Illegal

SEVENTY-FIVE

A Spanish-speaking gardener was trimming a rosebush when Payne asked where he could find el jefe.

In the corral, the man answered.

Batting away a swarm of gnats, Payne headed down an inclined path. A moment later, he heard a horse whinny and a voice barked, "You better be here to say adios!"

Simeon Rutledge, in dusty boots and faded jeans, sat astride a caramel-colored palomino with an ivory mane. The gate was open and Payne walked into the enclosure.

"I couldn't do it." Payne looked up at Rutledge on the palomino. "Garcia, I mean."

"I don't give a shit if you killed Garcia or butt-fucked him. I gave you what you wanted. Now get your ass back to L.A."

Payne noticed a couple stable hands watching them. Two Hispanic men, each with a foot on the bottom rail of the corral fence.

"I made a promise to a boy, and I'm not gonna let him down. Not this time."

Rutledge's laugh was as sharp as barbed wire. "Got a news flash for you, Payne. Every day, kids in Africa starve to death. Women in Tecate are raped and murdered. A little boy riding with his father gets broadsided by a drunk. Grow the fuck up!"

"Not growing up. Not giving up. Just give me Marisol Perez, and I'll go away. Whatever's happened, we'll let it go. No authorities. No investigations."

"You got no idea what's at stake here. Or what I'll do to protect it." Rutledge leaned forward, both hands on the saddle horn. A look crossed his face like quick, scudding clouds covering the sun before a storm. "Don't you get it, Payne? You're the one endangering the woman's life. You fuck with me, her blood's on your hands. Not mine."

Rutledge reached into a holster fitted alongside his saddle.

Payne heard the cr-ack before he felt the pain.

The tip of the bullwhip had struck his shoulder like a rattle snake.

"I could take out your eye before you could blink," Rutledge taunted him.

A second cr-ack, and the leather flicked at Payne's neck, drawing blood. The sting of a hundred bees.

The two Hispanic men leaning against the rail didn't move. They could have been watching their boss shoe a horse.

Payne raised an arm and blocked the third throw. But the popper wrapped itself around his forearm like a snake. Rutledge tugged at the reins and turned the horse, yanking Payne off his feet. A nudge in the ribs, and the horse cantered around the perimeter of the corral, dragging Payne through the red dirt. His face scraped the ground, a blowtorch to the skin. He tried to get his feet under him but could not. A knee twisted and buckled. Pain shot through his metal-plated leg, a dagger deep to the bone. He pulled with his trapped arm, tried to rip the whip out of Rutledge's hand, could not get the leverage.

The horse picked up speed, and Payne dug his sneakers into the dirt, trying to slow down. One sneaker came off, then the other. He felt his shoulder pop out of its socket. His right arm was aflame, and he spat blood.

He heard himself scream. Hated the sound, a shameful shriek of pain and fear.

Rutledge gave slack to the whip and wrestled it free from Payne's arm. He slung himself off his horse. Payne writhed on the ground, face pasted with dirt and blood. His stomach heaved. He thought he would puke. He struggled to his knees, just as a shadow moved over him, blocking out the sun. The shadow kicked him. A cowboy boot straight to the gut. Another kick, this one to the side of the head, and his vision blurred.

"Damn you!" Rutledge brayed. "Damn you to hell! A smart man would have taken the money. A real man would have killed Garcia."

Rutledge kicked him again, aiming for his balls, but catching the inner thigh. Payne curled into the fetal position, yet another humiliation. Rutledge towered above him. Face reddened, saliva oozing into his mustache.

"Turns out you're stupid and a coward. Ain't that right, Payne? Estupido y cobarde. "

Payne remembered Tino calling him a valiente. But he was neither brave nor cowardly. He was just a flawed man trying to fix one thing in a broken world.

"You just gonna lay there like a whipped dog?"

Payne got to one knee, and collapsed, blood spraying from his blistered lips.

Rutledge spat into the dirt near Payne's head. "My daddy always told me if I was to stomp a man, I should squash him like a cockroach. Leave nothing but a tobacco stain on the ground."

The heel of a boot appeared above Payne's head. Rutledge grunted as he put all his weight into it. A lightning bolt shot through Payne's brain. Sparklers burned, and he saw the capillaries, like twining streams, behind his eyelids. The pain took a detour, paused like a pedestrian at a traffic light, then crow-barred him between the eyes. A second later, he was aware of nothing at all.