The Creed of Violence - Boston Teran [22]
He was staring toward the dark mesas that stood between him and his immunity when John Lourdes said, "There's something else that you ... we ... need to consider."
"Have at it, Mr. Lourdes."
"Any advantage you ... we ... had is gone. When some of theirs don't return and you come driving up with that truck-"
"It will sure make for conversation, won't it?"
"You know where we're going in Juarez and who we're to talk to. That was part of the deal. Alright. But my responsibility is to discover the names and/or identities of anyone and everyone involved or connected to this criminal enterprise. That's why I had you grab up all those men's personals." He held up the notebook. "That's what I'm writing here. That's why I'm telling you all this now. Those dead back up there in the mountains will have some say on what is going to happen when we reach Juarez."
When John Lourdes had his say, he went back to his work without so much as another word, leaving Rawbone with a reality for which there was no apparent solution. He took a cigarette from its pack. He struck a match on the steering column. His mind was being drawn into the unseen ahead, and the survivor in him began to coolly plot what would best serve him.
"Are you a schooled man, Mr. Lourdes?"
John Lourdes finished what he was noting and then looked up. The question went to the flashpoint of his life. "Oil boy in the roundhouses at thirteen. Railroad detective for the Santa Fe at twenty. Then the BOI. A few night classes in between."
"All that with only a notepad and some native instinct."
"You're never at a loss, are you?"
"I've misfired a time or two."
"But you're always right there and ready to help someone drown."
"With a smile and good cheer."
"We'll have this done in another day, so let's not stumble-fuck over each other. Then you can get on with your miserable existence as a free man."
"I couldn't have said it better myself."
John Lourdes returned to his notebook. He took up the last wallet from the derby.
"I think you misunderstood me," said Rawbone.
"Did I?"
"I only meant you've a clear mind, and it's carried you well."
Even before the sun, came the heat. It was going to be that kind of day. The shadows fell away behind them as the sun rose over the rim of the world and bore light down upon their road.
The last wallet belonged to the man who'd spoken to John Lourdes at the roadhouse. His name was James Merrill. In a side pouch was a tiny print of him in uniform standing before a harbored warship with other members of his squad.
"The one from the roadhouse," said John Lourdes, "must have served in Cuba during the Spanish-American War."
Rawbone leaned back to try and get a look. He asked for the photo. He held it against the steering wheel. The dun-colored print was badly beaten at the edges and deeply faded. It was a moment caught bare. Soldiers laughing and at the ready. Serve a cause, change the world. It was not worth spit now. That's what death had to say about it all. There is only the ever selfish present to consider. Yet even so—
He handed back the photo. "That warship is the China," said the father, "and that's not Cuba, but Manila harbor."
His gaze returned to the road. It was an impossible leap for the son to imagine the father anywhere people embark upon a cause. Yet how else could he have known so quickly?
He went back to the wallet. In another pocket he found a cache of business cards all neatly printed and fairly new. What was written there was sobering to a fault.
They were driving in a region where the earth had been thrust up through the faults of time and the ragged line of rocks the road divided looked as if they had been shaped by a hostile blade saw. The son turned the business cards