The Death And Life Of Bobby Z by Winslow Don

Author:Winslow, Don [Winslow, Don]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Suspense, Thriller, Crime
ISBN: 9780517288955
Publisher: Vintage
Published: 1997-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 39.

By the time Johnson makes it back to the hacienda it’s mid-morning and the sun is high. He sends the woman for their bought-and-paid-for doctor in Ocotillo Wells and the man shows up an hour later more or less sober.

Man stinks of vodka but does a good enough job of picking fragments out of Johnson’s arm and shoulder while the cowboy sits pulling on a bottle of tequila. The doctor’s paid to keep his mouth shut, does his job, puts Johnson’s broken right arm in a sling, gives him some pills and leaves, which is just fine with Johnson, who doesn’t want any excess conversation anyway.

Johnson’s in an ornery mood. Took a goddamn army of Cahuillas to bag Bobby Z and Bobby Z bags his army. Kills every damn one of them except him.

As for Johnson, he’s feeling blown-up and bleeding and raw and to add to that he has the aggravation of having to deal with Brian.

There’s no use putting it off, so Johnson takes a long draw on the bottle, ignores his mejicana’s entreaties to lay down, and hauls himself over to the main house to give fat Brian the cheerful news.

Don Huertero’s already there. Johnson doesn’t see him, but sees his men stationed all around the house. Standing there all macho with their carbines and Mach-10 machine pistols and shit, reflective sunglasses and those beaner straw cowboy hats, and the head beaner won’t let Johnson go into the house.

“I just wanted to tell him that we didn’t get Bobby Z,” Johnson says in English.

“I think he knows,” the honcho answers, and they all stand out there in the sun until Don Huertero and a few more boys come out with Brian.

Naked as the day he was born. One big fat white blob of flesh, and he’s crying like a baby as one of Huertero’s bodyguards gives him a boot in the ass that sends him sprawling into the dust.

“We didn’t catch Bobby Z,” Johnson says to him.

Brian just looks up at him, all red-eyed and puffy, and Johnson can see he’s been slapped around a little. Johnson’s glad he’s had the tequila, because judging by the look on Huertero’s face it’s probably the last tequila he’s ever gonna get unless the next world’s a whole lot different than those old Baptist preachers said it was.

Old Huertero s standing in the shade of the porch, all cool in his white suit, ocean-blue shirt and six-hundred-dollar loafers. Blue wraparound shades, salt-and-pepper hair combed straight back, but not greasy-looking like Johnson’s used to seeing Mexicans’. He looks down at Johnson and says, “So you tried to catch Bobby Z?”

“Yessir.”

“And what happened?”

“He killed us,” Johnson says. “Most of us.”

Huertero nods.

Then says, “He didn’t kill you.”

“No,” Johnson says.

Huertero nods again, then says, “Yet.”

Johnson shrugs.

“And yet you had him trapped,” Huertero says.

Johnson figures this is the moment he’s about to get the drop, but there’s nothing to do about it so he just says, “Thought I did.”

But Huertero smiles and says, “Ah, well, I know the feeling.

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