what is that? A dog can make puppies.
Someday, his name will mean something.
And if he dies in the attempt, he will be forever honored as a man.
Those who guard the border know none of this.
There is no gate. The patrols are as random as the packs of bandits that live in the lawless land between hell and Paradise. But not as merciful.
I am no coyote. Those who hire me are not crammed into an airless truck, to be abandoned at the first sign of danger. I am no deliverer of cargo; I am a warrior.
The dreamers pay me to fight. And to guarantee that they are never, ever taken alive. Everyone knows what happens to those who are taken by the bandits. The tapes—the ones the bosses make inside their castles—they are sold even here. But anyone with the kind of money it would take to buy such tapes would not need to cross the border. For them, for the
narco-reys
, Paradise is on this side of the border.
I take anyone who has the money. I make a run only every two or three months, and I must be paid in advance. That money does not come with me—I, too, have my own obligations.
It sometimes takes years for me to be paid. Years before I take a person across. I keep records, and I never cheat. This is the opposite of the way some do it, I have heard. Some take them across, and wait to be paid with the money they send back. This I cannotdo. Part of my pay demands that I must make sure they are not taken alive. How could they pay me then?
This business came to me from my father. My father’s father before. Our family; this is what we do.
The truck I use, that is always new. But the business, that has been here since before there were such things.
I drive by night, without lights. The sounds of the truck carry through the open air, but not so far. The sound of my weapons carries a greater distance, but gunshots in the desert carry no significance.
I have electronic equipment, too. And explosives. My truck is camouflaged, but it flies a flag. Our family’s flag, at the very top of one of the antennas.
Most of the bandits know that flag. They are not fighters; they are carrion-eaters. They know there will always be other trucks, carrying much easier prey. They do not interfere … at least, not anymore.
I take the border-crossers to the gateway, but I never follow them across. On each drive back, I pray they find their Paradise.
Sometimes, I cry because I had to send them to Paradise myself.
But I have my work. My oldest son is almost twelve. Soon, he will start riding with me.
My name will live through him, as my father’s does through me.
That is my Paradise.
for Michael A. Black
VEIL’S VISIT
By Joe R. Lansdale and Andrew Vachss
1
Leonard eyed Veil for a long hard moment, said, “If you’re a lawyer, then I can shit a perfectly round turd through a hoop at twenty paces. Blindfolded.”
“I am a lawyer,” Veil said. “But I’ll let your accomplishments speak for themselves.”
Veil was average height, dark hair touched with gray, one good eye. The other one roamed a little. He had a beard that could have been used as a Brillo pad, and he was dressed in an expensive suit and shiny shoes, a fancy wristwatch and ring. He was the only guy I’d ever seen with the kind of presence Leonard has. Scary.
“You still don’t look like any kind of lawyer to me,” Leonard said.
“He means that as a compliment,” I said to Veil. “Leonard doesn’t think real highly of your brethren at the bar.”
“Oh, you’re a bigot?” Veil asked pleasantly, looking directly at Leonard with his one good eye. A very icy eye indeed—I remembered it well.
“The fuck you talking about? Lawyers are all right. They got their purpose. You never know when you might want one of them to weigh down a rock at the bottom of a lake.” Leonard’s tone had shifted from mildly inquisitive to that of a man who might like to perform a live dissection.
“You think all lawyers are alike, right? But if I said all blacks are alike,
Someday, his name will mean something.
And if he dies in the attempt, he will be forever honored as a man.
Those who guard the border know none of this.
There is no gate. The patrols are as random as the packs of bandits that live in the lawless land between hell and Paradise. But not as merciful.
I am no coyote. Those who hire me are not crammed into an airless truck, to be abandoned at the first sign of danger. I am no deliverer of cargo; I am a warrior.
The dreamers pay me to fight. And to guarantee that they are never, ever taken alive. Everyone knows what happens to those who are taken by the bandits. The tapes—the ones the bosses make inside their castles—they are sold even here. But anyone with the kind of money it would take to buy such tapes would not need to cross the border. For them, for the
narco-reys
, Paradise is on this side of the border.
I take anyone who has the money. I make a run only every two or three months, and I must be paid in advance. That money does not come with me—I, too, have my own obligations.
It sometimes takes years for me to be paid. Years before I take a person across. I keep records, and I never cheat. This is the opposite of the way some do it, I have heard. Some take them across, and wait to be paid with the money they send back. This I cannotdo. Part of my pay demands that I must make sure they are not taken alive. How could they pay me then?
This business came to me from my father. My father’s father before. Our family; this is what we do.
The truck I use, that is always new. But the business, that has been here since before there were such things.
I drive by night, without lights. The sounds of the truck carry through the open air, but not so far. The sound of my weapons carries a greater distance, but gunshots in the desert carry no significance.
I have electronic equipment, too. And explosives. My truck is camouflaged, but it flies a flag. Our family’s flag, at the very top of one of the antennas.
Most of the bandits know that flag. They are not fighters; they are carrion-eaters. They know there will always be other trucks, carrying much easier prey. They do not interfere … at least, not anymore.
I take the border-crossers to the gateway, but I never follow them across. On each drive back, I pray they find their Paradise.
Sometimes, I cry because I had to send them to Paradise myself.
But I have my work. My oldest son is almost twelve. Soon, he will start riding with me.
My name will live through him, as my father’s does through me.
That is my Paradise.
for Michael A. Black
VEIL’S VISIT
By Joe R. Lansdale and Andrew Vachss
1
Leonard eyed Veil for a long hard moment, said, “If you’re a lawyer, then I can shit a perfectly round turd through a hoop at twenty paces. Blindfolded.”
“I am a lawyer,” Veil said. “But I’ll let your accomplishments speak for themselves.”
Veil was average height, dark hair touched with gray, one good eye. The other one roamed a little. He had a beard that could have been used as a Brillo pad, and he was dressed in an expensive suit and shiny shoes, a fancy wristwatch and ring. He was the only guy I’d ever seen with the kind of presence Leonard has. Scary.
“You still don’t look like any kind of lawyer to me,” Leonard said.
“He means that as a compliment,” I said to Veil. “Leonard doesn’t think real highly of your brethren at the bar.”
“Oh, you’re a bigot?” Veil asked pleasantly, looking directly at Leonard with his one good eye. A very icy eye indeed—I remembered it well.
“The fuck you talking about? Lawyers are all right. They got their purpose. You never know when you might want one of them to weigh down a rock at the bottom of a lake.” Leonard’s tone had shifted from mildly inquisitive to that of a man who might like to perform a live dissection.
“You think all lawyers are alike, right? But if I said all blacks are alike,
Similar Books
