Middle East or Guatemala… or Mexico. True, they weren’t as disciplined as their newer versions. And, true, they tended
to be eccentric. But they had their own strengths. Individualism and eccentricity always seemed to be the other side of the
creative mind.
The Lear’s engines shifted in pitch, and the co-pilot announced over the intercom they were beginning their descent into San
Antonio for refueling. Weatherford looked over at Walter McGrane and grinned. “Just who is it we’re after, this time? All
we were told was to gather up our gear and get over to Andrews.”
“Man named Clayton Price.”
“Don’t believe I’ve heard of him. That never matters, though, does it?”
“It might this time,” said Walter McGrane.
“Why’s that?”
“He’s one of us. Going up against Clayton Price is like shooting pool with Pool itself.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means after you finish making love to that rifle, you might want to glance at the notes I prepared for you.”
“Right, I’ll do that.”
“Yes,” Walter McGrane said, “be sure and do that. And remind me to tell you sometime about what he went through in Vietnam,
after his capture by the VC.”
“Bad?”
Walter McGrane looked Weatherford straight in the eyes and shook his head slowly back and forth, said nothing, and returned
to studying his maps.
GYPSY MUSIC
T wenty minutes after turning west off Route 200, Danny got lost in Zacualtan, feeling ugly and incompetent about it. Not much
of a town, but the streets all seemed to end in fields or at somebody’s front porch. He and Luz had driven this route once
before on a weekend outing, and she remembered something about the plaza. Turn there, maybe. Danny drove back through town,
made the turn, and three blocks later they were heading up the coast road, in open country again. The shooter was quiet, desert
boot tapping slowly on the dashboard.
This was backcountry rural, where anything might be wandering on or across the road. Animals, in particular, liked to lie
on the warm pavement when the night cool settled in and sometimes shared that space with drunks. Danny held the Bronco back,
which wasn’t hard since Vito complained and got out of sorts at anything exceeding fifty.
Around three A.M. , the pavement ended at a barricade of hundred-pound rocks painted white and marked with the words
“NO PASEO.”
Danny whacked the steering wheel. “Shit.”
Nothing about a detour, nothing in the way of directions. When they’d come this way a couple of years back, there was no problem,
pavement all the way. Rough, but passable then.
Luz rescued them for the second time in forty-five minutes. “Danny, bus going through village.”
“Where?”
“Down hill, over there.”
Danny looked down to his left and saw the lights of a bus moving at about three miles an hour, its headlights illuminating
trees and houses. He retreated down the hill and took the Bronco into the village, figuring the bus-driver knew something
they didn’t, something about a detour. Danny tried to guess where the bus had come through the narrow dirt streets winding
into one another. He made a left turn at what he thought was a road and ended up in a creek bed, where the headlights startled
roosting chickens and sleeping pigs. Finally he worked his way through the village, made the right choice at a Y intersection,
and got back up on the main road. After a mile of fine dust blowing into the Bronco and covering everything inside with a
kind of brownish red talcum powder, they passed two bulldozers sitting in the dark and hit hard surface again.
They were moving along the edge of a high cliff dropping off toward the Pacific and could see the lights of Santa Cruz, and
San Bias farther on, a long way to the north. Dawn coming up on the other side of the coastal mountains. Danny estimated they
were an hour out of San Bias and drove carefully around curve after curve, with jungle
to be eccentric. But they had their own strengths. Individualism and eccentricity always seemed to be the other side of the
creative mind.
The Lear’s engines shifted in pitch, and the co-pilot announced over the intercom they were beginning their descent into San
Antonio for refueling. Weatherford looked over at Walter McGrane and grinned. “Just who is it we’re after, this time? All
we were told was to gather up our gear and get over to Andrews.”
“Man named Clayton Price.”
“Don’t believe I’ve heard of him. That never matters, though, does it?”
“It might this time,” said Walter McGrane.
“Why’s that?”
“He’s one of us. Going up against Clayton Price is like shooting pool with Pool itself.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means after you finish making love to that rifle, you might want to glance at the notes I prepared for you.”
“Right, I’ll do that.”
“Yes,” Walter McGrane said, “be sure and do that. And remind me to tell you sometime about what he went through in Vietnam,
after his capture by the VC.”
“Bad?”
Walter McGrane looked Weatherford straight in the eyes and shook his head slowly back and forth, said nothing, and returned
to studying his maps.
GYPSY MUSIC
T wenty minutes after turning west off Route 200, Danny got lost in Zacualtan, feeling ugly and incompetent about it. Not much
of a town, but the streets all seemed to end in fields or at somebody’s front porch. He and Luz had driven this route once
before on a weekend outing, and she remembered something about the plaza. Turn there, maybe. Danny drove back through town,
made the turn, and three blocks later they were heading up the coast road, in open country again. The shooter was quiet, desert
boot tapping slowly on the dashboard.
This was backcountry rural, where anything might be wandering on or across the road. Animals, in particular, liked to lie
on the warm pavement when the night cool settled in and sometimes shared that space with drunks. Danny held the Bronco back,
which wasn’t hard since Vito complained and got out of sorts at anything exceeding fifty.
Around three A.M. , the pavement ended at a barricade of hundred-pound rocks painted white and marked with the words
“NO PASEO.”
Danny whacked the steering wheel. “Shit.”
Nothing about a detour, nothing in the way of directions. When they’d come this way a couple of years back, there was no problem,
pavement all the way. Rough, but passable then.
Luz rescued them for the second time in forty-five minutes. “Danny, bus going through village.”
“Where?”
“Down hill, over there.”
Danny looked down to his left and saw the lights of a bus moving at about three miles an hour, its headlights illuminating
trees and houses. He retreated down the hill and took the Bronco into the village, figuring the bus-driver knew something
they didn’t, something about a detour. Danny tried to guess where the bus had come through the narrow dirt streets winding
into one another. He made a left turn at what he thought was a road and ended up in a creek bed, where the headlights startled
roosting chickens and sleeping pigs. Finally he worked his way through the village, made the right choice at a Y intersection,
and got back up on the main road. After a mile of fine dust blowing into the Bronco and covering everything inside with a
kind of brownish red talcum powder, they passed two bulldozers sitting in the dark and hit hard surface again.
They were moving along the edge of a high cliff dropping off toward the Pacific and could see the lights of Santa Cruz, and
San Bias farther on, a long way to the north. Dawn coming up on the other side of the coastal mountains. Danny estimated they
were an hour out of San Bias and drove carefully around curve after curve, with jungle
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