El Gavilan Read Online Free PDF

terrified their surviving children, stirring memories of their desert crossing.
    Thalia clung sobbing to her mother, her head ducked down so she didn’t have to look at the “scenery” and arresting terrain that overtaxed their beater car.
    Finally, a chicken farmer took pity on them and pulled over.
    The farmer quickly realized communication was out of the question and shouldered Francisco Gómez aside to check under the hood.
    The chicken farmer was fiftyish; skinny and burned brown by the sun. He ambled back to his truck and fetched a crate of eggs. He pointed at himself, then the engine. The farmer cracked an eggshell and emptied its contents into the radiator.
    He waited and then checked to see that the egg had fried itself over the hole, creating a membrane that temporarily closed over the radiator’s puncture. He poured in more water from one of their jugs, then used a rag to replace the radiator’s cap and closed the hood.
    The farmer handed the crate of eleven remaining eggs to Sofia, who curtsied and said “
Gracias
.” Thalia, a little linguistic sponge, told the farmer, “Thank you.”
    The remaining eggs carried them to Santa Fe, where their car finally overheated and the radiator ruptured, its capacity fatally compromised by the glut of fried eggs inside.
    They broke down in a run-down, Spanish-speaking neighborhood and stayed there two years.
    Her parents were comfortable ensconced in the squalid, Spanish-speaking pocket universe, which kept them poor and slowed their assimilation.
    Nevertheless, Thalia learned creditable English from American cartoons and the children of underprivileged gringos.
    Thalia soon began tutoring her mother in English.

FIVE
    Tell Lyon sat in the corner booth at the rear of Señor Augustin’s, his back to the wall. His plates had been cleared but the empty glasses from his first two Texas margaritas on the rocks had been left uncollected. Tell was halfway through his third drink.
    “Is everything all right? Would you like something more?”
    Tell checked his watch: eight P.M. He smiled up at the young woman and said, “No, I’ve had enough, thanks. It was wonderful. This place is great.” He looked at the three glasses and realized then that he was still in uniform.
    Jesus, too sloppy. Great way to make an impression first night in town, genius.
    The young woman—twenty-three, twenty-four?—smiled. She stroked black hair behind an ear. She was very pretty; personable. She had dark hair and eyes—very much to Tell’s ideal. She said, “You have to be our new police chief. Saw an article about your hiring in the
Recorder
.”
    He put out a hand and nodded. “Tell Lyon.”
    Her hand was warm in his and she squeezed back firmly. “Patricia Maldonado. My parents are Kathleen and Augustin, the owners.” The appraising look she gave him delighted Tell.
    “Your family’s restaurant is truly excellent,” Tell said.
    “And you’d be a great judge,” Patricia said. “The newspaper article said you were a Border Patrol commander before coming here to be our chief.” She spoke with a just detectable Spanish accent. “This is about as real as Mexican food gets in these parts.”
    “I’m sure that’s true,” Tell said.
    “Celebrating the new job?” Her dark eyes checked his hands—his naked fingers.
    “Sure,” he said. “Sorry about the uniform. Makes some people uncomfortable. It’s just that it’s my first full night in town and I stayed late at headquarters. Had to eat before I called it a night and didn’t want to lose more time changing. Everyone said this is the place to come for great Mexican food, and they were right. I’ll make it plainclothes from here on out, I swear.”
    Patricia smiled. “Either way. We’ll just be happy to have you here and often.” She hesitated, then said, “Father would like to comp your meal.”
    That was another downside of wearing the uniform in commerce situations. Tell didn’t use to be so careless. He said,