volunteer firemen made an effort against the flames.
Dario had heard about Gil the night
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