Bad Moon Rising

We passed through Grapevine and into the agricultural fields where things proceeded in full swing, with field hands and trucks and tractors moving through the acres of growing produce like ants. They harvested several varieties of lettuce, along with vegetables of all kinds. I said to Hondo, “I’m thinking I’ll have a salad when we eat next.”

He pulled down his Ray Bans to look at me, “You, a salad.”

“I’ve eaten them before.”

Hondo pushed up his shades, “I’ll hold you to it.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll order for us so you aren’t an oath breake

r.”

“It’s not an oath, it’s a salad.”

“You meant it as an oath. An oath of healthy eating, that’s what you meant even if you didn’t say it out loud.”

“Okay,” I said.

“You’re not going to argue?”

“No, you’re right. And thank you.” Hondo looked at me, but I couldn’t see his eyes behind the shades. I said, “I’m serious, thanks.” I didn’t feel a need to tell him I planned to put a T-bone on it.

The sun hovered above the horizon like an orange ball as we entered the Casa Loma section of town. I drove slowly, checking things as we went, all the while getting closer to the house where they murdered TJ.

We stopped in front of it, but saw no sign of activity, not even an indication anyone had been there recently. I pulled away from the curb just as my eleven-year old friend from last time waved me down.

He slid his bike sideways so it stopped beside my driver’s window. “Who you looking for this time?” He asked.

“Do you remember the guy, looked like an Indian?”

“Sure.”

“We’re looking for him.”

“He moved. He’s off of Watts Street, in a different house. Him and those two big black guys. They’re hiding, I think.”

I pulled a twenty from my wallet and handed it to him, “Want to show us?”

“Sure.” He pedaled away, glancing back to see if I still followed before he accelerated. We covered several blocks, and went into an alley and out the other side near open fields. He stopped and waited for me to pull beside him. “You need to park that pickup here and we can go the rest of the way on foot.”

I said, “How come we can’t drive?”

He sighed and rolled his eyes at me, “Because there is no road, and because your truck sticks out like a sore thumb. You need to walk. It’s not far, just over there.” He pointed to a small cluster of sheds and two old, shotgun style houses. Farm equipment lay scattered around the sheds, with some looking like trash while others appeared useable.

As we walked beside a long hedgerow of oleander that shielded us from the houses, I asked the boy, “What’s your name?”

“Adan.” He pronounced it Ah-DAHN.

“You have a last name?”

“Gonzales. What are your names?”

We told him and he nodded. He said, “There’s people coming and going at this place, but the one I mostly see is the man who looked like an Indian until he cut off his braids. Now he looks regular. And there’s the two big black guys.”

“You think they’re hiding?”

“Uh-huh. I’ve only seen them a couple times. Others come and go, but they never leave the place. I went there one night and checked the house, peeked in the window. They were inside.”