the shooter said. “I’ve always been fascinated with writers. So if it’s not writer’s block, what is it?”
Danny had started out to interview the shooter. But the shooter was curling things back around on him, doing a neat Socratic
sideslip.
“Like I said before, calling it writer’s block kind of lets you off the hook. When I’m writing and get stuck, I prefer to
think of it as a conceptual problem I have to work out. Intellectual gridlock you’ve got to get by.”
“I like that.” The shooter unscrewed the top of a water jug and took a long drink, replaced the top. “Puts the responsibility
back on yourself rather than thinking some mysterious outside force is in control of your destiny.”
“You don’t believe in outside forces? In bad luck?”
“Not much. I suppose it happens. But a whole lot of people blame their predicaments on bad luck rather than taking responsibility
for the situation they’ve gotten themselves into and for getting out of that situation and on to something better, You‘re
about entitled to what you get and not too much more.”
Danny tried to climb back on top of the dialogue, ’”fou travel a lot in your line of work?”
“Quite a bit. How’d you end up in Puerto Vallarta? Not running from the IRS, I hope.”
Damn, if this was some kind of Socratic game, the shooter was good. One of Danny’s old professors in journalism school used
to say, “Ask short questions, keep
them
talking, avoid the tendency to get into a lecture yourself.”
“Got divorced a while back. Running from her and the memories, not the IRS. Looking for warmer weather. Just drifted down
here. Where do your travels take you?”
The shooter flipped his cigarette out, and Danny could see sparks in the rearview mirror where it hit the pavement. “Wherever
there’s something gunking up the system. Like I said, garbage cleanup. What do you think of those two guys back in Puerto
Vallarta… Willie and Lobo? Like their music?”
““feah, how’d you know?” Danny looked over at him, looked quick, then stared at the road.
“Saw you and her in a place the other night.” The shooter canted his head back toward where Luz was sleeping. “Seemed like
you were having a good time, dancing around the tables and all that. What’s that place called? Seafood soup, green salads…”
“You mean Mamma Mia?” Danny had a strange feeling that someone was swinging a big stick from behind him where he couldn’t
see it coming.
“That’s it… Mamma Mia. I thought the music was pretty decent. Has a certain power, certain energy to it, don’t you think?
What kind of music would you call it? Never heard anything quite like it before.”
“I don’t know. Willie and Lobo call it ‘gypsy-jazz’ or something along those lines.”
They were running hard down a long hill, coming into Santa Cruz, jungle giving way to fields. In spaces between the trees
Danny could see breakers hitting the shore a few miles west of them. Farther out and beyond mountain shadow, the ocean was
colored soft rose. A hundred miles south of them, Walter McGrane’s Learjet was beginning its descent into Puerto Vallarta.
The shooter bent over, reached in a side pocket of his knapsack, and took out a fresh pack of Marlboros. “The world can never
have too much gypsy music.”
Danny thought about that and it seemed right, some elemental truth. Seemed like there was something in what the shooter had
said that went beyond music. Something to do with firelight and fast guitars and the stamp of bare feet near painted wagons
that would roll when morning came. Something to do with moving quick and living off your wits, like the shooter was doing,
like Danny was trying to do.
The road curved west for a mile and took them down to the outskirts of Santa Cruz. Danny turned right and ran parallel to
the Pacific, which was a block or so to their left, past cottages for rent and cottages for sale. Mexican
Danny had started out to interview the shooter. But the shooter was curling things back around on him, doing a neat Socratic
sideslip.
“Like I said before, calling it writer’s block kind of lets you off the hook. When I’m writing and get stuck, I prefer to
think of it as a conceptual problem I have to work out. Intellectual gridlock you’ve got to get by.”
“I like that.” The shooter unscrewed the top of a water jug and took a long drink, replaced the top. “Puts the responsibility
back on yourself rather than thinking some mysterious outside force is in control of your destiny.”
“You don’t believe in outside forces? In bad luck?”
“Not much. I suppose it happens. But a whole lot of people blame their predicaments on bad luck rather than taking responsibility
for the situation they’ve gotten themselves into and for getting out of that situation and on to something better, You‘re
about entitled to what you get and not too much more.”
Danny tried to climb back on top of the dialogue, ’”fou travel a lot in your line of work?”
“Quite a bit. How’d you end up in Puerto Vallarta? Not running from the IRS, I hope.”
Damn, if this was some kind of Socratic game, the shooter was good. One of Danny’s old professors in journalism school used
to say, “Ask short questions, keep
them
talking, avoid the tendency to get into a lecture yourself.”
“Got divorced a while back. Running from her and the memories, not the IRS. Looking for warmer weather. Just drifted down
here. Where do your travels take you?”
The shooter flipped his cigarette out, and Danny could see sparks in the rearview mirror where it hit the pavement. “Wherever
there’s something gunking up the system. Like I said, garbage cleanup. What do you think of those two guys back in Puerto
Vallarta… Willie and Lobo? Like their music?”
““feah, how’d you know?” Danny looked over at him, looked quick, then stared at the road.
“Saw you and her in a place the other night.” The shooter canted his head back toward where Luz was sleeping. “Seemed like
you were having a good time, dancing around the tables and all that. What’s that place called? Seafood soup, green salads…”
“You mean Mamma Mia?” Danny had a strange feeling that someone was swinging a big stick from behind him where he couldn’t
see it coming.
“That’s it… Mamma Mia. I thought the music was pretty decent. Has a certain power, certain energy to it, don’t you think?
What kind of music would you call it? Never heard anything quite like it before.”
“I don’t know. Willie and Lobo call it ‘gypsy-jazz’ or something along those lines.”
They were running hard down a long hill, coming into Santa Cruz, jungle giving way to fields. In spaces between the trees
Danny could see breakers hitting the shore a few miles west of them. Farther out and beyond mountain shadow, the ocean was
colored soft rose. A hundred miles south of them, Walter McGrane’s Learjet was beginning its descent into Puerto Vallarta.
The shooter bent over, reached in a side pocket of his knapsack, and took out a fresh pack of Marlboros. “The world can never
have too much gypsy music.”
Danny thought about that and it seemed right, some elemental truth. Seemed like there was something in what the shooter had
said that went beyond music. Something to do with firelight and fast guitars and the stamp of bare feet near painted wagons
that would roll when morning came. Something to do with moving quick and living off your wits, like the shooter was doing,
like Danny was trying to do.
The road curved west for a mile and took them down to the outskirts of Santa Cruz. Danny turned right and ran parallel to
the Pacific, which was a block or so to their left, past cottages for rent and cottages for sale. Mexican
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