Read Online Silver Bullets by Élmer Mendoza, Mark Fried - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Élmer Mendoza, Mark Fried
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to one. It’s love, my son, and there is but one way out; to our eternal disgrace, it’s a fatal trap, remember what happened to me with my lieutenant colonel; you’ve got to just leave it, there’s no other way, sweetie, what, aren’t you a man? Mendieta quickly drained his beer and the tequila. The waiter shook his head hopelessly. The addicted believer abandoned his table; his supplier had not turned up, so he headed off to another dive.
Another beer, then he decided it was time to leave. What would become of man without the night? In the car he swalloweda Ranisen and chewed a Pepto for heartburn. He turned on the stereo, and the Stones’ version of “Like a Rolling Stone” kicked off, which he found both subtle and captivating. Their satanic majesties in style, as loud as could be. He recalled that Milenio Diario had published a list of covers of Stones tunes, which he was sure was incomplete. It did not even have Joe Cocker’s “A Little Help from My Friends,” which is a monument, or Janis’s “To Love Somebody” or “Proud Mary” by Tina Turner. Two black Hummers were double-parked across from the bar. Well, now, for whom do the bells toll? Maybe they went in to celebrate and I’ve just got a suspicious mind. Should he snoop around or hold his curiosity in check? He preferred to keep his distance from the narcos for two reasons: One, his best friend had been artfully peppered with bullets simply for insisting on his fee for taking a suitcase of cocaine to Ciudad Juárez, and that came after they had raped his girlfriend and tortured him. They had gone to school together, and it left a mark that could not be erased. And two, when he was already in the police they tried to take him out twice: once in a memorable gunfight where the car in which he took cover caught fire and the other time when they planted sixty pounds of Novocaine on him so he would lose his job. I slipped free both times, he thought, weary of it all. That very day he resigned from Narcotics and, according to those in the know, from the easy, expedited road to riches.
Eight minutes later, he saw them come out with the cheerleaders and the tranny, get into their vehicles, and peel away, burning rubber.
Once the song ended, he started the Jetta; like a blessing, the way Goga walked to the bathroom filled his mind, but only for an instant. Does sashay come from sachet? Then, listening to the Monkees’ “A Little Bit Me, a Little Bit You,” he drove home to the Col Pop.
Fourteen
It was getting dark. In a small room overlooking the back garden, Marcelo Valdés and his wife were talking. They were drinking fruit-flavored chamomile tea. Three bodyguards were on strict alert. It was your call to settle down here, you said being near your family was what counted. What I really wanted was to get you away from you know who, she gave him a cold look, and if you still have even a drop of shame you won’t make me recall that bitch, she was leafing through a fashion magazine. Valdés ignored her and continued: Now you want us to move back to the country, where do you get the idea it’s a paradise? My love, you’re ill, you’ve got more commitments than you can possibly keep, and I don’t want you to die; I lost my son and I don’t want to lose you. We’re all born to die. But not at the hands of our enemies or from anger; Dr. Elenes says you’d be wise to retire, go back to the country, and live in peace, you can’t handle the stress the way you could before, things are getting tougher every day, and up there we have sky, the plane, enough food for a year; all that’s missing is us. They fell silent, Valdés noticed the darkness growing denser, though they remained in the shadows, the lights in the garden came on. I have created an empirethat will die with me, he moaned as if to himself, but his wife responded: I don’t think Samantha would agree, don’t you see how upset she is about your illness? Look, I think about her a lot,
Another beer, then he decided it was time to leave. What would become of man without the night? In the car he swalloweda Ranisen and chewed a Pepto for heartburn. He turned on the stereo, and the Stones’ version of “Like a Rolling Stone” kicked off, which he found both subtle and captivating. Their satanic majesties in style, as loud as could be. He recalled that Milenio Diario had published a list of covers of Stones tunes, which he was sure was incomplete. It did not even have Joe Cocker’s “A Little Help from My Friends,” which is a monument, or Janis’s “To Love Somebody” or “Proud Mary” by Tina Turner. Two black Hummers were double-parked across from the bar. Well, now, for whom do the bells toll? Maybe they went in to celebrate and I’ve just got a suspicious mind. Should he snoop around or hold his curiosity in check? He preferred to keep his distance from the narcos for two reasons: One, his best friend had been artfully peppered with bullets simply for insisting on his fee for taking a suitcase of cocaine to Ciudad Juárez, and that came after they had raped his girlfriend and tortured him. They had gone to school together, and it left a mark that could not be erased. And two, when he was already in the police they tried to take him out twice: once in a memorable gunfight where the car in which he took cover caught fire and the other time when they planted sixty pounds of Novocaine on him so he would lose his job. I slipped free both times, he thought, weary of it all. That very day he resigned from Narcotics and, according to those in the know, from the easy, expedited road to riches.
Eight minutes later, he saw them come out with the cheerleaders and the tranny, get into their vehicles, and peel away, burning rubber.
Once the song ended, he started the Jetta; like a blessing, the way Goga walked to the bathroom filled his mind, but only for an instant. Does sashay come from sachet? Then, listening to the Monkees’ “A Little Bit Me, a Little Bit You,” he drove home to the Col Pop.
Fourteen
It was getting dark. In a small room overlooking the back garden, Marcelo Valdés and his wife were talking. They were drinking fruit-flavored chamomile tea. Three bodyguards were on strict alert. It was your call to settle down here, you said being near your family was what counted. What I really wanted was to get you away from you know who, she gave him a cold look, and if you still have even a drop of shame you won’t make me recall that bitch, she was leafing through a fashion magazine. Valdés ignored her and continued: Now you want us to move back to the country, where do you get the idea it’s a paradise? My love, you’re ill, you’ve got more commitments than you can possibly keep, and I don’t want you to die; I lost my son and I don’t want to lose you. We’re all born to die. But not at the hands of our enemies or from anger; Dr. Elenes says you’d be wise to retire, go back to the country, and live in peace, you can’t handle the stress the way you could before, things are getting tougher every day, and up there we have sky, the plane, enough food for a year; all that’s missing is us. They fell silent, Valdés noticed the darkness growing denser, though they remained in the shadows, the lights in the garden came on. I have created an empirethat will die with me, he moaned as if to himself, but his wife responded: I don’t think Samantha would agree, don’t you see how upset she is about your illness? Look, I think about her a lot,
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