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That meant . . .
It wasn’t the Ridge Rats. Someone else. Something else.
The hair on my arms stood to attention. Park Ridge was too remote. Gangs didn’t roll through for a joyride. The wind raced around outside, tugging and fraying my hair from my ponytail. I smoothed it down, raised a hand to block out the falling sun, and squinted into the distance.
Riders crawled toward town like a swarm of ants.
My insides clambered up to my throat. I watched carefully, trying to recognize someone or something about the riders. The swarm passed. None of the three dozen riders noticed me there until the last two. They slowed and looked over. As they passed, I made out the arched letters on the leather-clad back of one of the rider’s.
1.AZUSA.3
“Fuck!”
32
Wilde
For weeks, I’d ridden around northwestern Mexico, looking for someone who knew the man pictured on the crumpled wanted poster. I’d slept in so many scorpion infested motels, I’d lost count. Everyone I’d shown the poster to had laughed, and many pointed between the drawing and me, mumbling things I didn’t understand. I didn’t speak Spanish, but I’d quickly deduced that tonto wasn’t just the name of the Lone Ranger’s side kick. From their body language and reactions, it seemed the word meant idiot.
Late one evening, I rode into the edge of what seemed like a ghost town. Beyond the city sign that hung from one rusty chain link that read, “El Destierro,” I pulled into the dust-covered parking lot of a gas station. I cut the engine and turned to a fifty-year-old pump.
From behind me, a little Spanish-speaking voice said something I didn’t understand. I knelt by a little boy with tousled brown curls and wide eyes that matched, wishing I could speak Spanish.
Hooking a thumb toward the tank, I asked, “Does the tank work?”
He chattered a bit, nodding his head, pointing to the handle then pointing to the door of the gas station. An idea crept into my mind. I pulled out the crumpled poster I kept in the inner pocket, next to the gun I planned to use on the motherfucker pictured. When I showed the boy the poster, his eyes doubled in size as he looked from me to the poster and back again just before he took off for the building yelling, “El Griego, Mama, El Griego.”
I sighed and hung my head as the screen door clapped closed and bounced several times. I pumped the gas and had just secured the cap back onto my tank when the door opened again and a young woman stepped out, a petite thing with wild brown curls and a huge belly. She waddled toward me.
When the wind lifted her hair, it reminded me of the tumbleweeds floating across the dusty terrain. She shielded her eyes from the sun and dust and with a heavy accent asked, “Are you looking for The Greek?”
The Greek? My father wasn’t Greek as far as I knew, but he could have any number of aliases. If the kid thought my father was The Greek, then he probably was.
“Yes-um, ma’am. Er, si, senorita.”
That word felt awkward on my tongue, but it seemed right—the goddamn polite thing to do.
The boy came out and latched onto her leg.
“I think so, anyway,” I added, handing her the paper.
She nodded and passed it back to me. Bending down, she said something I didn’t understand to the boy and shooed him back into the house. She stood and looked at me with suspicion in her eyes.
“Come.” She turned toward the door and waddled back inside the sand-browned building.
Inside, it wasn’t much of a store, and they obviously lived through the curtain on the backside of the small counter. A pitcher of lemonade sat on the counter, sweating. She grabbed three glasses and poured. The first, she handed to the boy and sent him through the curtain into the back. She kept one and handed me the other.
I passed her some cash—more than enough to cover what the pump read so that I’d cover the drink too.
She shook her head and gave me change as well as a wet washcloth. “You’re asking for trouble looking for El Griego.” She sipped, set the glass down, and placed both hands on her lower back.
Watching her carefully, I wiped my face. Who the fuck ever thought wiping the sand off your face could feel so goddamn good? I took a drink myself—sweet and tart but refreshing. “Thanks for the lemonade, er...”
“Sola.” She glanced back down at the wanted picture and then back to me.
“It’s my father,” I answered her unspoken question. “I’m looking for him.”
Her laugh was as dry as the desert sand. “You won’t be the first, señor, but are you sure you really want to find him? Father or not, that man has no soul.”
