Sweet Mary, the chicken—even if short toes or fingers—will hug and kiss them all, forgiving them for doing a dirty and necessary job, and he will be in a cheerful mood until Antonio and his associates drive him to an empty cornfield and toss him into a drainage ditch and shoot him in the head.
But not this chicken.
He is protected, and he is to stay here until some norteamericano knocks on the door, says a certain phrase, and then the chicken is to be released into this stranger’s care. Antonio, Pepe, and Ramon will leave a half hour later, cross the border, and go home to Ciudad Juárez, and then have a week off to make up for the monastic existence they’ve been suffering.
Back in the kitchen, Antonio stops, feeling hungry, thirsty, antsy. He opens the refrigerator, sees water and nothing else. Up in the freezer is a pile of frozen dinners—he’s come to hate frozen dinners. Most times the gas stove here either overcooks or undercooks the frozen chunks of pasta or white frozen meat pretending to be chicken.
He slams the door shut, goes back out to the living room. Pepe looks up at him. Pepe’s skin is darker than his and Ramon’s, and he’s got a beak of a nose that marks some Aztec blood, but that blood must be thinned out some for Pepe to have found Jesus.
He says to Antonio, “What’s up?”
“I’m going out.”
Pepe pauses, Bible in his lap, pen in his hand. “You can’t.”
“Watch me.”
“The jefe won’t like it.”
“The jefe is hundreds of kilometers away,” Antonio says, picking up a light-tan jacket from the couch to wear over his polo shirt and his Smith & Wesson. “When we came here a few days ago, there was a McDonald’s that just opened up. It’s only five minutes away.”
Pepe says, “The jefe won’t like it.”
“Yeah, but I don’t like that crap we’re forced to eat,” Antonio says. “I’m going up there, get some fries, two Big Macs, a nice cold drink. You can sit here and thump that Bible. I won’t be gone long.”
He goes to the door, feeling the truck keys in the jacket pocket. Like some deranged talking doll or toy, Pepe calls out, “Antonio, the jefe won’t like it!”
Antonio opens the door and says to Pepe, “He won’t find out. If he does find out, I will blame you. And if that happens, dear Pepe, I’ll make sure you meet Jesus at the end of the day.”
CHAPTER 50
PELAYO ABBOUD returns to the room in the upper-floor suite that’s been converted into his own little communications center, and a distressed-looking Casper Khourery looks to him and says, “Sir…the deadline has passed by an hour. We’ve not heard from the Army captain.”
“Ah,” he says, walking into the room, gently touching and slapping the bulky shoulders of the other three men working here on his behalf, sitting in front of keyboards, computer consoles, and radio equipment. “Do we have a view of the Three Rivers house?”
A young lad named Alejandro says, “Sir, over here, if you please.”
Pelayo bends over and takes in the view from the large monitor. It’s an amazing sight, like he’s taking in a view from a sparrow or a hawk, circling over the small house. The place looks empty, looks quiet. A few bits of shrubbery are scattered across the flat yard.
The driveway is empty.
That’s not good.
He says, “There is supposed to be a truck there, am I right?”
“Yes, jefe,” Casper says, coming over to join him. “We saw it leave about three minutes ago.”
“I don’t like that,” Pelayo says. “You should have told me.”
“There was only one man who came out from the house,” Casper explains. “We could see his size and shape. It was clear that he was not the one we’re interested in.”
“I see.”
The airborne drone circles and circles over the small house. It’s an amazing thing, what the scientists and engineers can do, if given enough money and resources.
Pelayo says, “Are we sure that this drone cannot be spotted?”
Alejandro says, “This aerial platform, jefe, was developed for the American CIA. It is nearly impossible to detect. Four were given on loan to our Centro de Investigación y Seguridad Nacional.” The young man smiles. “Officially, one was destroyed in a training accident…but as you can see, it has recovered quite nicely.”
“Good,” Pelayo says.
Casper steps closer to him, lowers his voice. “About the Army captain…the deadline has passed. What shall we do?”
Pelayo says, “We give her another hour. Why not? Sometimes it is to your advantage to show mercy.”
Alejandro leans over and whispers something to the man next to him, and the man laughs. Pelayo grips Alejandro’s left shoulder. “I’m so sorry, would you care to repeat that?”
“Er, it was nothing, jefe.”
“Oh, it must have been something, for your friend there to laugh so loud. Please. Share it with me.”
“Jefe…”
Pelayo squeezes harder. Alejandro gets the message. He stammers and says, “It was…just a joke. That’s all. I just said…good for you that Miguel isn’t here to hear the talk of mercy.”
He releases his grip on the young man’s shoulder, gives him a reassuring pat. “Ah, yes. My cousin Miguel. I suppose everyone knows about him, what he’s done, what he’s capable of doing. Even though he professes to be a religious man. And if he were to know that I just extended this deadline, it would not go well for me, would not go well for my company. Because Miguel would see any sign of mercy as a weakness, am I correct?”
Alejandro whispers, “Yes, you’re correct.”
Pelayo moves around so he’s face-to-face with Alejandro. Everyone in this small room is now staring at what’s going on.
He reaches out and gently taps the side of the young man’s cheek. “What, you think I’m so small, so weak, that I cannot take a joke? Do you?”
Alejandro just shakes his head no.
Pelayo smiles, says to Casper. “This man…he’s a brave one, and smart. He will go far. Come with me, Alejandro, will you?”
The young man is smiling at his fellow workers and follows Pelayo out to the main room of the suite, where Pelayo says, “Get two Coca-Colas from the refrigerator and join up with me.”
Pelayo goes to the far balcony and takes in the sparkling view of the Gulf of Mexico. Another perfect day. He hears the door slide open and a shy voice, “Jéfe?”
He smiles, takes the open Coke bottle from the young man, already open and with a straw in it. He clinks his bottle with Alejandro’s and says, “Well done, Alejandro.”
“Thank you, jefe.”
Pelayo looks over the grounds that belong to him. Below is a narrow parking lot and a loading dock, and there are two mothers trying to herd about a half dozen youngsters in bathing suits to the nearby swimming pool.
He says, “Again, I admire your skills, your sense of humor. Too often there are organizations that are…too rigid. Too formal. Subordinates afraid to tell their superiors what’s really going on, what kind of challenges are out there. Do you understand?”