Norman Partridge - The Man With the Barbed-Wire Fists

“No,” I said. “Why?”

“Well, the boy might have been blind, but he could feel. And after gyratin’ on top of Ted’s tent pole for a minute or two, the Mex figured he deserved that twenty Ted had slipped Conchita for the lap dance.”

Wes stared at me. I think. Like I said, with the mirrored shades it’s hard to tell.

I figure he wanted to see if I’d laugh or not. I didn’t laugh, though. I just stared up at the blue sky and thought it over.

“Twenty bucks,” I said finally. “Damn. I’m in the wrong business.”

Rudy nearly split a gut. Wes joined in, hee-hawing like a damn burro. I kept quiet and shoveled dirt into the grave.

“Twenty bucks,” Rudy said when he’d calmed down. “Man. You should have seen the look on ol’ Ted’s face. I wonder if the faggot actually came. I’d give twenty and then some if I could see it all again.”

“Well, the world ain’t gonna end for a long, long time,” Wes said. “I bet you’ll see it again. Sooner or later.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And for free, too.”

By the time I finished working, I was good and dirty.

Wes wasn’t. He was all spit and polish, crisp uniform creases and not one stain on him.

Looking at us, you’d figure that Wes had been the high school quarterback or the star baseball pitcher. Some kind of jock, anyway. But the truth was that Wes wasn’t much on sports at all.

I was. Hell, I was a three letter man in high school. Baseball, football, and track.

I was the one who went to college, too. Not that it did me much good.

I went to college because I figured they’d teach me the things I needed to know. But they hardly taught me anything. All they did was ask questions, and pretty soon I got to thinking that no one at college knew anything. Not for sure, anyway.

Crazy questions. I couldn’t see the point to them then, and I can’t see the point to them now. Like this one professor I had for a philosophy class. He asked us all kinds of nutty questions. You know the kind of stuff I mean. Like: if a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one around to hear it, does it make a sound?

I mean, who gives a flying fuck?

But I stuck it out. I’m not a quitter. Four years. Then I went out in the real world, and pretty soon I forgot those questions, because there just didn’t seem much use for that stuff in everyday life.

I stayed away from Amigo for about ten years. I went through three jobs. Got married, got divorced. I can’t tell you why a lot of it happened. Sure, I could give you an explanation. I could tell you my side of the story. I could blame my bosses or my wife. I could blame caffeine or stress or the fact that my dad hit the road when I was ten years old.

Think about it. People look you straight in the face and tell you things all the time. Television newscasters, politicians, preachers and pundits. Even your best friends. But you never know if they’re telling the truth.

It’s no different with me. No one has to tell the truth. It’s real easy to lie. That’s one thing I learned all on my own. The truth is elusive. It’s slippery.

And the way people talk about it, like it’s the holy grail. Like they have an INALIENABLE RIGHT TO KNOW THE TRUTH.

Jesus. Some people want to know everything. But it’s probably best to forget the truth altogether. That’s what I think, anyway. Because the truth can be an anchor around your neck. Forget it, and keep moving the best way you know how, and you’ll be a whole lot happier.

But there are some things you never forget, no matter where you go, no matter how long you’ve been there. Like for instance I never quite forgot the things I learned growing up in Amigo. The farther away I got from it — in time, in distance — and the more I saw of the world removed from Amigo, the less I understood why I ever left at all.

Amigo is a simpler place, with simpler rules. Maybe that’s why I came back. I understand how things work here.

In Amigo, everything is black and white.

Except for the wetbacks. They’re brown.

They’re the color of the dirt that I heaped on that coyote’s grave.

Yeah. That’s right. I said “coyote’s grave.”

See, there wasn’t any naked Mexican. Not anymore. In fact there never had been a Mexican, now that he was tucked away under a dead coyote and dirt blanket.

Ask me. Ask Rudy. Ask Wes.

No Mexican at all, amigo.

Rudy chuckled one last time. “So what d’ya say, Wes? We take our buddy Roy to Carmelita’s? The three of us have a couple of beers and see what ’Chita and the other girls are up to?”

Wes stared at the grave. “No, Rudy. We don’t got time for that.”

The news didn’t break my heart. Carmelita’s is all right if you don’t mind your women with bite marks on their asses, but it’s not exactly my kind of place. The border patrol boys like it, though. But guys who drive around with Mexicans chained to their bumpers tend to develop some pretty 7strange quirks.

“Shit,” Rudy complained. “It ain’t like they’re payin’ us overtime.”

“You’re forgettin’ comp time,” Wes said.

“Fuck that. I got so many hours of that shit, I could retire now if they’d let me take it.”

“You should have thought of that before you killed the wetback.”

“I was tired of listening to him scream. Jesus. I just got mad, is all. I couldn’t help it.”

“Whatever,” Wes said, digging in his heels. “The simple fact is this: we come up short, and we have to do something about it.”

I stopped listening. The conversation didn’t have anything to do with me anymore. I tossed my shovel in the back of my truck and dug my keys out of my pocket.

Wes stepped in front of me. “Where you think you’re goin’, cowboy?”

“C’mon, Wes — ”

“Hold your horses. I got a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Did you see anybody else out here today?”

I nodded. “Some guy drove by, heading toward the buttes. Usual idiot. Looked like a saucer nut, if you ask me.”

“Sure he was a saucer nut?”

“I didn’t get a real good look at him, Wes. He didn’t even stop. But he looked like the type.”

“What was he driving?”

“He had a van.”

“What kind?”

“Dodge. Solid-panel — ”

“Solid-panel, huh?” Wes smiled. “That’s interesting.”

“Coyotes use solid-panel vans,” Rudy said. “Gringos who haul illegals. They pack ’em in like sardines. Haul ’em as far north as Chicago.”

“C’mon,” I said. “This guy was a saucer nut. Believe me, I know the type like the back of my hand.”

“Yeah,” Wes said. “I forgot. You went to college. You’re smarter than idiots like me and Rudy.”

I laughed it off. I had to. Most people who grow up in Amigo never leave, let alone come back. I’d done both. I was pretty sure that Wes didn’t trust me because of it. At least not the way he trusted Rudy, or other guys who’d stuck it out the way he had.

“I don’t think I’m all that smart,” I said. “Elsewise, I wouldn’t be going around with a shovel and a truckful of roadkill.”

“Yeah, well… ” Wes sighed. “Maybe you are smarter than us. Maybe the simple fact is that we need your help.”

“I haven’t had lunch, Wes.”

“Sorry, son. But I need me a bird dog.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not one bit.” Wes straightened. Sunlight glinted off his polished badge, and I was fairly blinded by the golden brilliance of authority.