God Is a Bullet by Boston Teran

Author:Boston Teran [Teran, Boston]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Noir Fiction, Thrillers, Suspense
ISBN: 9780345439888
Google: 808tGJZUEWYC
Amazon: 0345439880
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 1999-01-01T11:00:00+00:00

34

Cyrus sits at a table with a view of the road in what passes for a cantina. It is in the middle of Maquila Row. A mile-long encampment of low, mean-structured factories of cinder block and tin, asbestos and sheathing. Once just the desert of Baja California Norte, it now blooms with American-owned sweatshops and semis rigged out for points of profit across the border.

The rain has stopped. Cyrus turns toward Errol, who speaks in a low, controlled, but furious tone. “I don’t appreciate waiting three days for you in El Centro. That’s bullshit. You understand!”

Cyrus listens without interest, notices across the mud lot the van parked away from the trucks and battered vehicles lined up there. Lena is sitting behind the wheel as she’s been told. But Granny Boy has gotten out and is drinking a beer. He motions to Cyrus that he’s just talked to someone on the phone and then gives him the thumbs-up.

“Are you listening to me?”

Cyrus turns to Errol, his eyes like black ash. “I hear, but I don’t necessarily listen.”

“You can do all the shape-shifting you want for that crew of yours, okay. I don’t give a rat’s ass. I don’t do charity work. I don’t give to any church. And I can’t be left sitting around waiting …”

Cyrus leans forward for a little playful confrontation. “You want to know why I was late? We were doin’ rat patrol. We had this little pretty-pretty with us. You know I like the taste before they even have hair on them.”

“I don’t want to hear this,” says Errol.

“We were having her good when this spic came along. After I went through his wallet I saw he was some kind of mineral prospector and—”

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“Don’t want to hear what? We have to keep our claws sharp, don’t we? So I test myself. Unfortunately, I end up testing myself against amateurs.”

Errol has had enough and gets up. He takes a map from his pocket and tosses it on the table. “Take a look. See if you have any questions.”

There is no shortage of disgust in Cyrus’s face as he watches Errol cross the huge room. The space is more fitting to a barn than a bar.

Errol orders another gin. The whiskey is lined up on wooden shelves. The bartender is Latin, from the far south. On the back of his hand is tattooed a pentagram. He looks at Cyrus to see if he, too, wants another drink. Cyrus nods. A couple of speakers are blaring out some homeboy Spanish version of “The Weight.” Errol makes his way back through dozens of card tables and Salvation Army reject furniture, where factory dogs play cards and talk away their lives over beer.

Errol sits, passes Cyrus his drink. “You and I have a good business. I don’t want to get into any Hunter Thompson bullshit with you. Okay?”

Cyrus is thinking that Gutter and Wood ought to be rolling in with Headcase pretty soon. Then he’ll put this yuppie swine through some real weed-crawling.

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