Randy White - Night Vision

“What you lookin’ at, man?” one of the chilies said to Squires as they walked toward him, all three taking out their gangbanger bandannas, he noticed.

Squires turned to gauge the distance to his truck where he’d stored the Ruger Blackhawk beneath the seat. Not that he needed a gun to deal with these little turds-even with a pulled hamstring-but it was good to know he had options.

He waited until the trio was closer before he said to them, keeping his voice low and confidential, “Hey, I gotta question for you boys. What’s that little girl in there saying that’s so important? Man, even the priest is hanging on every word. How’d she get so famous?”

Squires was trying to be friendly, strike up a nice conversation with these hard Mexicans. But no luck.

The head chilie was easy to pick out. He was the one tying on his blue colors, low over the eyes, as he said something that sounded like, “Choo tryin’ to be funny or what, man? ’Cause choo ain’t funny,” his Mex accent strong.

Not quite so friendly now, Squires told the dude, “You’d be laughing your ass off if I wanted to be funny, douche bag.”

The two beaners moved closer to the head gangbanger, standing shoulder to shoulder, as their leader replied, “We know who you are, man. We know all about the shit goes on out there at your damn hunting camp, too. So get the hell out of here, back to your trailer park that smells of mierda. This here’s a damn church, man. Why you wanna bother us here with your presence?”

Squires was surprised, at first, that the Mexican knew so much about him, but then he wasn’t. Hell, maybe all three of these dudes had lived at Red Citrus for a while. That wouldn’t have surprised him, either, because most of the illegals sooner or later showed up at one of his parks.

“Let me offer you some friendly advice,” Squires said to the men, motioning for them to lean closer. “Pay attention or I’ll rip your ears off and stick ’em up your ass. I asked you a polite question. I expect a nice answer. That girl in there is a friend of mine. Why’s the priest letting her stand up there and talk to the whole audience?”

“Right-t-t-t,” one of the chilies said, feeling around for something in his pocket. “That girl in there, if you say you know her, you lying cono. She’s a saint, man. So you better behave yourself with respect or we’ll run your white ass outta here.”

“Is that what she claims?” Squires asked.

“She talks to God and God answers her back,” the Guatemalan replied, sounding defensive, but pissed off, too. “What proof you want? God is telling her we should return to our homes in the mountains. And not put up with gringo assholes like you. For what? Live in a shithole trailer park like yours? Drive a fancy truck that takes half my pay every month?”

The word “mountains” registered in Squires’s memory, which caused him to say, “I hear it’s pretty nice where some of you Mexicans come from. Even in summer, I heard it’s nice ’n’ cool up in those mountains. That true? What’s a big house and a few acres sell for?”

“A jelly boy like you moving to Guatemala?” the chilie said to him. “Man, don’t even think about it. We don’t want your kind dirtying up our home.” He took a step. “You say you a friend of this girl? I think you full of bullshit, man.”

Squires was looking through the church window again, trying to gauge how pissed off Tula would be if he caused a disturbance outside. No, he decided. He wasn’t going to do it. The girl had already gotten mad at him once today, giving him a look that had made him feel sort of low, like he’d disappointed her. Once was enough. He didn’t want to have that feeling again.

Squires held up his hands, palms out. “Stay cool, amigos. Only reason I’m here is to help the girl find her mama. Ya’ll just run along before the little saint in there makes you come back and apologize to me. Because when she was talking to God, the big guy didn’t send her to you. God sent her to me.”

Smiling, Squires limped back to his truck and waited. The three gangbangers looked at one another for a moment, their faces unfocused, then they obviously decided Fuck it! and went inside the church.

While he was messing with the radio, trying to find some decent news, his phone rang once, but no one was there when Squires answered, saying, “Hello… hello?” during a long silence.

A wrong number, he decided. It had to be.

An hour later, a little after eleven p.m., Squires and the girl were back at the hunting camp, walking from his truck toward the RV, as frogs chirred from a spatial darkness that was bordered by cypress trees and stars. He had been feeling pretty good about things up until then, but, suddenly, Squires didn’t feel so good anymore.

Shit!

Frankie was at the trailer, waiting for them. Laziro Victorino, too, along with some of his gangbanger soldiers, who came out of nowhere so fast they had their hands on Tula before Squires had time to do anything about it.

Up until then, though, it had been the best night he’d had in a while. The big man had been feeling better and better about helping the strange little girl instead of shooting her in the back of the head. And Squires had never seen the girl so happy.

On the drive from Immokalee to the hunting camp, she had sat in the passenger seat, chattering away, sounding excited because she had found out where her aunts and brother were living. Maybe her mother, too. Or so she thought.

But when Tula told Squires about it, he wasn’t so sure.

“Aunt Vilma and Isabel are working on a tomato farm in a city called Ocala!” Tula had exclaimed as she exited the church, waving a piece of paper. “I have Aunt Isabel’s phone number. And my brother, he picked oranges this winter. He was always so lazy, but it must be true.”

As they drove down Main Street, Immokalee, out of town, the girl was laughing, telling Squires, “Pacaw has moved around a lot, but he might be living outside a city that is named Venice. He had trouble finding work because he’s younger than me, only twelve-but he acts older. Everyone I met at the church thought he was at least sixteen. The people I met tonight, they are wonderful.”

Squires had to ask. “Did they say anything about me? Some tough Mexican dudes came outside and gave me some of their tough-taco shit. But you were… you know, in the middle of your speech. I didn’t want to cause no trouble.”

The big man said it expecting the girl to appreciate his thoughtfulness. Maybe she did, but he had hoped for a more positive reaction.

Squires gave it some time before he glanced at the girl and asked a question that had been on his mind: “You could have run out on me tonight, sis. You could’ve had your new friends call the cops. Why didn’t you? I was sitting here in the truck, wondering about it.”

The girl had looked at the giant, shaking her head, and didn’t bother to speak the words her affectionate expression was telling him.

Instead, she said, “I’m very hungry. One of the women-she was so sweet. She asked for a lock of my hair but didn’t have any scissors. She told me there is a very excellent restaurant not far. It’s called Taco Bell. You must be hungry, too.”

They used the Taco Bell drive-through, and Squires listened to the girl chomp down about half her weight in junk food as he drove-Tula, beside him, eating like it was the best Mex she’d ever had in her life.

Squires had the taco salad and an unsweetened iced tea. He was an athlete, for Christ’s sake. In his business, diet was everything, even during a bulking cycle. The perfect male body wasn’t built in the weight room, it was sculpted in the kitchen-Squires had read that someplace.

Ten miles from the hunting camp, the girl had gotten onto the subject of her missing mother, a conversation that Squires had tried to postpone because he already suspected where it was going.