James Burke - Feast Day of Fools

The wings of the plane yawed suddenly, the airframe shuddering. “We’re fine,” the pilot said above the engine noise. He was a crop duster named Toad Fowler who worked on and off for the sheriff’s department. “Those are just updrafts.”

Nonetheless, he kept tapping the glass on his instruments.

“What’s the problem?” Hackberry asked.

“The oil pressure is a little low,” the pilot said. “We’re okay. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“How low?” Hackberry said.

“It’s probably not a line, just a leaky gasket,” the pilot said. “I’ll check everything out after we get down. Hang on. We might bounce around a little bit.”

“You didn’t check everything out before we left?” Hackberry asked.

“It’s an old plane. What do you want? Shit happens,” the pilot said.

When the plane dipped down toward the river, Hackberry felt Pam place her hand on top of his shoulder, her breath coming hard against the back of his neck.

“We’re okay,” Hackberry said.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Toad just told me.”

“Tell him I’m going to shoot him after we land.”

Down below, Hackberry could see great squares of both cultivated and pasture land and bare hills that looked molded out of white clay that had hardened and cracked. The pilot made a wide turn, the wings buffeting, and came in low over the river, the islands sweeping by, then Hackberry saw a feeder lot and hog farm whose holding pens were churned a chocolate color and buildings with tin roofs and houses constructed of cinder block and then a short pale green landing strip that had been recently mowed out of a field, a red wind sock straining against its tether at the far end. They landed hard, rainwater splashing under the tires. A flatbed truck with two men lounging near it was parked by the side of the strip.

“You ever see them before?” Pam said.

“No,” Hackberry replied. “You okay?”

She didn’t reply until Toad had cut the engine and gotten out of the plane and lit a cigarette by the wing. “I’m backing your play, Hack, but the idea of getting involved with Jack Collins makes my stomach churn,” she said.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you stayed with Toad. I can handle it by myself.”

“That’s not going to happen,” she said.

“I have to get Miss Anton back, Pam. If I don’t, I’ll never rest.”

“We’re making a deal with the devil, and you know it.”

“That’s the breaks.”

“You mean after this is over, you’re going to let that bastard slide?”

“Jack Collins isn’t planning to leave Mexico,” he said.

Her eyes went back and forth. “How do you know that?”

“Collins brought us here as his executioners,” he said.

“Or maybe he plans on being ours,” she said.

Hackberry and Pam pulled a duffel bag and a backpack off the plane and walked toward the flatbed truck. The Mexicans standing next to it introduced themselves as Eladio and Jaime. They were unshaved and wore slouch-brim straw hats and unpressed long-sleeve cotton shirts buttoned at the wrists. Their eyes wandered over Pam’s body without seeming to see her, the laziness in their expressions as much mask as indicator of their thoughts.

“Where’s Collins?” Hackberry said.

“He ain’t here,” Jaime said.

“That’s why I asked you where he is,” Hackberry said.

“We’ll take you where he’s at,” Jaime said. “You two can ride in front with Eladio. I’ll ride in back.”

“Where are we going?” Pam asked.

“You’ll know when we get there, chica,” Jaime said.

“Call me that again and see what happens,” she said.

“We are sorry. We do not mean to offend,” Eladio said. “Can we look in your canvas bag and your pack? It would be good if we can look at your cell phones, too.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Pam said.

“Among friends, there is no need of GPS locators,” Eladio said. “It is good to have things of that nature out of our discussions about the liberation of your friend. That is the only reason I raise this question.”

“Look all you want,” Hackberry said.

“Thank you,” Eladio said. “What fine guns you have in your bag. What is in this metal box?”

“Cookies and fruitcake,” Hackberry said.

“You carry such items with you when you go on a serious mission?” Eladio said.

“I have a sugar deficiency. I also thought you might like some. Take them if you like,” Hackberry said.

“That is very kind of you,” Eladio said. “I have children who will love these.”

“When do we see Preacher?” Hackberry asked.

“Very soon. He looks forward to seeing you with great anticipation,” Eladio said.

“You come all the way down here ‘cause of la china?” Jaime said.

“You could say that,” Hackberry replied.

“She must be some broad, hombre,” Jaime said. “It’s true what they say about Chinese women?”

“Do not speak further,” Eladio said, raising his finger to his cousin’s lips.

“It’s just a question. I do not need to be censored,” Jaime said. “These are gringos in our country. We do not suppress ourselves to please gringos in our own country.”

“It’s time for us to see Mr. Collins,” Hackberry said.

He and Pam rode in the cab while Eladio drove and Jaime sat on the flatbed. They proceeded in a southerly direction down dirt roads through irrigated farmland for almost an hour. The colors and configuration and flora in the land were like none that Hack could remember. Wild grapefruit and hibiscus and pink camellias and palm trees with long, slender trunks grew in the turn rows. The soil was loamy and tinted a reddish-brown, as though it had been mixed with rust, but the hills were white and bare and gray-backed, like sea creatures that had died and fossilized. The topography made Hack think of imaginative paintings of ancient Egypt that depicted an era when the earth was still recovering from the Flood and deserts bloomed and gatherers filled date baskets with their hands. Why would a man like Josef Sholokoff locate himself in such a place? To re-create the introduction of the serpent into Eden?

No, nothing so grandiose, Hackberry thought. For Sholokoff, Mexico was probably nothing more than a good tax dodge.

The truck rolled down a long embanked road made of crushed stone, the rocks ting ing steadily under the fenders, the wind stream warm and sultry, the sky lidded with clouds that emitted no sunlight. Ahead, at a crossroads, Hackberry could see a small, paintless wood-frame store with a single gas pump in front and a screened side porch. Behind the store, the terrain seemed to stretch away endlessly, glazed with salt, cracked and sunken in places, as though a lake had once covered the area but had drained through a hole in its center. Eladio parked the truck and cut the engine. “Senor Collins awaits you on the porch,” he said. “Do not take your guns inside. That would cause alarm for the owner of the store. Also, it is a very serious offense to bring guns into Mexico.”

“That’s like saying it’s a serious offense to bring insanity into a lunatic asylum,” Pam said.

“I am not educated and do not understand the comparisons you make, senorita,” Eladio said.

Hackberry looked through the back window of the cab. “Your cousin is eating the cookies you were going to give your children,” he said.

“Jaime, what are you doin’, man?” Eladio yelled out the window.

Jaime replaced the tin lid on the container and wiped the crumbs off his fingers. Pam and Hackberry got out of the cab and followed Eladio to the screen door on the store’s side porch. She glanced over her shoulder at Jaime, who had remained on the truck bed. “I don’t guess these guys are students of Homer,” she said.