Feast Day of Fools (Hackberry Holland 3)

“Yeah, how about getting your shitbox off the road? Also, find a public restroom and stop polluting the countryside. There’s one at the truck stop up on the four-lane. It’s got a dispenser of toilet-seat covers on the wall. The sign on the dispenser says MEXICAN PLACE MATS. That’s how you’ll know you’re in the restroom.”

“This is a funny guy here,” the man called back to his friend. “Come up here and listen. He is very funny.”

Cody looked in his rearview mirror and could see only a dim glow from the compound of the Asian woman. The stars seemed to arch overhead and stretch beyond the horizon and curve over the earth’s rim. “I need to get about my business. How about it?” He lifted his finger to indicate their vehicle, but his hand felt disconnected from his wrist, lighter than it should.

“What is your business, señor?” said the man with a jaw like a mule’s shoe, leaning in the window, his breath rife with onions and mescal, the whites of his eyes a watery red.

“I’m a preacher.”

“Hey, jefe, the funny gringo is a preacher. That’s why he called my car a shitbox and shone his headlights on us while we were relieving ourselves.”

The second man approached Cody’s window, touching his friend on the shoulder, indicating he should move aside. “That’s right? You’re a preacher?” he said.

“Reverend Cody Daniels. But I got to be getting on my way.”

“You work with La Magdalena?”

“I’m just a neighbor making a neighborly visit. I live up yonder, in the bluffs. I got people waiting on me.”

The tall man’s shoulders seemed unnaturally wide for his thin waist. His profile made Cody think of an ax blade. “Why are you so nervous?” the man asked. “I do something to make you nervous? You have never seen somebody relieve himself on a road in the dark?”

“You got a pistol stuck down in your belt. That’s what some might call carrying a concealed weapon. In this county I wouldn’t mess with the law.”

The tall man fingered his cheek, then pointed at Cody. “I think I know you.”

“No, sir, I don’t think that’s the case.”

The tall man jiggled his finger playfully. “You are like me, a hunter. I’ve seen you down on the border. You hunt coyotes. Except these are coyotes with two feet.”

“Not me. No, sir.”

“No? You’re not the man who likes to look through a telescope?”

“I just want to be on my way.”

“What did you see up there at the house of la china?”

“Of la what?”

“You seem like one stupid gringo, my friend. Do I have to say it again?”

“If you’re talking about the Chinese woman, I saw the same thing you saw through your binoculars—a bunch of people stuffing food in their faces.”

“You were watching us?”

“No, sir, I passed you on the road here, that’s all. I wasn’t paying y’all any mind.”

“You’re one big liar, gringo.”

“That woman up yonder is your problem, not me.”

“You’re a cobarde, too.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You’re a coward. You stink of fear. I think maybe you’re a cobarde that shot at me once. A man up in the rocks with a rifle. You were far away, safe from somebody shooting back at you.”

“No, sir,” Cody said, shaking his head.