Page 49 of Making His Bones

Wolf said, “Slayer claimed this road leads to their main trailer where they make el licore destilado. Hey, check out the kids.”

About ten pubescent Latino kids were clogging the roadway, but they weren’t looking in our direction. They clung to each other, wearing nothing but tattered shorts in some cases, covered in rust-colored dust. Is this where they waited to get sent back into the desert?

“What are they looking at?” I wondered.

“Well,” said Wolf, “I have to stop. Lytton, you know Spanish the best.”

So Wolf put the truck into neutral while Lytton got out and questioned the kids who clustered around him. I heard the words Pitchfork, el licore destilado ilegalmente, and luz de la luna. I also heard him call Gray actor gabacho. Almost to a man, the kids pointed at the road ahead.

Lytton came back and clambered in. The kids parted to let us through, giggling and laughing like shooting a man out of the sky was the ultimate in hilarity. Well, it was probably the highlight of their month.

“It’s right over the bend,” said Lytton. “They’re hanging back here because they’re afraid of the Pitchforks, afraid they’ll get trucked out to the desert. They know that happens because one kid escaped at a gas station and returned here to his friends and told them. But they have nowhere else to go. They’re hoping they get chosen to make another border run instead of performing in these shitty movies. They said there’s a gabacho out there in front of the trailer.”

When Wolf slowly moved the truck, I felt like we were on the Mekong Delta, the way the kids parted, looking at us round-eyed in awe, some with walking sticks in their hands. Were we on a mission? When it ended, would we ever want another?

But when we slowly slid down the last sandy hill, I saw Gray kneeling in the sand, bleeding, his wrists cuffed in front of him.

I just lost it.

Ignoring Lytton’s calls for staying put, I flung open my door before Wolf’s truck even stopped moving. “Gray, Gray!” I cried. Hurling myself on the ground in front of him, I slid a foot, churning up a small cloud of sand. I was aware of that hairy old man standing over Gray clutching an AK-47 rifle backwards, and I was painfully aware of the blood on Gray’s wrists, his abdomen.

“Oh God, Elektra, you shouldn’t be here!”

“Neither should you!” I grabbed his neck and kissed his forehead forcefully before turning my face to the doddering old geez. It was that fucked-up old preacher, Bud. “What the fuck are you doing? Why do you have my fiancé handcuffed? What the fuck are you charging him with, you fucking backward banjostrings?”

Seeing red. I knew the feeling now. My vision was actually clouded with a vengeful, rage-filled orange hue. I couldn’t recall being that enraged since they’d held me in the jail cell for a week after Delilah died. If I had known his wingsuit would result in this, I would’ve burned it in our backyard!

Bud put his gun stock on the ground and leaned on it casually, like he just used it for a cane. Lytton and Wolf backed me up, guns in hand.

Bud stuttered, “This here fellah was trespassing, Miss Spinoza. I didn’t realize you knew him.”

“We’re engaged!” I lied, fire in my lungs. “And why is he bleeding?”

Bud was much quicker with that. “My son here shot him out of the sky.”

Upton yelled, “He was trespassing!”

Dave DeFreeze stepped forward and tipped the brim of his cap at Lytton. “Mr. Driving Hawk. This is all a huge mistake.”

“I’ll say,” said Lytton.

“Come on, stand,” I said quietly to Gray. His eyes glimmered with such gratitude, I wanted to fuck him on the spot. “Get in the truck.”

Gray stood and raised his bound wrists. “Does anyone have a good knife?”

DeFreeze stepped forward. “I can get those off.” He had some kind of wire cutters, and I let him approach Gray.

Lytton said, “No charges then?”

DeFreeze said, “No charges at all. He was in public air space. This idiot’s just worried ‘cause you probably saw his stills.”

“It’s legal to make your own booze!” yelled Upton.

Gray regained some bravery. “What about him shooting me?” he shouted at DeFreeze as he flexed his arms by punching his hand.

DeFreeze said, “That’s a whole different issue. You’d have to press charges.”

Gray looked darkly at Lytton. I knew by now that motorcycle clubs didn’t do things that way. They’d get revenge on the moonshiner some other way.