resulted in the American Punitive Expedition.
"Many here, however, believe the arch killer's head was filched from the tomb for surreptitious sale to some institution ... Conditions about the grave offered small aid to solution of the mystery except it must have taken a number of strong men to dislodge the weighty concrete covering slab. Liquor bottles and corks smelling of pungent chemicals found near the grave are unaccounted for. The body was left partly exposed to view, apparently having been moved only enough for the decapitators to do their work. Villa was buried here in 1923, following his death at the hands of some disgruntled henchmen."
Bud whistled low. " Outré . And some real over-the-top prose there."
I sighed and rubbed my eyes. "Like you said. You know, a part of me thought maybe old Wade was full of shit. But this..." My observation hung there, unfinished.
I felt cold steel at the back of my neck. Bud already had his hands up.
Fuck on a bicycle .
I turned, slow-like. A man in a business suit had a gun pointed at my head. He was some goddamned El Paso Republican, I suspected. He was wearing a virgin-white straw cowboy hat. And, no shit, he had what looked like a starched bandana tied around the bottom of his face, coming down to a triangle point that didn't quite cover his brace of chins. The bandana was too clean and showed iron lines. With the suit and that crisp white hat, the pearl-handled .45 in his shaking right hand ... well, Christ, it was like being robbed at gunpoint by some queer tenderfoot.
Fuck this .
The "bandit" spoke, a scared quaver in his voice, "The bastard's head --- where is it?"
My God --- he said "bastard" like he was saying "scoundrel," or "bounder."
Jesus .
"Here," I said. I reached down, lifted the carpetbag and then flung it at him. The gun pointed skyward as he involuntarily tucked his arms to catch the bagged head. With my left hand, I grabbed his gun hand --- kept that sucker pointed skyward. I tugged down his bandana with my right hand. That move seemed to startle him even more, although it really shouldn't have, 'cause I surely didn't recognize him.
I pulled back, then swung hard between his eyes, throwing everything I had. My right knee followed, driven hard into his groin. As he doubled over, I flicked off his cowboy hat, got a handful of hair, and drove his face down into my again-rising knee. He fell to the floor --- already out cold and sporting a brand new face.
Bud was slack-jawed. I shrugged and picked up the carpetbag. I tossed the bag to Bud. I tucked the pearl-handled .45 in my waistband.
Me and my poet, we were swiftly building ourselves an arsenal.
"Just couldn't bear to lose another head this soon, 'specially to the likes of that one," I said to Bud. "We're going through these skulls like a drunken sailor on shore-leave in a whore house on nickel night. I'm feelin' decidedly stingy now." I reached down and picked up the bastard's white cowboy hat. It was too small for my head. (Old man used to tell me, "Hec, you've got yourself a head like a bastard cat." My mother used to make cracks, too, but I figured she'd had first-hand experience with that big old head of mine that my pap hadn't had, so I gave her a pass.)
I planted the hat on Bud and he suddenly had half-assed character.
We strode out into the newspaper's front office.
The receptionist stared at us, open-mouthed under her wicked black beehive. Her eyes were wide behind rhinestone cat's-eye spectacles. "Fetch yourself a camera, sweetheart," I said in my foghorn drawl. "I think there's a breaking news story stretched out cold in back there for you."
8
It was a very bad night for me.
I had awesomely bad dreams, riddled with strange imagery. Sad thing was, it was all rooted in recent history.
Ice cubes ... so many ice cubes.
Hypodermics.
My little black-haired, black-eyed daughter, squeezing my callused thumb in her tiny hand and whispering "Daddy" as the darkness closed over her.
Her
"Many here, however, believe the arch killer's head was filched from the tomb for surreptitious sale to some institution ... Conditions about the grave offered small aid to solution of the mystery except it must have taken a number of strong men to dislodge the weighty concrete covering slab. Liquor bottles and corks smelling of pungent chemicals found near the grave are unaccounted for. The body was left partly exposed to view, apparently having been moved only enough for the decapitators to do their work. Villa was buried here in 1923, following his death at the hands of some disgruntled henchmen."
Bud whistled low. " Outré . And some real over-the-top prose there."
I sighed and rubbed my eyes. "Like you said. You know, a part of me thought maybe old Wade was full of shit. But this..." My observation hung there, unfinished.
I felt cold steel at the back of my neck. Bud already had his hands up.
Fuck on a bicycle .
I turned, slow-like. A man in a business suit had a gun pointed at my head. He was some goddamned El Paso Republican, I suspected. He was wearing a virgin-white straw cowboy hat. And, no shit, he had what looked like a starched bandana tied around the bottom of his face, coming down to a triangle point that didn't quite cover his brace of chins. The bandana was too clean and showed iron lines. With the suit and that crisp white hat, the pearl-handled .45 in his shaking right hand ... well, Christ, it was like being robbed at gunpoint by some queer tenderfoot.
Fuck this .
The "bandit" spoke, a scared quaver in his voice, "The bastard's head --- where is it?"
My God --- he said "bastard" like he was saying "scoundrel," or "bounder."
Jesus .
"Here," I said. I reached down, lifted the carpetbag and then flung it at him. The gun pointed skyward as he involuntarily tucked his arms to catch the bagged head. With my left hand, I grabbed his gun hand --- kept that sucker pointed skyward. I tugged down his bandana with my right hand. That move seemed to startle him even more, although it really shouldn't have, 'cause I surely didn't recognize him.
I pulled back, then swung hard between his eyes, throwing everything I had. My right knee followed, driven hard into his groin. As he doubled over, I flicked off his cowboy hat, got a handful of hair, and drove his face down into my again-rising knee. He fell to the floor --- already out cold and sporting a brand new face.
Bud was slack-jawed. I shrugged and picked up the carpetbag. I tossed the bag to Bud. I tucked the pearl-handled .45 in my waistband.
Me and my poet, we were swiftly building ourselves an arsenal.
"Just couldn't bear to lose another head this soon, 'specially to the likes of that one," I said to Bud. "We're going through these skulls like a drunken sailor on shore-leave in a whore house on nickel night. I'm feelin' decidedly stingy now." I reached down and picked up the bastard's white cowboy hat. It was too small for my head. (Old man used to tell me, "Hec, you've got yourself a head like a bastard cat." My mother used to make cracks, too, but I figured she'd had first-hand experience with that big old head of mine that my pap hadn't had, so I gave her a pass.)
I planted the hat on Bud and he suddenly had half-assed character.
We strode out into the newspaper's front office.
The receptionist stared at us, open-mouthed under her wicked black beehive. Her eyes were wide behind rhinestone cat's-eye spectacles. "Fetch yourself a camera, sweetheart," I said in my foghorn drawl. "I think there's a breaking news story stretched out cold in back there for you."
8
It was a very bad night for me.
I had awesomely bad dreams, riddled with strange imagery. Sad thing was, it was all rooted in recent history.
Ice cubes ... so many ice cubes.
Hypodermics.
My little black-haired, black-eyed daughter, squeezing my callused thumb in her tiny hand and whispering "Daddy" as the darkness closed over her.
Her
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