Juarez Square and Other Stories (23 page)

Lie
.

“Payback on this here deal’s six months, nine tops. I guarantee it.”

Huge lie
.

He’s in his element now, building lie upon lie, relaxed and smiling, bullshitting everyone around him. Such a comfortable, practiced storyteller. One of the best I’ve ever seen. Effortlessly he spins a spider’s web of deceit, weaving strand after strand. A small exaggeration here, an intentional omission there, a complete fabrication when he really wants to pique their interest. Two years ago I might not have picked up on him so quickly. That’s how good he is. He even starts to win over some of the men, making them laugh, nod their heads. I sense the cloud of doubt dissipating. Not that it matters.

Sorry, blondie, but it’s not their opinion that counts
.

I sit there, watching and listening for another half an hour, as the gringo slowly digs his grave, one lie at a time.

When I’ve seen enough, I switch off the headphones, place them on the table. I stand up, stretch my back, and ease my way down the ladder.

I slip through the false fold and step outside, where Lela’s still standing guard. The cook’s son stands next to her. The boy looks up at me with big eyes, full of expectation.

“I’m done,” I tell Lela. “Tell Guzmán I’m ready.”

Lela pats the boy on the head and says, “Vete, niño.” Little Pepe takes off at a run. He hops over a pair of legs sticking out from an old Jeep, someone making repairs, and knifes his way through an obstacle course of campfires, cooking pots, and families relaxing in the cool night air. He turns a corner and disappears from sight.

I enter the food tent with Lela, and we sit at the far end of the table, away from everyone else. Dinner is over and blond ponytail anxiously looks over at us, unsure what our sudden appearance might mean. He fidgets and bites his nails as he waits for Guzmán’s arrival. I let my gaze linger on his face a few moments. Underneath his anxiety he’s still confident, the fool. Even as the walls are closing in on him, the cocksure bastard still thinks he’ll make the deal. I steer my eyes away from him.

A minute later Guzmán bursts through the door flap and everyone stands. Two bodyguards follow close behind, shotguns in hand. The security detail always strikes me as redundant, even comically unnecessary. At two meters tall and pushing what has to be a hundred and twenty kilos, Guzmán’s bigger and meaner-looking than any of the guards.

“Don Flaco!” blond ponytail shouts. “Wonderful to see you.” He smiles broadly and takes a couple paces forward, his hand extended. A bodyguard steps in front of Guzmán and racks the slide on his shotgun. The gringo stops cold and lowers his hand. His face melts into confusion.

Guzmán eyes the stranger carefully. He strokes the black stubble on his wide anvil of a chin, contemplating. Then he turns to me. “So what about this one?”

Out of the corner of my eye I see blond ponytail shifting his gaze between Guzmán and me. His confusion blooms into panic. Beads of sweat break out on his upper lip and forehead.

He deserves what’s coming to him
, I tell myself, this silver-tongued scam artist. Given the opportunity, he’d slit every one of our throats without a second thought if there was something in it for him.

At this point I usually turn away, so I can’t see or sense the subject. It’s an ugly thing to watch, the way a person’s face changes the moment they realize they’re going to die. Some panic and try to run, some beg for mercy. Others nod and look to the ground, unsurprised, as if some long-expected bad news has finally arrived. It’s a hard memory to shake afterwards, even when some crooked thief has more than earned it.

All I have to do is shake my head, like I’ve done so many times before. One small gesture from me and they’ll drag him kicking and screaming out into the desert and shoot him like a dog.

“Dime, niña,” Guzmán says, his voice rising a notch. “
¿
Sí o no?”

Lela nudges me with her elbow and I snap back to the moment. Every pair of eyes focuses on me in anticipation. Some fear me, some respect me, some want to fuck me. The tent blares with the unspoken din of Guzmán’s men. How I wish I could turn it all off.

I look at blond ponytail. Vain, greedy blond ponytail. The last remnants of his confidence ebb, then disappear altogether. He finally seems to understand what’s happening.

Fuck it
.

I turn to Guzmán and nod. “He’s fine.”

“Muy bien,” Guzmán says. “I’ll meet with him in the morning.” Then he turns and leaves, followed by his security detail.

It fills me with a strange kind of satisfaction, the way Guzmán believes me, how completely he takes me at my word. Makes me wish I would have lied to him long before now.

But it’s nothing more than a reprieve for blond ponytail, a stay of execution. When they figure out his deal is a bullshit scam, they’ll shoot him in the head and dump him in the desert. A meal for coyotes and vultures, like all the others who dared to pull one over on the great and powerful Guzmán.

And then after they take care of him, they’ll come for me.

* * *

If you’d like to read the rest,
check out the
Soledad
page
on my website for links and more information.

About the Author

D.L. Young is a Texas-based writer. An avowed language freak, he’s fluent in Spanish and speaks passable Portuguese (the Brazilian flavor). He’s also the founder of the Space City Critters Writers Workshop, a member of Mensa, an English football fan, and a cigar lover. His fiction has appeared in many publications and anthologies.

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Acknowledgments

Writing is a solitary act.
Utter crap, that oft-quoted phrase. At least in my case it is, especially with this book. I can’t imagine having pulled this off without a huge amount of help and encouragement from so many. First and foremost, I’m indebted to my family, who graciously gift me the time and space to pound out the words. I can’t express what a blessing it is to have this kind of support.

A special thanks also goes to my local critique group. Dusty, Kevin, Austin, and Chrissa, your feedback and insight have been incredibly valuable to this collection. And just to clarify, that’s only an expression. I’m not talking royalty checks or anything here. I may be thankful, but I’m not a sucker.

Finally, I’m especially grateful to Cassandra Rose Clarke, whose presence in my writing life has been the most wonderful of surprises. Cassie, thanks so much for your support and inspiration.