to the soldiers and once again orders them to cease and desist.
“Look,” Art says, “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Then close your eyes.” Then the man sees the concerned look on Art’s face and adds, “Don’t worry, they won’t touch me. I’m a priest. A bishop, actually.”
A priest?! Art thinks. Go fuck yourself? What the hell kind of priest—excuse me, bishop—uses that kind of …
The thought is interrupted by gunfire.
Art hears the dull pop-pop-pop of AK-47 fire and throws himself to the ground, hugging the dirt as tightly as he can. He looks up to see the priest still standing there—like a lone tree on a prairie now, everyone else having hit the deck—still holding his cross up, shouting at the hills, telling them to stop shooting.
It’s one of the most incredibly brave things Art has ever seen.
Or foolish, or just crazy.
Shit, Art thinks.
He gets to his knees, and then lunges for the priest’s legs, knocks him over and holds him down.
“Bullets don’t know you’re a priest,” Art says to him.
“God will call me when he calls me,” the priest answers.
Well, God damn-near just reached for the phone, Art thinks. He lies in the dirt next to the priest until the shooting stops, then risks another look up and sees the soldiers starting to move away from the village, toward the source of the gunfire.
“Would you happen to have an extra cigarette?” the priest asks.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Puritan.”
“It’ll kill you,” Art says.
“Everything I like will kill me,” the priest answers. “I smoke, I drink, I eat too much. Sexual sublimation, I suppose. I’m Bishop Parada. You can call me Father Juan.”
“You’re a madman, Father Juan.”
“Christ needs madmen,” Parada says, standing up and dusting himself off. He looks around and smiles. “And the village is still here, isn’t it?”
Yeah, Art thinks, because the gomeros started shooting.
“Do you have a name?” the priest asks.
“Art Keller.”
He offers his hand. Parada takes it, asking, “Why are you down here burning my country, Art Keller?”
“Like I said, it’s—”
“Your job,” Parada says. “Shitty job, Arturo.”
He sees Art react to the “Arturo.”
“Well, you’re part Mexican, aren’t you?” Parada asks. “Ethnically?”
“On my mother’s side.”
“I’m part American,” Parada says. “I was born in Texas. My parents were mojados, migrant workers. They took me back to Mexico when I was still a baby. Technically, though, that makes me an American citizen. A Texan, no less.”
“Yee-haw.”
“Hook ‘em, Horns.”
A woman runs up and starts talking to Parada. She’s crying, and speaking so quickly Art has a hard time understanding her. He does pick up a few words, though: Padre Juan and federales and tortura—torture.
Parada turns to Art. “They’re torturing people at a camp near here. Can you put a stop to it?”
Probably not, Art thinks. It’s SOP in Condor. The federales tune them up, and then they sing for us. “Father, I’m not allowed to interfere in the internal matters of—”
“Don’t treat me like an idiot,” the priest says. He has a tone of authority that makes even Art Keller listen. “Let’s get going.”
He walks over and gets into Art’s Jeep. “Come on, get your ass in gear.”
Art gets in, starts the motor and rips it into gear.
When they get to the base camp, Art sees Adán sitting in the back of an open chopper with his hands tied behind his back. A campesino with a hideous greenstick fracture lies beside him.
The chopper is about to take off. The rotors are spinning, kicking dust and pebbles in Art’s face. He jumps out of the Jeep, ducks below the rotors and runs up to the pilot, Phil Hansen.
“Phil, what the hell?!” Art shouts.
Phil grins at
“Look,” Art says, “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Then close your eyes.” Then the man sees the concerned look on Art’s face and adds, “Don’t worry, they won’t touch me. I’m a priest. A bishop, actually.”
A priest?! Art thinks. Go fuck yourself? What the hell kind of priest—excuse me, bishop—uses that kind of …
The thought is interrupted by gunfire.
Art hears the dull pop-pop-pop of AK-47 fire and throws himself to the ground, hugging the dirt as tightly as he can. He looks up to see the priest still standing there—like a lone tree on a prairie now, everyone else having hit the deck—still holding his cross up, shouting at the hills, telling them to stop shooting.
It’s one of the most incredibly brave things Art has ever seen.
Or foolish, or just crazy.
Shit, Art thinks.
He gets to his knees, and then lunges for the priest’s legs, knocks him over and holds him down.
“Bullets don’t know you’re a priest,” Art says to him.
“God will call me when he calls me,” the priest answers.
Well, God damn-near just reached for the phone, Art thinks. He lies in the dirt next to the priest until the shooting stops, then risks another look up and sees the soldiers starting to move away from the village, toward the source of the gunfire.
“Would you happen to have an extra cigarette?” the priest asks.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Puritan.”
“It’ll kill you,” Art says.
“Everything I like will kill me,” the priest answers. “I smoke, I drink, I eat too much. Sexual sublimation, I suppose. I’m Bishop Parada. You can call me Father Juan.”
“You’re a madman, Father Juan.”
“Christ needs madmen,” Parada says, standing up and dusting himself off. He looks around and smiles. “And the village is still here, isn’t it?”
Yeah, Art thinks, because the gomeros started shooting.
“Do you have a name?” the priest asks.
“Art Keller.”
He offers his hand. Parada takes it, asking, “Why are you down here burning my country, Art Keller?”
“Like I said, it’s—”
“Your job,” Parada says. “Shitty job, Arturo.”
He sees Art react to the “Arturo.”
“Well, you’re part Mexican, aren’t you?” Parada asks. “Ethnically?”
“On my mother’s side.”
“I’m part American,” Parada says. “I was born in Texas. My parents were mojados, migrant workers. They took me back to Mexico when I was still a baby. Technically, though, that makes me an American citizen. A Texan, no less.”
“Yee-haw.”
“Hook ‘em, Horns.”
A woman runs up and starts talking to Parada. She’s crying, and speaking so quickly Art has a hard time understanding her. He does pick up a few words, though: Padre Juan and federales and tortura—torture.
Parada turns to Art. “They’re torturing people at a camp near here. Can you put a stop to it?”
Probably not, Art thinks. It’s SOP in Condor. The federales tune them up, and then they sing for us. “Father, I’m not allowed to interfere in the internal matters of—”
“Don’t treat me like an idiot,” the priest says. He has a tone of authority that makes even Art Keller listen. “Let’s get going.”
He walks over and gets into Art’s Jeep. “Come on, get your ass in gear.”
Art gets in, starts the motor and rips it into gear.
When they get to the base camp, Art sees Adán sitting in the back of an open chopper with his hands tied behind his back. A campesino with a hideous greenstick fracture lies beside him.
The chopper is about to take off. The rotors are spinning, kicking dust and pebbles in Art’s face. He jumps out of the Jeep, ducks below the rotors and runs up to the pilot, Phil Hansen.
“Phil, what the hell?!” Art shouts.
Phil grins at
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