“Around the block, pendejos! How hard is that.”
“Drink,” Benigno said. He had his arm around this murdering asshole’s shoulders. Partially bracing him with his body. He had to get him out of there, get him in the van, get him to start it and drive away to his dark place.
“I know where there are some fresh muchachas,” he whispered.
Surfo hugged him and slurred, “?Pinche viejo jodido!”
He laughed all the way to the van.
Benigno snagged his hose and tossed it on the roof. Surfo didn’t even notice. They climbed in.
Although Benigno didn’t drive, he appreciated a good vehicle. El Surfo had the interior tricked out with plush leather seats. The bed was in the back. Everything was deep maroon in there. Frankly, it looked like a whorehouse. It smelled like incense and marijuana. He gazed all around. Roomy. He liked it. It would fit right in that slot above the waves. My bedroom, he thought.
He watched El Surfo start it. Fancy. There wasn’t even a key. The redheaded bastard pressed the brake to the floor and pushed a button, and the creamy roar of that Porsche engine filled the van.
“Sweet!” Surfo said. “Right?”
“Right.”
Benigno handed him the bottle. After Surfo swigged from it, Benigno took a sip too. To him, it was like water.
Surfo eased the van into gear and they rolled.
The engine purred and snarled.
Surfo punched a button and god-awful noise filled the cabin.
“Skrillex!” Surfo yelled. “?Está chingon el guey!”
They were out of sight of the bar. Almost to the cannery. Out of reach of the one streetlight.
“Stop for a second,” Benigno said. “Over there. I want to piss.” He looked around as Surfo pulled over. He left the engine running—good. “Then we head back. You have already been too generous.”
Surfo nodded, rubbed his eyes.
“What was her name?” Benigno asked.
“Who?”
“The woman. In prison. What was her name?”
Surfo blew air through his lips. He shrugged.
“You don’t know?”
He lit another Domino and studied its bright red cherry of embers.
“Nah.”
Benigno put the cigarette out in Surfo’s right eye.
Surfo didn’t scream—he roared, like some animal. They were at least a kilometer away from the bar—nobody was going to hear it. But Benigno was already hammering his face with his left elbow, striking heavy blows over and over until Surfo slumped with his head back and bubbles of blood inflating in his crumpled nostrils and popping in the air. The old man hopped out and retrieved the hose and paper bag from between the surfboards. He unrolled the hose and went to the back of the van. He had Jesus songs on his mind. Missionary songs. He sang them softly to himself as he got the duct-tape roll from the bag. He shoved the hose into the exhaust and used half the roll to make sure it was secure and not leaking fumes. He ran the hose down the side of the van and inserted it in the window and made sure the exhaust was flowing nicely.
“You like duct tape,” he said to El Surfo as he turned off the lights and eased the door shut.
The gas had run out long before the Pemex kid in the Kiss hat showed up. By then, El Surfo was dead as a slaughtered pig. Gray-blue and foaming at the mouth. Benigno had hauled him well off the road, among scraggly weeds. He heaved a few cracked cement slabs onto the corpse and sat in the shadows until the kid showed up. All doors open to air out the van.
They filled the tank and they were pleased at the sound of that Porsche engine and they drove out of town, though the kid didn’t understand why Benigno wouldn’t let him turn on the headlights. At Wilo’s, the kid took his fifty bucks and the two surfboards.
“Sell those,” Benigno said. “Don’t let the bad guys see you.”
The kid was gone like smoke.
It took Wilo twenty minutes to rig the chains onto the engine, and it came out like a tooth. They tied heavy ropes to the front end and hooked them onto Panfilo the mule’s harness.
“I want that harness back,” Wilo said.
“You can have the mule too,” Benigno said.
They headed down to the frontage road. The mule was a puller. It made Benigno happy as he walked beside the big brute. By now, the road would be cleared. Light like God’s own fires was pouring over the dry gray peaks. Silver fish-belly clouds. Violet and orange streaks above him. Soon, he’d see the ocean again. Though he didn’t care about it. He patted Panfilo as they walked. He fed him a carrot. Truckers honked and he waved at them. If the bad guys slept a little late, he’d make it home. If they came looking for him...well, it would be a bad day for them.