Читать книгу Devils And Dust - J.D. Rhoades - Страница 5

THE JEFE affectionately called him El Poeta—the Poet. It had nothing to do with literary talent; in fact, the man driving the truck was almost completely illiterate. The nickname was in honor of the man’s ability to curse. El Poeta was a virtuoso of invective. The jefe once said El Poeta could curse for twenty minutes and not repeat himself once.

The road he was driving gave him plenty of inspiration. The old truck bounced and rattled over the corrugated surface, abusing El Poeta’s spine mercilessly.

“Hijo de mil putas!” He spat as the truck bottomed out on a particularly bad pothole. “Me cago en la leche de tu puta madre!” It was unclear if his rage was directed against the road, the truck, or the world in general.

Someone banged on the wall of the truck, behind El Poeta’s head. “Parate, pinche idiota!” he shouted back. This close to the border was no place to stop for a piss break. That’s what the buckets in the cargo area were for. If they sloshed a bit because of the bad road, that wasn’t El Poeta’s problem. This was the road he knew the Border Patrol never watched. El Poeta didn’t know if they just didn’t know about it or if some palms had been greased to make them look the other way, and he didn’t give a damn. His job was to drive the big truck to a deserted area just north of the border, hand each of the pollos in the back two bottles of water, point the way north, and get the hell out. It was up to them to figure it out from there. He slowed, stuck his head out the window, and squinted at the sky. It was still full dark, the stars glittering coldly above.

Suddenly, El Poeta saw headlights ahead. “Mierda!” he muttered. This road had always been clear before. As he drew closer, he saw two sets of lights, both belonging to large SUVs. They were side by side facing toward him, blocking the road.

Border Patrol. It could be no one else.

“Me cago en Dios y los trescientos sesenta y cinco santos del año!” El Poeta snarled in frustration as he pulled the truck to a stop. He briefly thought of bailing out and running for it, but he knew that would be idiotic. Even if he did manage to outrun the officers, he’d be stuck in the middle of the pinche scrubland with no pinche water and no pinche way home. No, he was fucked and he knew it. The headlights picked out a man dressed in a dark-green uniform and Smokey Bear hat striding toward the truck. El Poeta rolled down the window. He blinked as a flashlight was shined in his face.

The officer didn’t speak for a moment. Then, “Fuera del carro. Manos en el aire.” The man’s Spanish accent was terrible.

El Poeta obeyed and climbed out of the truck. He put his hands in the air, grinning in what he hoped was a placating manner.

“En sus rodillas,” the voice growled.

El Poeta was puzzled. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Still, they had the guns. Slowly, he got down on his knees. Another uniformed man walked past him, to check out the back of the truck, El Poeta assumed. He couldn’t see the faces of the men in the glare of the flashlight, but he did see a shotgun. A third man was climbing into the truck. El Poeta heard the engine fire back up. The driver dangled an arm out the window. El Poeta could see the network of tattoos covering the exposed flesh below the short sleeve. They looked like spider webs, wrapped around the man’s forearm.

El Poeta’s forehead wrinkled. “Hey,” he said in English. “What the fuck…” it was the last thing he said before the man behind him blew off his head with the shotgun.