Savages

151

“We found the Lincoln,” Hector tells Lado.

Lado shrugs. “Where?”

“Parking lot at the San Juan train station,” Hector answers. “It’s registered to a Floyd Hendrickson. He’s eighty-three years old and reported it stolen this morning.”

They go to talk to the driver and the pendejo who was riding shotgun.

Lado and Hector take them to a big date farm out near Indio and put them in a shed where they keep tractors and shit. The two sit on the dirt floor leaning against the corrugated-tin wall and they develop verbal diarrhea. Keep shitting on and on about how there were two of them, a shotgun and two pistols, real pros …

Lado already knows they were pros—they knew when, where, and what, and they knew to look for the GPS.

“Two of them? You sure?” Lado asks.

They’re really sure.

Two tall guys.

Lado thinks that’s interesting.

Wearing masks.

“What kind of masks?”

Yanqui television hosts.

Jay Leno and …

“Letterman,” the driver says.

The other one got the car make and license plate.

“It’s a wonder,” Lado says, “that neither of you two got hurt at all.”

Very fortunate, they agree.

Yeah, well, that ain’t gonna last.