A Message From Afar
The bike is wrecked. It takes six hours to find Lou and Angela... some girl he met on a ride into Cosa, the next small village up the road. He did do one smart thing and that was to bring the hand held radio with him, that and a pistol. As it turns out he uses both while he waits to be rescued.
It has been a week since he pulled it from Naomi's hold. He has put several hundred miles on it already. I don't mind. It's not like it is mine or anything. Mike won the damn thing and was generous enough to give me one. I did get the one ride on it that first day, and offers afterward but he was too many hits into his third Walker for me to tag along.
This morning I hear from him. He had taken Angela on a ride through her village the night before and stayed over after a big dinner and lots of tequila and homemade banana liquor. He is going to bring Angela over for dinner at our place, big plans for a barbeque, ass kicking horseshoe game, a dozen tightly rolled Walkers with that local shit that Nester's cousin sold to him. Sounds like fun.
Except he goes the other way and takes her for a ride toward a bend in the river east of Cosa where Angela tells him there is a beautiful deep blue pool to swim in.
It is, I suspect, a few hours after this that I get the call on the radio. I can't hear what he says... completely, but it is an SOS call and the only thing I can make out is Cosa. So that is where I go.
Just me this morning. Jerry and Ollie are over to Santa Cruz Hautulco on a fuel and supply run. Lou was supposed to go along, and had he gone I would have gone. But he called in "sick" and the boys headed over to the coast. They will check out the situation with Lou's bar. Not that he wants to go back, but he did have some things there that he wants back.
I drive the Powerwagon into Cosa. I can use my arm now, much better, just sore after too much use. I get through town and try to raise him on the radio.
"LOU... COME IN, LOU."
Nothing.
"COME ON, YOU SON OF A BITCH... COME IN."
Still nothing.
I look ahead of me on the road and it takes a rise about a quarter of a mile away. I get to the top of that and then try him again.
"WE'RE GETTING TO YOUR LAST CHANCE, ASSWIPE."
I hear the radio key, more of a change in the static, then it goes back to normal.
"CAN YOU HEAR ME? BECAUSE I CAN'T HEAR YOU."
Another change in static, in the hiss of white noise I swear I hear the word "asshole".
I get on top of the truck and hold the radio at arms length, keying it up.
"GIVE ME SOME KIND OF SIGNAL I CAN WORK WITH."
Three shots ring out, one right after the other. I turn my head and try to get a position on him. Not much out here to produce an echo, so what I hear and where I hear it is just about where I find him.
He is cradling his right hand. Angela has the gun in hand, and is intently watching the trees up the bank near the swimming hole. She rattles off something in a panicked tone.
"What?"
"She shot at a panther that rushed us a minute ago."
"No shit, I thought you were signalling me."
"Worked, didn't it."
I look around, "where's the bike?"
He points at the water. I can see the chrome of the back rest about three feet underwater.
"What the fuck happened?"
"Before or after we hit the tree?"
"After... before... what tree?"
He lays his the hand he is cradling in his lap and then uses the good hand to point to wipe the blood out of his hair. There is a pretty good hit to the side of his skull.
"Jesus, Lou, are you okay?"
"Head's all right, but my hand, I dislocated three of my fingers."
He gesters to his left hand laying in his lap. The pinky, ring finger, and middle finger are blue and at odd angles. It makes my balls climb up inside me.
Lou searches the ground and finds a stick about a half inch in diameter.
"I need you to reset them."
"What?"
"Reset them. Give them each a sturdy pull, one after the other. Do it quick and hard."
"Oh no... you, you do it."
"Don't you think I would have done it by now. It is a lot easier if you do it."
He puts the stick in his mouth, then grunts at me and holds out his hand.
"Motherfucker."
After I pull the first one, I work quickly. Angela screams and scares the shit out of me, but I pull away and in less than ten seconds, I am finished.
Lou peels the stick out of his mouth, which has deep teeth marks in it. He didn't say a word, didn't cry out, didn't even take in a breath. Tough as nails.
I use the winch on the front of the Powerwagon to pull the bike out of the water. The winch and a sturdy, low hanging brach and I am able to get the carcass into the bed of the truck. Easy come... easy go. We are all up front now and headed back to El Corazon.
"So... how did you do that?"
He looks over at Angela, who speaks as much English as the average ten year old collie.
"She was giving me a hand job and I got distracted."
I say nothing.
"I... I'm sorry."
I look straight ahead and let him stew in it.
"I'll fix it."
"I want a new one."
By the time we pull into the compound all is forgiven and the cab is full of smoke. Angela has a sweet laugh. I really feel like grabbing her by the back of the neck and planting a long, luscious kiss on her lips. But Lou is sitting beside her and even with his bad hand on my side, I think I would come out on the short side of things.
"Does Angela have a sister?"
We stop and Lou opens the door and steps out.
"She has three sisters. Only one is still in her village."
He takes one last toke on the roach of the Walker and then snubs it out and eats it.
"You should have said something, Lucille just sits home."
"Lucille?"
"All three hundred pounds of her."
"That would make a hell of a lap dance."
"Lap, legs, probably your chest and shoulders."
We leave the broken, waterlogged remains of the bike in the back of the truck and load some mesquite into the homemade barbeque and spark it up. We have two ice chests that Jerry brought back on a run. Tapia had smoked some goat meat, and there was marinated pollo, and a couple of racks of spare ribs with Mari's special rub. The other cooler is stacked with bottles of Negra Modelo... payment on a bet with someone down the trade route.
It is about five minutes after we light the mesquite, we can hear Abby on approach. I watch the tree line at the end of the dirt strip and she appears about a half mile away. Me and Lou watch her touch down. No matter how many times I have seen it, I can't turn away.
She idles into the compound and Jerry cuts her engines. Angela has a couple of semi-cold beers opened and ready for them as they exit the aircraft. Ollie up ends his and it disappears in seconds, just foam clinging to the inside of an empty bottle. Jerry takes a long draw and then pulls a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket.
"Goldfarb, Stinkle, and Abramowitz." He hands it to me while he up-ends his beer.
"Bless you." Lou rings in.
I open the paper and it is an official looking faxed correspondance addressed to me, Lou, Jerry... and Abigail. Only a couple of lines and then a contact number.
"What the hell is this?"
"Read it."
Ollie says something in mother tongue.
"Yeah, no shit." Jerry agrees.
"What?"
"Local cops, staters... whatever the fuck they were, scared the shit out of us. Turns out that a copy of that letter was sent to every local cop with a fax machine, and to every airstrip with a tower or personel that might have known us or where we were located."
Ollie speaks again.
"We thought we were busted. Those fuckers were on us as soon as we touched down. Good thing we had already done our crop run. All we had on board was some irrigation equipment."
"They boarded you?"
"No... just wanted to give us that." He points to the paper, "Those are lawyers for a very important person."
"No shit, I thought they were a Vaudeville act."
Lou shakes his head, "Lawyers, I hate lawyers. Nothing good can come of that."
We all adjourn to the patio and check on the coals and throw a little meat on the barbi. After a few more beers are cracked and we have all read the fax, we all scratch our heads.
Lou takes a hit off a Walker and blows it out slowly, "Nothing but that little bit of shit,our names and a contact number."
"Maybe we're being sued." I can't believe I just said it, but it is possible.
"Sued for what, delivering bad assault rifles?" Jerry takes the Walker as it passes and hits it long and hard.
We don't have our satellite phone any longer. It is at the bottom of the Caribbean. No phone in Nogales, just the radio. We make plans for an early flight tomorrow so we can make the call and find out what the hell this is all about.
It has been a week since he pulled it from Naomi's hold. He has put several hundred miles on it already. I don't mind. It's not like it is mine or anything. Mike won the damn thing and was generous enough to give me one. I did get the one ride on it that first day, and offers afterward but he was too many hits into his third Walker for me to tag along.
This morning I hear from him. He had taken Angela on a ride through her village the night before and stayed over after a big dinner and lots of tequila and homemade banana liquor. He is going to bring Angela over for dinner at our place, big plans for a barbeque, ass kicking horseshoe game, a dozen tightly rolled Walkers with that local shit that Nester's cousin sold to him. Sounds like fun.
Except he goes the other way and takes her for a ride toward a bend in the river east of Cosa where Angela tells him there is a beautiful deep blue pool to swim in.
It is, I suspect, a few hours after this that I get the call on the radio. I can't hear what he says... completely, but it is an SOS call and the only thing I can make out is Cosa. So that is where I go.
Just me this morning. Jerry and Ollie are over to Santa Cruz Hautulco on a fuel and supply run. Lou was supposed to go along, and had he gone I would have gone. But he called in "sick" and the boys headed over to the coast. They will check out the situation with Lou's bar. Not that he wants to go back, but he did have some things there that he wants back.
I drive the Powerwagon into Cosa. I can use my arm now, much better, just sore after too much use. I get through town and try to raise him on the radio.
"LOU... COME IN, LOU."
Nothing.
"COME ON, YOU SON OF A BITCH... COME IN."
Still nothing.
I look ahead of me on the road and it takes a rise about a quarter of a mile away. I get to the top of that and then try him again.
"WE'RE GETTING TO YOUR LAST CHANCE, ASSWIPE."
I hear the radio key, more of a change in the static, then it goes back to normal.
"CAN YOU HEAR ME? BECAUSE I CAN'T HEAR YOU."
Another change in static, in the hiss of white noise I swear I hear the word "asshole".
I get on top of the truck and hold the radio at arms length, keying it up.
"GIVE ME SOME KIND OF SIGNAL I CAN WORK WITH."
Three shots ring out, one right after the other. I turn my head and try to get a position on him. Not much out here to produce an echo, so what I hear and where I hear it is just about where I find him.
He is cradling his right hand. Angela has the gun in hand, and is intently watching the trees up the bank near the swimming hole. She rattles off something in a panicked tone.
"What?"
"She shot at a panther that rushed us a minute ago."
"No shit, I thought you were signalling me."
"Worked, didn't it."
I look around, "where's the bike?"
He points at the water. I can see the chrome of the back rest about three feet underwater.
"What the fuck happened?"
"Before or after we hit the tree?"
"After... before... what tree?"
He lays his the hand he is cradling in his lap and then uses the good hand to point to wipe the blood out of his hair. There is a pretty good hit to the side of his skull.
"Jesus, Lou, are you okay?"
"Head's all right, but my hand, I dislocated three of my fingers."
He gesters to his left hand laying in his lap. The pinky, ring finger, and middle finger are blue and at odd angles. It makes my balls climb up inside me.
Lou searches the ground and finds a stick about a half inch in diameter.
"I need you to reset them."
"What?"
"Reset them. Give them each a sturdy pull, one after the other. Do it quick and hard."
"Oh no... you, you do it."
"Don't you think I would have done it by now. It is a lot easier if you do it."
He puts the stick in his mouth, then grunts at me and holds out his hand.
"Motherfucker."
After I pull the first one, I work quickly. Angela screams and scares the shit out of me, but I pull away and in less than ten seconds, I am finished.
Lou peels the stick out of his mouth, which has deep teeth marks in it. He didn't say a word, didn't cry out, didn't even take in a breath. Tough as nails.
I use the winch on the front of the Powerwagon to pull the bike out of the water. The winch and a sturdy, low hanging brach and I am able to get the carcass into the bed of the truck. Easy come... easy go. We are all up front now and headed back to El Corazon.
"So... how did you do that?"
He looks over at Angela, who speaks as much English as the average ten year old collie.
"She was giving me a hand job and I got distracted."
I say nothing.
"I... I'm sorry."
I look straight ahead and let him stew in it.
"I'll fix it."
"I want a new one."
By the time we pull into the compound all is forgiven and the cab is full of smoke. Angela has a sweet laugh. I really feel like grabbing her by the back of the neck and planting a long, luscious kiss on her lips. But Lou is sitting beside her and even with his bad hand on my side, I think I would come out on the short side of things.
"Does Angela have a sister?"
We stop and Lou opens the door and steps out.
"She has three sisters. Only one is still in her village."
He takes one last toke on the roach of the Walker and then snubs it out and eats it.
"You should have said something, Lucille just sits home."
"Lucille?"
"All three hundred pounds of her."
"That would make a hell of a lap dance."
"Lap, legs, probably your chest and shoulders."
We leave the broken, waterlogged remains of the bike in the back of the truck and load some mesquite into the homemade barbeque and spark it up. We have two ice chests that Jerry brought back on a run. Tapia had smoked some goat meat, and there was marinated pollo, and a couple of racks of spare ribs with Mari's special rub. The other cooler is stacked with bottles of Negra Modelo... payment on a bet with someone down the trade route.
It is about five minutes after we light the mesquite, we can hear Abby on approach. I watch the tree line at the end of the dirt strip and she appears about a half mile away. Me and Lou watch her touch down. No matter how many times I have seen it, I can't turn away.
She idles into the compound and Jerry cuts her engines. Angela has a couple of semi-cold beers opened and ready for them as they exit the aircraft. Ollie up ends his and it disappears in seconds, just foam clinging to the inside of an empty bottle. Jerry takes a long draw and then pulls a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket.
"Goldfarb, Stinkle, and Abramowitz." He hands it to me while he up-ends his beer.
"Bless you." Lou rings in.
I open the paper and it is an official looking faxed correspondance addressed to me, Lou, Jerry... and Abigail. Only a couple of lines and then a contact number.
"What the hell is this?"
"Read it."
Ollie says something in mother tongue.
"Yeah, no shit." Jerry agrees.
"What?"
"Local cops, staters... whatever the fuck they were, scared the shit out of us. Turns out that a copy of that letter was sent to every local cop with a fax machine, and to every airstrip with a tower or personel that might have known us or where we were located."
Ollie speaks again.
"We thought we were busted. Those fuckers were on us as soon as we touched down. Good thing we had already done our crop run. All we had on board was some irrigation equipment."
"They boarded you?"
"No... just wanted to give us that." He points to the paper, "Those are lawyers for a very important person."
"No shit, I thought they were a Vaudeville act."
Lou shakes his head, "Lawyers, I hate lawyers. Nothing good can come of that."
We all adjourn to the patio and check on the coals and throw a little meat on the barbi. After a few more beers are cracked and we have all read the fax, we all scratch our heads.
Lou takes a hit off a Walker and blows it out slowly, "Nothing but that little bit of shit,our names and a contact number."
"Maybe we're being sued." I can't believe I just said it, but it is possible.
"Sued for what, delivering bad assault rifles?" Jerry takes the Walker as it passes and hits it long and hard.
We don't have our satellite phone any longer. It is at the bottom of the Caribbean. No phone in Nogales, just the radio. We make plans for an early flight tomorrow so we can make the call and find out what the hell this is all about.
posted by Jake Allen at 9:57 AM
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