Dawn Patrol - Don Winslow [65]
But he doesn’t even get that if they fuck up his face.
They pick him up and set him down on the sofa.
“You don’t want your pretty face messed up?” Dan asks. “You better tell me what I want to know.”
“Anything, man.”
Except what he wants to know is how to find Tammy.
Love is a powerful thing.
Elusive, ephemeral, enigmatic—love can make you do some fucked-up shit. It can drive you to depths you never thought you’d go; it can lift you to heights you never knew you could climb. It will show you the worst and the best in yourself. Love can strip you down to bare shame; love can reveal pure nobility.
Mick holds out a long time.
He loves her, he knows that these guys want to hurt her, will hurt, maybe kill her, and he loves her. In the end, he gives them everything they want, but it takes them a while to get it. He gives them Teddy, gives them the motel in Oceanside, gives them Boone.
He gives up everything and hates himself for it.
Dan leaves almost admiring the dumb shit.
Had to fuck him up real bad before he caved.
50
When he comes to, they start beating him, kicking him, cursing him.
Barely conscious, Boone rolls into a fetal position and covers up his head as the boots, fists, and the shotgun butt rain down on him.
And the words:
Pendejo, lambioso, picaflor.
A shotgun butt slams into his ankle. A few more of these, Boone thinks, and I’m never walking out of here. He opens his eyes, sees a pair of feet, grabs them, and lifts. The feet go flying, and Boone pushes himself up and topples over on the man. Boone’s real lucky, because this turns out to be the guy holding the shotgun, who doesn’t really know what he’s doing because the safety is still on, so Boone is able to rip the gun out of his hands.
Boone rolls onto his back, points the shotgun up, and flips off the safety. It’s only a little .410, the kind farmworkers use to shoot crows, but at this range it would do the job.
There are three men—campesinos—Mexican farmworkers.
The man who was holding the shotgun looks about forty, maybe a little younger. Deep brown weather-worn face and a black mustache already flecked with silver. His black eyes glare at Boone as if to say, Go ahead and pull the trigger, pendejo. I’ve seen worse.
The kid standing beside him looks scared. Eyes wide, long black hair stuffed under an old Yankees cap. Dirty long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and ancient, torn New Balance sneakers. He’s holding a machete, wondering what to do with it.
The old man has his machete ready to strike, poised beside his white straw hat. He wears the old-style campesino shirt under overalls. And old cowboy boots—Boone felt the sharp pointed toes digging into his ribs.
If they wanted to kill me, I’d be dead, Boone thinks as he struggles to his feet, holding the shotgun on them. They could have blown my head off, or chopped me to pieces with the machetes. But they didn’t. What they wanted to do was to give me a good beating, which they sure as hell did.
Teach me a lesson.
But what?
Boone thrusts the shotgun out a little, like, I will shoot you, and backs his way to the clearing in front of the reed caves. A little girl sits there, her arms wrapped around her knees, rocking herself. Her legs are dirty under her cheap cotton dress. Her hair is long and stringy. She looks terrified, and fingers a small crucifix that hangs around her neck from a thin chain.
“It’s okay,” Boone says.
She scoots back deeper into the cave.
“Don’t be scared,” Boone says. Fucking moron, he tells himself. You really think she’s not going to be scared by a güero holding a shotgun? He reaches his hand down for her.
The teenage boy rushes in with the machete.
I don’t want to shoot you, Boone thinks, backing off. But the boy keeps coming, the blade of the machete gleaming gold in the light of dusk. Boone takes another step back and raises the gun, then, at the last second, ducks