If we don’t know what to steal, our plans—no matter what they are—aren’t worth shit.
We let the silence fall again as we contemplate how to deal with Duval’s information.
Or at least I was contemplating that. When Garcia opens his mouth, I realize something else is bothering him.
“What you plan to do with her?”
“I don’t know.” I hadn’t given it much thought.
“You can’t really think she’s going to want to come to the island. The only women there are those who’ve already been used up by life. They’re hiding. She’s the opposite of those women. She’s a model, for Christ’s sake.” He’s not saying anything that I haven’t tossed around in my own head. Doesn’t make it any more fun to hear them trotted out in front of me. “She’s not going to be happy picking fruit from the trees, planting crops, and weaving baskets.”
“Someone weaves baskets on the island?”
Garcia growls. “It’s just a fucking example.”
The darkness stretches endlessly in front of us. I set aside the levity for a little truth. Garcia deserves that. “I don’t know if she’ll come back with me. I don’t know if this is the only time I’ll have with her. But even if it is, it’ll be enough.”
“Bullshit,” he spits out, hands tightening around the wheel. One time when we were very drunk, Garcia admitted that he had loved a woman once. A girl, really. Her brothers hadn’t been keen on a wetback—their words—soiling their sister. They told him that he wasn’t good enough for her and he must have believed it, because Garcia hasn’t had a woman in his life for as long as I’ve known him. Bachelorhood was just one of the many things we had in common.
“You’re saying that if you could, you’d go back and erase all those times that you had with your girl—the one from back home?”
He’s quiet for so long I wonder if he plans to ignore the question.
“No,” he says finally.
“What happened to her?” We don’t talk about this shit often—only when our defenses are low and there’s nothing to keep our mouths from rambling. I’m going to blame it on the fact that Ava fucked all the good sense out of me.
“She got killed in a drunk driving accident while in the car with her new boyfriend. He was handpicked by her brothers—one of their friends or something. He’d had a few too many to drink, got in and drove his convertible through a four-way stop, and crashed into a fire hydrant at about sixty miles per hour. Broke her goddamn neck.”
I let loose a long, low whistle. “What’d you do to him?” There was no way that Garcia didn’t fuck that boy up.
“I beat him into a coma. Because I was a juvenile, I was given the option of going into the army or going to prison. I chose the army. Or rather they chose me. I guess they like the fact that I didn’t mind hurting people.”
“Sounds like Uncle Sam. Come over here and have this gun. You want to kill people, here’s a fucking list. Go do it and don’t ask questions.”
Garcia gives a half grunt, half laugh. “That sounds about right.”
“You ever find anyone that means half as much?”
“Never wanted to. For some folks, there’s only one, and she was it for me.”
“Then why’d you leave her? Why didn’t you just run off?”
“I wasn’t it for her.”
Meaning he asked her to run away and she refused. I shift in my seat to look back at Ava. Her hands are tucked underneath her cheek and she looks like an angel kissed by the moonlight. I’m probably not it for Ava, either, but I’m going to enjoy the hell out of the time she gives me.
It’s because I’m turned around that I don’t notice how fast the oncoming traffic is approaching. I see only the lights and then hear Garcia curse. There’s a ping and then the car begins to skid sideways.
Garcia struggles for control as the back wheels dig into the ditch. I reach over the seat and push Ava’s falling body back onto the seat.
“What’s happening?” she cries as she tries to sit up. The skidding motion of the car drives her into one side.
“Put your seat belt on, Ava,” I shout and then brace my hand against the dash.
The car spins around, once and then twice. The nearly bald tires have no traction. We skid into the middle of the road. Lights flash in our lane.
Fuck, in our lane.
A horn sounds.
The lights bear down on us. Behind me I hear a muffled scream of fear and in the reflection, I see Ava with her hand over her mouth.
“The gas, Garcia. The gas,” I yell.
Just before impact, Garcia guns the engine and we go flying across the road and into the ditch. The little sedan is rocked slightly by the wind as the truck speeds past, whaling on the horn in angry fear.
“What happened?” Ava gasps.
“Tire shot out.” Beside me Garcia is dumbstruck. He hasn’t moved. “Where’s your gun, man?”