Lovie laughed. “Well, we’ll see how you feel about that when you get to know me.”
“I’d better go see about our rental,” Howie said. “I think it’s that one parked by the door.” He pointed at a mid-size dark blue SUV.
“I’ll lead the way in the van,” Claude said. “You won’t have any problem followin along; not much in the way of traffic on the Marysville road.”
“Why don’t you ride with us, honey?” Lovie Bolton asked Holly. “Keep a old lady company.”
Ralph expected Holly to refuse, but she agreed at once. “Just give me a minute.”
She beckoned Ralph with her eyes, and he followed her toward the King Air as Claude watched his mother turn her chair and roll back up the ramp. A small plane was taking off, and at first Ralph couldn’t hear what Holly was asking him. He bent closer.
“What do I tell them, Ralph? They’re sure to ask what we’re doing here.”
He considered, then said: “Why don’t you just hit the high spots?”
“They won’t believe me!”
That made him grin. “Holly, I think you handle disbelief pretty well.”
3
Like many ex-cons (at least those that didn’t want to risk going back inside), Claude Bolton drove the Dodge Companion van at exactly five miles an hour under the speed limit. Half an hour into the trip, he turned in at the Indian Motel & Café. He got out and spoke almost apologetically to Howie, who was behind the wheel of the rental. “Hope you don’t mind if we have a bite,” he said. “My ma sometimes has problems if she don’t eat regular, and she didn’t have any time to make sammitches. I was afraid we might miss you.” He lowered his voice, as if confiding a shameful secret. “It’s her blood sugar. When it goes low, she gets fainty.”
“I’m sure we could all use a bite,” Howie said.
“This story the lady told—”
“Why don’t we talk about it when we get to your house, Claude,” Ralph said.
Claude nodded. “Yeah, that might be better.”
The café smelled—not unpleasantly—of grease and beans and frying meat. Neil Diamond was on the jukebox, singing “I Am, I Said” in Spanish. The specials (which weren’t very) were posted behind the counter. Above the kitchen pass-through was a defaced photograph of Donald Trump. His blond hair had been colored black; he had been given a forelock and a mustache. Below it someone had printed Yanqui vete a casa: Yankee go home. At first Ralph was surprised—Texas was a red state, after all, as red as they came—but then he remembered that if whites weren’t the actual minority this near to the border, it was a close-run thing.
They sat at the far end of the room, Alec and Howie at a two-top, the others at a bigger table nearby. Ralph ordered a burger; Holly ordered a salad, which turned out to be mostly wilted iceberg lettuce; Yune and the Boltons went for the full Mexican, which consisted of a taco, a burrito, and an empanada. The waitress banged a pitcher of sweet tea down on the table without being asked.
Lovie Bolton was studying Yune, her eyes bright as a bird’s. “Sablo, you said your name was? That’s a funny one.”
“Yes, not many of us around,” Yune said.
“You come from the other side, or are you natural-born?”
“Natural-born, ma’am,” Yune said. Half of his well-stuffed taco disappeared at a single bite. “Second generation.”
“Well, good for you! Made in the USA! I used to know an Augustin Sablo when I lived way down south, before I was married. He drove a bread truck in Laredo and Nuevo Laredo. When he came by t’house, my sisters and I used to clamor for churro éclairs. No relation to him, I suppose?”
Yune’s olive complexion darkened a bit—not quite a blush—but the look he shot Ralph was amused. “Yes, ma’am, that would have been my papi.”
“Well, ain’t it a small world?” Lovie said, and began to laugh. Her laughter turned to coughing, and her coughing turned to choking. Claude thumped her on the back so hard the cannula flew from her nose and fell into her plate. “Oh, son, lookit that,” she said when she had her breath back. “Now I got snot on my burrito.” She resettled the cannula. “Well, what the hey. It came from inside me, it can go right back. No harm done.” She chomped.
Ralph began to laugh, and the others joined him. Even Howie and Alec joined in, although they had missed most of the interplay. Ralph had a moment to think how laughter drew people together, and was glad Claude had brought his mother along. She was a hot ticket.
“Small world,” she repeated. “Yes it is.” She leaned forward so that her considerable bosom pushed her plate forward. She was still looking at Yune with those bright bird eyes. “You know the story she told us?” She cut her eyes to Holly, who was picking at her salad with a small frown.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You believe it?”
“I don’t know. I . . .” Yune lowered his voice. “I tend to.”
Lovie nodded and lowered her own voice. “Did you ever see the parade in Nuevo? Processo dos Passos? Maybe when you were a boy?”
“Sí, se?ora.”
She lowered her voice further. “What about him? The farnicoco? You see him?”
“Sí,” Yune said, and although Lovie Bolton was as white as she could be, Ralph thought Yune had fallen into Spanish without even thinking of it.
She lowered her voice further still. “Give you nightmares?”
Yune hesitated, then said, “Sí. Muchas pesadillas.”
She leaned back, satisfied but grave. She looked at Claude. “You listen to these folks, sonny. You’ve got a big problem, I think.” She winked at Yune, but not as a joke; her face was grave. “Muchos.”
4
As the little caravan pulled back out onto the highway, Ralph asked Yune about the processo dos Passos.
“A parade during Holy Week,” Yune said. “Not exactly approved by the church, but winked at.”
“Farnicoco? That’s the same as Holly’s El Cuco?”
“Worse,” Yune said. He looked grim. “Worse even than the Man with the Sack. Farnicoco is the Hooded Man. He’s Mr. Death.”
5
By the time they got to the Bolton home in Marysville, it was almost three o’clock and the heat was like a hammer. They crowded into the small living room, where the air conditioner—a noisy window-shaker that looked to Ralph old enough for Social Security—did its best to keep up with so many warm bodies. Claude went out to the kitchen and brought back cans of Coke in a Styrofoam cooler. “If you were hoping for beer, you’re out of luck,” he said. “I don’t keep it.”
“This is fine,” Howie said. “I don’t think any of us will be drinking alcohol until we settle this matter to the best of our ability. Tell us about last night.”
Bolton glanced at his mother. She folded her arms and nodded.
“Well,” he said, “the way it turned out, there really wasn’t nothing to it. I went to bed after the late news, like always, and I felt all right then—”
“Bullpucky,” Lovie broke in. “You ain’t been yourself since you got here. Restless . . .” She looked around at the others. “. . . off his feed . . . talking in his sleep—”
“Do you want me to tell it, Ma, or do you?”
She flapped a hand for him to go on and sipped from her can of Coke.
“Well, she’s not wrong,” Bolton admitted, “although I wouldn’t want the guys back at work to know it. Security staff in a place like Gentlemen, Please ain’t supposed to get all spooked, you know. But I have been, kind of. Only nothing like last night. Last night was different. I woke up around two, out of a nasty dream, and got up to lock the doors. I never lock em when I’m here, although I make Ma do it when she’s here alone, after her Home Helpers from Plainville leave at six.”
“What was your dream?” Holly asked. “Can you remember?”
“Somebody under the bed, lying there and looking up. That’s all I can remember.”
She nodded for him to go on.
“Before I locked the front door, I stepped out on the porch to have a look around, and I noticed all the coyotes had stopped howling. Usually they howl like everything, once the moon’s up in the sky.”