Tijuana Straits by Kem Nunn Page A

movie in which they were so quoted but which, regardless of their source, seemed to have some particular application to the life of Sam the Gull Fahey, which Jack Nance was apt to see as both a profound mystery and cautionary tale.

    The cowboys watched as Fahey parked his truck and walked over to where they stood with the burro. He was wearing a filthy pair ofjeans and a sweatshirt with an absurd-looking worm airbrushed across the front. His hair fell to his shoulders, sun-streaked and tangled. In general, he appeared wild and unkempt. His eyes were tucked away behind dark glasses, the lenses black as two chunks of coal, the frames held together with silver duct tape.
    “Where’d you get the zebra?” Fahey asked them.
    The burro had been tricked out with black and white stripes, spray-painted as though it was the product of industry and not a living thing. The street vendors of Tijuana seemed to think it pleased the tourists.
    “Found him on the beach,” Deek said. “What brings you over here? One of your worms get away?”
    Fahey was still looking at the burro. “What part of the beach?” he asked.
    “He was up by Border Field,” Jack told him. “You remember that old storm drain used to run down out of Las Playas? Well, somebody’s dug it out again. Fucking thing runs right under the fence. Been wide open for three weeks. You’d think the border patrol would’ve found it by now.”
    “I guess you could always tell them.”
    Jack just smiled. “Let ’em find it on their own,” he said. “Keeps things interesting.”
    Fahey knew all about the old storm channel, that and every other route of passage between the valley and Mexico. The truth was, he was sorry to hear someone had opened it back up, but he saw no reason to say so. He was thinking about the woman he’d left sleeping in his bed, and for a short time all three men stood there in silence. Fahey looked at the burro. The animal was staring back at him from the side of the trailer, its long ears rotating in the slatted light. “What will you do with it?” Fahey asked.
    “Wash him up, drive him out to the adoption center on the way to Trona.”
    “His good luck then.”
    “No shit. Fish and Game said they put you onto those dogs.”
    “I’ve got three of them in the truck.”
    The men walked over to have a look.
    “Damn,” Deek said. “You got right on top of them.”
    “Actually, it was the other way around.”
    With the woman sleeping, Fahey had risen early and gone to get the dogs. He would stop in at Fish and Game for the bounty, then on to the animal shelter in San Ysidro where the dogs’ bodies could be disposed of. After that he would try to find some medicine for the woman.
    “If someone got sick from the water, what would you give them?” Fahey asked. He waved toward the ocean, a silver strip of which might be seen catching sunlight above the greenery of the valley.
    The cowboys traded looks. “Drinking it or swimming in it?” Deek asked him.
    “Swimming. But there were cuts.”
    Deek looked him over to see if he was talking about himself.
    Fahey waited in the rising heat.
    “Wash the cuts with Betadine,” Jack told him. “Get some Cipro, probably five hundred milligrams twice a day. Bill Daniels told me there were four dogs.”
    “There were these and a border collie. The collie got away.”
    “What happened?” Jack asked him.
    “I shot and missed.”
    The cowboys just looked at him.
    “Okay,” he said at length. “Betadine and Cipro . . . Thanks for the tip.”
    He went to the cab of his truck and got inside.
    Jack Nance waited a moment then walked over to the open window. “Good south swell running,” he said.
    Fahey looked out over the valley, toward Mexico, just long enoughto suggest he might actually be giving the matter of the swell some thought. “Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.” Fahey started the truck.
    “They say we’ve got an El Niño in the works. Suppose to come early.”
    Fahey