Rudolph Wurlitzer - The Drop Edge of Yonder

The mercenaries weren't pleased to see him, having heard there was a wanted poster on his head and that he was one of those mountain lunatics who brought more trouble to the table than he was worth. After he took a slug from their bottle of tequila, he asked if they could put him on to a job. "Anything but cleanin' up saloon slop or runnin' errands for Mexican floozies."

Salty nodded, barely hearing the question, his attention directed across the park. He raised his hand towards a waiter standing at the edge of the birthday celebration. From then on everything slowed down. The waiter lit a match, cupping it in his hands as if it were a precious flame, while another waiter cautiously lifted up a large wooden box. The two mercenaries stood up, dusting off their pants as their eyes shifted across the park and down the side streets. Slowly, with studied nonchalance, they walked out of the park as a bomb exploded behind them, blowing up the politician and several guests. The act was followed by a line of men appearing on a rooftop, firing down at the crowd as they screamed and scattered in every direction.

Zebulon ran down a winding street, then turned into an alley as a platoon of mounted police appeared around a corner. Reversing direction, he stumbled into a crowded street full of cafes and clothing stores. A few people had stopped in the middle of the street to listen to the shots, which sounded, in the distance, like firecrackers. He ran past them towards the waterfront. Suddenly the shots stopped. Birds chirped from tree branches. Three young boys kicked a rolled-up ball of rope against a mud wall. Near them a vendor stood by a cart, calling out selections of fresh fish and crabs. Forcing himself to slow down, he walked on until he reached the harbor. When a cannon boomed a few blocks away, followed by more rifle shots, he turned into the door of a palatial three-story hotel.

The spacious high-ceilinged lobby was empty except for a well-dressed couple engaged in booking a room. Neither seemed aware of what was going on in the rest of the city. Zebulon picked up a newspaper and sat down in an armchair. Pretending to read, he was unable to stop glancing at the woman standing at the front desk with her back to him. A red silk shawl was draped across her shoulders, and her thick spill of black hair was as luminous as polished ebony It was Delilah, the woman from the bar in Panchito.

Outside the hotel, a man was singing a plaintive song about a woman's soul that no one, not even the lover he was singing to, was able to comprehend. The man's voice made it seem as if he was drowning or committing suicide inside someone else's dream.

Zebulon stood up with no idea where he was going or what he wanted to do. He was halfway out the door when Delilah called out to him.

"I thought you were dead."

Her eves focused on the Colt holstered around his waist, then shifted to the fifteen-inch Green River bowie knife tied to his right thigh, then to his Mexican trousers with silver buttons down the sides, his black sombrero, and finally, the bright blue serape that matched the color of his startled eyes.

"You seem to have recovered," she said. "My congratulations."

As he took a step towards her, she crossed both hands in front of her breasts. Help me, her gesture implied. And… whatever you do, stay away.

As impulsively as she had called out, she turned away, leaving him staring at Ivan, her companion that he remembered from the card game in the saloon. He wore a white flat-brimmed felt hat tilted over one side of his face and the same black cape was draped over his shoulders. Walking back and forth across the lobby in yellow hand-tooled leather boots, he banged a silverhandled cane on the floor, his voice rising as he argued in Spanish over the availability of the hotel's honeymoon suite, which, he claimed, he had booked three weeks before. The clerk threw up his hands, shouting that there was no record. Nada. Nada. Nada. There never was and there never had been. The only room was on the second floor facing the street. It was their choice. Take it or leave it. He had nothing more to say

Zebulon walked across the room as if pulled by an invisible rope. "Give them what they signed up for," he said to the clerk. "Or deal with one malo loco gringo. Conprende?"

Grabbing the clerk by the collar, he lifted him over the counter and dropped him to the floor. Then he removed the Colt from his belt and pointed it at the clerk's forehead, pulling back the hammer.

The clerk handed over the keys and yelled for a porter to carry the guests' luggage to the presidential suite rnuy pronto.

Before the porter could rush over, Ivan handed the key to Delilah, who seemed, by her controlled passivity, to have been through this kind of situation before.

Without a word, she picked up two bulging leather suitcases and hauled them up the winding staircase, leaving a bag and a wooden cello case behind.

The man in the black cape bowed to Zebulon. "I see that you found a way to survive." He paused, extending his hand. "Count Ivan Baranofsky I would be honored if you would join me for a libation."

Zebulon's eyes focused on the woman's slender ankles and long muscular legs as they disappeared slowly up the stairs.

"I'll handle the bags," he offered.

"No need," the Count replied. "Delilah is very capable."

After a brief hesitation, Zebulon picked up the bag and cello case and went up the stairs two at a time.

He tried every door on the floor until he found her suite. She was standing at the window looking out at the harbor.

"Are you following me?" she asked, not turning around. "Or are you under the impression that I am following you?"

Her bare shoulders and the high sloping curve of her neck reminded him of a stalking crane.

"I follow what I hunt for," he answered.

"Then you consider me an animal?"

"I'm helping out."

"That's not all you're doing." She held him inside her gaze, then walked over to the bed where she untied the flaps of a hand-stitched leather suitcase.

"Would it amuse you to know that I'm an expert at capturing wild animals?" She removed a rattle from the suitcase and shook it back and forth, her eyes rolling as she circled around him, uttering a throbbing chant that seemed to be coming from the middle of her chest.

"I don't like being circled," he warned. "When I'm trapped I feel — "

"I know," she said. "You're dangerous."

She laughed and shook the rattle in his face, then threw it on the bed.

"If you don't return to the lobby, Ivan will come up and shoot you. He's famous for that."

"I can handle Ivan," he said.

"Are you sure?" Her question seemed to be directed as much to herself as to him.

When he couldn't come up with an answer, he shrugged and left the room.

ount Baranofsky was waiting for him in the lobby. Taking Zebulon by the arm, he led him into the hotel's cantina and ordered a round of whiskey at the bar. When the drinks arrived, the Count raised his glass, toasting Mexico, the United States, the brand new State of California, and finally Russia — but not the Czar, who, he proudly pointed out, had placed a price on his head. Then he asked if Zebulon was residing in Vera Cruz.

"Passing through," Zebulon replied.

"And so are we," the Count said. "Thank god our ship has arrived. We expected it six weeks ago."

Zebulon reached for a plate of fried squid and cheese enchiladas. "The woman you're with — "

"She's my attendant," Ivan said. "Or consort, depending on circumstance and your cultural point of view We were traveling overland to California, but once in Denver and faced with the prospect of a harsh winter, we decided to take a stagecoach to Mexico and sail around South America to California. We were looking forward to a pause in Vera Cruz but, I admit, not one this long."