The Beasts of Juarez by R.B. Schow (story books to read .txt) 📗

Estella laughed at his humor. “Whatever he says, just go with it. Leo said he’s the best arms dealer in this area, but as far as cans of Coke in a six-pack go”—she said, tapping her skull—“word is he’s got three or four at best.”

“You Americans are hard to understand, even after all this time.”

“I’m Mexican, you asshole,” she said.

“Mexican-American.”

“Whatever. I rented us a car. It’s a subcompact.”

“So, will we be sitting close?” he asked as everyone’s luggage started to appear.

“Close enough to smell my armpits,” Estella said. “I haven’t bathed in days.”

“Just the way I like my women—fresh from the earth, none of the perfumes or dyes they use to mask their natural fragrance.”

With that, she lifted her armpit and said, “Smell.”

He did with a grin but then he gave a hearty sniff, yelped, and turned away fast. “Ya Allah, what have you done?”

“Everything on me is clean, perfumed, made to smell like flowers,” she grinned. “All my womanly parts are clean and shaved to the skin.”

“This truly is a travesty,” he said, saddened. When he got his baggage, he said, “I still have the smell of your deodorant on my nose.”

“Think of it as a warning for when you think you want to get too close,” she said.

After they checked into the rental car company and walked out to pick up their car, they were given a bright, Easter-egg blue Chevy Spark. The tiny hatchback immediately struck her as hilarious but Yergha threw a fit. The attendant who dropped it off picked up his pace, ducking back inside the rental facility like a kid who had just stolen someone’s purse.

“What in the name of Allah is this madness?” he cursed.

“It’s a Chevy Spark.”

“My God, the color…it’s…offensive!”

“It’s Mystic Blue.”

“No,” he said, looking around for the rental attendant. “This is some kind of mistake. We are not going anywhere in this car!”

“It was either this color or Passion Fruit.”

“Anything is better than this blinding blue! What color is Passion Fruit?”

“Purple,” she said, tempering her laugh. She hadn’t realized how much she missed Yergha. He was fun to tease, almost like an older brother she secretly wanted to be around.

Shaking his head, he said, “You used to be hardcore. What happened to you?”

“I’m still hardcore, Yergha. You just wait and see.”

With Estella in the driver’s seat and Yergha in charge of directions, the two of them left El Paso’s airport on their way to see the congressman. They traveled up Airport Road, finding their way first to Sergeant Major Boulevard and then to Spur 601/Liberty Expressway.

“Who the hell calls a highway Spur 601?” Yergha asked.

“Texans.”

“Why not just call it Highway 601?” Yergha asked.

“Do I look like I’m from El Paso?”

“Maybe?” he said, more like a question. “I haven’t seen these people in the daylight yet but if they’re all as beautiful as you, I might want to stay awhile.”

Heading west on 601/Liberty Expressway, they passed a long line of chain link fencing that seemed to separate the expressway from what Yergha said was likely Biggs Field. He wasn’t the best navigator she’d ever been around. Focusing on the road ahead, Esty kept to the sixty-mile-per-hour speed limit, which Yergha said was making them a target for regular drivers and suspicious cops.

“While I’m in the driver’s seat, you need to close that shit trap of yours.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said folding his arms.

To his credit, he didn’t say another word. Not when they merged onto 54 heading north, and not until they got off on Gateway N. Boulevard. After that, he gave her more detailed directions.

“Take a left on Hercules and go under the freeway. It’s just past the pawn shop, at the light.”

She turned left, cruised under the freeway and into a four-lane road with a mix of single-story homes and commercial real estate. Mostly it was just a 7-Eleven, an Alon gas station, a US Post Office, and the Dollar General.

The end of Hercules was Magnetic Avenue, which ran either left or right.

“Take a left,” Yergha said.

“You sure?”

“One-hundred percent.”

There were more one-story homes, most of them nice looking as the glare of the headlights washed over them. On one side of the road, wooden utility poles were outfitted with phone lines and street lights while the center divider was clean looking and wide with flowering bushes of all shapes and sizes.

“Take a right up here on Titanic, by the church, and then the next left on Tonto.”

“I got it from here,” she said. “I remember looking up the address while I was waiting for you.”

When they got to Richie’s house, both of them were in awe. The one-story brick house was easily five thousand square feet with half an acre of land, up-lighting on the plush landscaping all around it, and sweeping views of the night sky from all sides.

“This isn’t exactly lying low,” Yergha said.

“Maybe he does something else for a living,” Esty replied, her lights illuminating a Lexus ES F-Sport sedan. With cobalt blue paint and the black hourglass grille, Richie Frank wasn’t hiding from anyone.

They got out of the car, looked at each other, and then Yergha said, “Maybe this is the wrong address.”

“It’s not,” said a large bearded man near the garage. “Unless you’re not Estella and Yergha. That’s you, right?”

Esty breathed a sigh of relief. “Looks like you’re keeping a low profile.”

“I’m a pillar of the community,” he said. As he walked out under the garage lights, she saw that he was six-foot-five at least with a bald head, a big beard, and a Cheshire cat grin. Spend one second in his presence and you could tell not all cylinders were synchronized or firing right.

“Oh, I bet they just love you here,” she said, looking around the neighborhood.

“Which community are you referring to?” Yergha asked. “You said you were