The Creed of Violence

TWENTY

AWBONE STOOD IN the wind with gulls sweeping overhead and stared at the son as if a mountain had dropped down on him from heaven.

"You better just enlighten me to what you meant."

"You speak the same language I do. We are done only when I say we are done."

"Are you trying to roll me into a ditch?"

He grabbed the letter and started to walk away.

"Where are you going?" said John Lourdes. "Not back."

The father held up the letter. "I'm gonna go get introduced to my future."

By the time Rawbone reached the truck John Lourdes had drawn up behind him with his weapon pressed against the back of the father's neck. With that he stretched his arm and took the automatic Rawbone carried.

John Lourdes stood back. He pointed to the rear of the truck. "McManus ... you killed him. I know and Mr. Hecht ... he knows. You might even say he's your accomplice in this. Now if justice Knox went to Mexican intelligence, well-?"

The son now circled the father. "What you said to me back at the river when you ... poisoned ... those three customs agents. `Mr. Lourdes,' you said, `it's a means of holding you to the cross."' There was a flicker of dark accomplishment in his eyes. "We're done only when I say we're done."

"Back there on the street," said Rawbone. "When we were walking to the Customs House and you had that photo. And the note to Hecht. You were plotting then."

"This moment here?"

"This moment here."

As if mocking the father, he said, "Aye. Something pretty close, anyway."

"It does seem like you're a couple of steps up from Montgomery Ward's."

John Lourdes grabbed the letter. "You're gonna deliver this truck and you're gonna get yourself a job and I'm gonna be right there with you and we're gonna find out where this truck is going and who it's going to and why, if it means driving it all the way-"

"I'll be arm-wrestling death first."

"And who says you aren't? Maybe I dusted off that hearse a little in your honor before we left Juarez."

Rawbone changed his tactic. He took out a cigarette and lit it. He leaned back against the truck, stretching his arms across the hood as if he were one broad tendon. "I think I'll just relax here and enjoy the view."

"Listen to me now," said John Lourdes. "I'm not some empty street you're going to walk down and be done with. There is you, there is me, and there is that truck. And that's all. There's no past, there's no future. There is only now. Do you understand?" He pointed his gun at the truck. "That is our world. See the writing there on the sideAMERICAN PARTHENON-that's our world. Nothing else. You ... me ... and this truck. And we're going to drive through to the end .. . together. Wherever that end is. Till all that's left are our bones and a chassis, if need be." He was near out of breath and he could feel his whole body in every branched vein running with rage.

He fought to calm himself. "And when we're done. When I see we're done, then you'll have your immunity. Now . . ." He started toward the back of the truck. "Help get Mr. McManus off the truck and to somewhere more ... befitting his present station."

"What is this really about, Mr. Lourdes?"

The son stopped. His head and shoulders tightened down. He turned.

"Maybe it's that black spot you're carrying around. Or maybe you're desperate to prove what you're not. The ladder is always taller for the small man."

"The teachings of a common assassin."

"I've survived this long because there's legitimacy to me." Rawbone walked to the cab for his bindle. "And what this is really about ... is the practical application of strategy. As seen through the eyes of one John Lourdes."

Rawbone slung the bindle over one shoulder. He took to walking away. The son saw him and called out, "You think you're leaving but you're not."

The father kept on.

"What about your family?"

Rawbone stopped. His face drained of expression. The son had heard himself say the words but there was no thought to them, no preparation, nor plan. They came out as squalls of pure anger, fully formed. Ready, willing and able to draw blood and serve a purpose at the same time.

"You do have a family, don't you?"

Rawbone flicked away his cigarette.

"In El Paso?"

The father did not move. He only swung the bindle up on his shoulder as if he were getting ready to start away.

"Could it be those questions you were asking of me at the church about the barrio, and did I know families there-"

"I have no idea where you're going," said Rawbone. "But I'll send you my regrets once you get there."

John Lourdes approached, his weapon in one hand, the father's in the other. Both were barreled to the ground.

"What if I told you someone at BOI knows of your family. I might even say justice Knox has spoken to a member of your family. Would it mean anything to you?"

The son could see something incubating in the eyes and the jawline of the man before him. I have put the knife to him, thought the son. I have found a place that bleeds. Thank God.

"Take a look out there," said John Lourdes.

He meant the ravine so lined with trash along that runnelled pathway that ran with water when the season warranted.

"That's your life." He slapped Rawbone on the back. "And you know what else? When it's your time, McManus will be out here waiting on you. With his wooden arm and marijuana." He even pretended he was banging away one-armed on the ivory keys with those oddly splayed fingers.

Rawbone stood in hard silence watching the display. Then he said, "Mr. Lourdes, I believe I'm going to kill you."

"You mean you're not sure."

John Lourdes took Rawbone's weapon and stuffed it into the front of his trousers. "Now," he said. "You've at least got something between your pockets." He started toward the truck. "I'm going to find Mr. McManus a good spot to watch the sunset."

The father did nothing. He'd been caught off guard and he now evaluated his situation thoughtfully. He looked up that ravine. From Juarez came a carreta pulled by a mule. An old man sat in the box seat. A boy ran alongside, sifting through the trash, holding items he thought valuable aloft and every now and then the old man would nod and wave, yes, yes, and the boy would run to him with an air of pride and achievement at his discovery.

The father removed his derby and wiped at the sweat on the inside brim with his bandana, the one he'd given the son to hold against his wound.

He should have taken his own advice back there on the road to El Paso when he first had the truck. He should have heeded Burr. He should disappear now into a landscape more hostile and befitting his station. Pay intelligent attention to what your insides tell you, for they are ever true. Yet even so—

He set the derby back on his head all cocked and rugged, then called out in that tone of voice he was best known for, "Mr. Lourdes ... save a seat in the truck for me!"