The Man With the Barbed-Wire Fists

CARNE MUERTA

Curtain tossed the canteen in the dirt, just beyond the reach of the man with the broken hands. Not out of pity or compassion, but as punctuation — a period against the red earth, big and round and implacable and unmoving.

Leaving the canteen was only a gesture. Curtain had broken Sanchez’s hands with a claw hammer while Kirby and Wyatt held the Mexican. Now Sanchez’s fingers were twisted and swollen like rotten sausages. Even so, Curtain had done a good job tightening the cap on the canteen. Sanchez would never be able to open it. Not in a month of Sundays.

Curtain watched as Sanchez reached for the canteen. Broken hands dripping blood on polished leather. Mouth open. Dry tongue on jerky lips. Swollen clown fingers smearing the cap with blood, then slipping off, slipping off… slipping off again.

Kirby kicked the canteen out of Sanchez’s hands. It skidded across the dirt at a slight angle, leaving a mark like an especially long comma.

No one said anything. Kirby and Wyatt paced the Mexican as he bellied across the floor of Apache Canyon like a crippled sidewinder. The canyon was deep here. There were many shadows. But it was August and this was Arizona, and shadows did not make a difference. It was hot.

Sanchez hooked the strap of the canteen with his forearm and pulled it to his chest.

“You’ve got to hand it to the little bastard,” Kirby said. “He doesn’t give up, does he?”

“Maybe he doesn’t know how,” Wyatt said.

“He’ll learn,” Curtain said.

Curtain’s first name was Walter. No one called him Walt. He had a lot of money, and he was very wise with it. As far as he was concerned, all that buyer beware stuff was a load of crap. He didn’t believe in it. He believed in getting what he paid for. He figured that was the least a man should expect out of life.

Kirby drew his Glock M22 and aimed at Sanchez’s face. “Want me to finish him?”

“No.” Curtain sighed. Normally, the question wouldn’t have bothered him, because — normally — Kirby would have been the one to handle someone like Jesus Sanchez. But there was nothing normal about this situation. Apart from some minor assistance, Curtain was handling this job himself. And when he handled a job personally, he handled it start to finish. His own way.

Consequently, Kirby’s question was insulting. If Curtain wanted to finish this particular job with a gun, well then, he had his own. But this wasn’t a gun kind of job. This was a claw hammer kind of job. And as far as Curtain was concerned, he’d finished it.

Curtain glanced at the hammer in his hand, wondering why he was still holding it.

He dropped it in the dirt.

It landed without a sound, a bloody exclamation point.

“Let’s go,” Curtain said.

Kirby looked astonished. “You sure you want to leave him like this?”

Curtain glared at the bigger man, nodding very slowly.

“What about the canteen?” Kirby asked. “It’s a long way back to the Mercedes, you know. And it’s fucking hot today.”

“It’s fucking hot everyday,” Wyatt said, as if sarcasm would defuse the simmering tension. “This is Arizona.”

“Yeah,” Kirby said. “This is fucking Arizo — ”

“We’re finished here,” Curtain said quickly, because he was the boss, and his word was the word.

If Curtain said they’d leave Jesus Sanchez, they’d leave him.

If Curtain said they’d leave the canteen, they’d leave it too.

Right or wrong didn’t matter. A cast iron non-negotiable don’t-fuck-with-me attitude did. And as far as Curtain was concerned, Kirby should fucking well know that.

Curtain turned his back on the whole mess and started up the shadow-choked throat of the canyon. A few steps and he realized that Kirby and Wyatt weren’t following him. He didn’t have to look back to know that. The rut that passed for a trail was thick with shale and gravel. Even an Apache couldn’t move quietly in Apache Canyon.

So his ears told him that the gunmen weren’t walking, but they were talking. Whispering, really. And nothing singed Walter Curtain’s bacon quite as thoroughly as employees whispering behind his back.

He was ready to lose his temper when he heard footsteps.

He glanced over his shoulder.

Wyatt was coming.

Kirby stood below, looking long and hard at Jesus Sanchez.

Curtain whistled loud and shrill, the same way he whistled at his dog.

Kirby looked up at him.

Just like an Irish Setter, he came right along.

The first part of the hike was the toughest. The canyon rose at a steep, straight angle for a quarter mile. Twenty feet and Curtain wanted to stop for a breather. But he couldn’t do that yet. He kept at it. Switchbacks would have made the climb easier. But while the canyon was on government land, no park service crew was going to cut a trail in a meandering gash that any sensible billy goat would avoid.

Rock and shale slipped beneath their boots. Two miles hard and they’d be at the Mercedes. Even then, twenty miles of desert separated them from the slightest rumor of a town.

But it would be good to get back to the Mercedes. The ride was a first class toy. An ML320 — king of the sports utility vehicles, these days known as SUV’s. Curtain figured he deserved the best.

Wyatt would ride in the back seat. In a bigger car, that spot was reserved for Curtain. But in the SUV, there wasn’t much leg-room in the back, and the air-conditioning was less effective. So Curtain would ride shotgun.

Kirby would drive. He always drove. In a way, it bothered Curtain, because the car was his. But Curtain was the boss. The only time he drove was when he was alone. Kirby was his employee, so it was only right that he play chauffeur. If that was the price of keeping up appearances, then —

Damn, Curtain wanted to stop and catch his breath.

Below, Jesus Sanchez screamed in Spanish. Still proclaiming his innocence. Now adding his curse.

Curtain had his excuse. “Hold up,” he said.

Looking down, Curtain experienced a little spin of vertigo. They’d climbed higher than he thought.

The Mexican was not where they had left him. He had crawled about ten feet, onto a forked tongue of rock. He had the canteen, but the cap was still in place.

“Will you look at the little bastard,” Kirby said.

“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “Seems like Jesus isn’t a very quick study.”

“Give him time,” Curtain said.

They stood there in silence. Curtain tried to control his breathing. He thought about taking a shot at Sanchez, just to shut him up. Curtain was packing a Glock M24, which was just a little larger than the M22’s he’d purchased for Kirby and Wyatt.

Chalk the selection up to Money magazine. Curtain had read an article about corporate hunting retreats. Tips for managers, that kind of thing. The gist of the article was that the boss should always carry the biggest gun as a symbol of his authority.

But when it came to guns, Curtain knew that size didn’t matter. Skill was what counted. And Curtain doubted that he could hit Sanchez from this distance. If he missed, he’d hear it from Kirby. Even at this range, the big Irishman could probably pick off the Mexican. He was damn good with a gun. Even Wyatt ran a distant second to Kirby when it came to small arms work.

But there wasn’t any need, because Wyatt was right about one thing. Jesus Sanchez wasn’t a quick study.

Still, Walter Curtain had faith in his teaching methods.

Sanchez would catch on sooner or later.

Eventually, he’d shut up. Eventually, he’d have to.

Eventually, he’d be dead.

Curtain sidled past Kirby and Wyatt and took the lead.

“Carne muerta,” he whispered.

“What?” Kirby asked.

Wyatt translated. “Dead meat.”

Curtain’s heart pounded in his chest. Leading was harder than following. He had to set the pace, and it was disheartening to find that the pace he set wasn’t anything the hired guns couldn’t handle. The way they dogged his heels — Wyatt in the middle and Kirby in the rear — you’d think that he’d grown a couple of shadows.

Curtain grinned. That’s how it is when you’re the boss, he thought. And he liked being the boss. He liked to see people jump when he snapped his fingers.

Wyatt had figured that out a long time ago. Kirby was still learning. Jesus Sanchez was another story completely. And so was Curtain’s wife.

Her name was Rita. Half Mex, half Irish, but she kept the Irish to herself. She called Curtain “patron.” The way she said it, you’d think she really wasn’t joking at all.

“Patron.” Wyatt had to translate that one for Kirby, too. Curtain still remembered laughing as he eavesdropped on their conversation, the one hardcase telling the other that “patron” was Spanish for “big daddy.”

That was the way Curtain saw it, too. When they met at a college fund-raiser, he was forty and Rita was twenty-two. Part of a mentoring program, someone’s bright idea to shake some extra scratch from the alumni. They kept it pretty quiet through her senior year, and Curtain really thought he’d been a perfect gentleman about the whole thing.

And he took the mentoring seriously. Rita finished with a 3.83 GPA and an MBA. Not that she was ever going to need her degree. Curtain didn’t want a business partner. He wanted a partner between the sheets.

For a couple years, it went just that way. Everything seemed okay. Rita was a little bored, sure. Sometimes she got on Curtain’s nerves, wanting to get involved in the business. He was tempted to develop a home study course, Corporate Wives 101. But instead he kept Rita happy with trips when he could steal a few days away from the business and expensive gifts when he couldn’t.

Then Curtain started noticing things. Rita would disappear for an afternoon, take off for a weekend.

With friends, she said. The old college gang.

He knew better. Rita had never been the type to have many friends. And as far as he knew, he was the old college gang.

Curtain told Wyatt to check things out. He didn’t have time to do it himself. Besides, he couldn’t do something like that. Surveillance wasn’t his game. What Curtain did was manage the Bahamian accounts, the holdings in the Pacific Rim.

What Wyatt did was something very different.

And Wyatt was good at what he did. He wasn’t a hothead like Kirby. Wyatt understood the way things worked. He knew when to talk and when to shut up.

Eventually, Wyatt told Curtain about Jesus Sanchez. Sanchez handled a few racehorses for Curtain and ran his private stable. There wasn’t much to it, really. The guy was a glorified stableboy. Of course, Wyatt didn’t say that. He knew what to say and what to leave out. He knew better than to rub his boss’s nose in it.

Curtain could do that job for himself. He imagined the stableboy doing Rita in the fucking barn. Right there in a stall, bent over a hay bale with her riding breeches down around her knees. Sanchez playing the show stud, Rita the brood mare —

No, Walter Curtain wasn’t going to start thinking those thoughts again. You thought like that, the next thing you knew you’d lose it all.

But that was the way it was when you were the front runner.

You always imagined what it was like to finish out of the money.

Curtain was sweating like a pig. He didn’t want to stop, but he needed a breather.

‘You all right?” Wyatt asked.

Curtain nodded. “Just give me a minute.”

“Shit, give me two,” Kirby said, and he slouched against a rock in a muted patch of shade.

Curtain stared ahead. At least they were done climbing. The trail had leveled out. They had another mile and a half to go.

Mile and a quarter, if they were lucky.

No matter how far it was, there wasn’t an inch of it in the shade.

“From here on out, we’re cookin’,” Kirby said.

“It could be worse,” Wyatt said. ‘You could be Jesus Sanchez.”

‘Yeah.” Kirby laughed, and it seemed his anger had dulled. “I’ve got to admit, the patron here knows his way around a hammer just like a Roman centurion on Easter Sunday. Fuck, ol’ Jesus sure lived up to his name, the way he got nailed.”

The big ox went on like that. Sweat dripped off Curtain’s nose. He was getting uncomfortable again. For the first time, he realized that using the hammer had been a mistake.

Sure, he wanted revenge. Sure, it felt good. But using a claw hammer. Jesus. That wasn’t his game. Not at all. That was why he had Kirby and Wyatt.

He’d definitely crossed a line that he didn’t want to cross. And Kirby and Wyatt knew it. Wyatt had the good sense to keep his trap shut, but he probably felt the same way as Kirby. They’d seen the boss try his hand at their work, seen he wasn’t nearly as efficient as they were, and now they were like a couple of seasoned old-timers slapping the new kid on the back while they demolished a six-pack.

The roles were reversed.

Curtain had to nip this one in the bud, and fast.

He glanced at Wyatt, and that was all it took.

“Shut up, Kirby,” Wyatt said.

“Hey!” The big man was offended all over again. “All I’m saying is the boss knows his business. In and out, over and around and — ”

“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “We know what you’re saying. But nobody wants to hear it.”

“Jesus.” Kirby grunted. “Pardon me all to hell.”

He stepped past Curtain without even looking at him.

Wyatt shrugged. “After you.”

Curtain bristled, but he made a joke of it because he couldn’t afford to piss off the both of them.

“You first,” he said. “I think I need a buffer.”

Wyatt grinned. “I think you might be right.”

Another quarter mile. The canyon widened, but that just meant there was more room for sunlight. They moved through it, three gringos on a sandstone griddle. Heat baked the soles of their boots, which kicked up plenty of dust that the man in the rear ate without a word of complaint.

The dust was bitter, and Curtain was too dry to spit. He started thinking about the canteen he’d left with Jesus Sanchez. Leaving the canteen was a gesture meant to conclude the matter in an appropriately sardonic manner. In retrospect, it was a hell of a mistake. Curtain wanted a drink of water. Hell, he would have traded shares of Microsoft for one.

The way Kirby was panting, it was a sure bet he wanted a drink too. Best not to mention the canteen. Things were touchy enough as it was. Besides, there was another canteen in the SUV. And they couldn’t be more than a half a mile away from it.

Sure, they were in the sun, and it was noon sun.

And this was August. And this was Arizona.

But fuck it. The trail was highway from here on out. Thirsty or not, anyone could make the last half mile. A peg-legged man pushing a wheelbarrow full of steaming horseshit could make it.

Let Kirby charge on like a damn fool if he wanted to. Curtain would remain calm. He wouldn’t let the heat burn him down, be it emotional or meteorological. He didn’t have to be in front to be the leader.

Curtain shook his head. Just look at the idiot, he thought. Kirby hadn’t even put on any sunblock. The dumb Irishman was beet red.

Beet red and slowing his pace.

Beet red and planting his sizable ass on a rock.

In the middle of the pack, Wyatt shook his head.

In the rear, Curtain did the same.

Kirby glared at them as they approached. “Wish we had that fuckin’ canteen,” he said.

“Wishes are a waste of time,” Wyatt said.

Curtain didn’t say a word.

Like they say in the war movies, Curtain took point.

In the lead again. Wyatt in the middle. Kirby dragging ass in the rear.

Curtain wanted to laugh. Wish we had that fuckin’ canteen. The goddamned muscle-headed moron. Everyone knew it. Even Rita. She hated Kirby. She said he was the worst kind of jackass, and she jerked his chain every chance she got.

Like that time in Puerto Vallarta. Curtain had some business down there. Bad business. He took Kirby and Wyatt along just in case things got rough, which they did. Afterwards, they went out to dinner together. It was one of the few times he socialized with the hired help, and he only did it at Rita’s insistence. Anyway, Kirby said he couldn’t read a menu in Spanish, but Rita knew that he couldn’t read at all. She told him to order the puta asada, and the idiot actually did. Wyatt had laughed like a son of a bitch and —

Gunfire slapped at Curtain’s heels. He nearly pissed himself. He was yelling at Kirby before the reports had echoed off the canyon walls because he didn’t think this was one bit funny.

He turned and saw:

The dumb Irishman’s smile.

The Glock in his very fast hand.

The dead rattler in a tangle of white rock.

“Carne muerta,” Kirby said, passing Curtain by.

After that, Curtain didn’t want anyone behind him.

Wyatt took point, and he didn’t take it slow.

Kirby ran second, and he did take it slow. It was a lucky thing that he was fast with that damn gun, though. Not that Curtain was going to compliment the idiot. After all, he paid Kirby to be fast. The Irishman was only earning his money.

Curtain could have passed the big man had he wanted to. The idea was tempting, because it would put him closer to a nice long drink of water and the best air-conditioning system available in a SUV. But he could wait. After all, it was his Mercedes and his canteen. He could stand the heat a little while longer.

Besides, it could have been a whole lot worse. Sure. Like Wyatt said, he could have been Jesus Sanchez.

Curtain stopped and looked down the canyon. It seemed they’d come a lot farther than two miles. The Mexican was back there somewhere. Across a sandstone griddle and down a rocky red throat, baking to death, bleeding in shadows that showed no mercy.

It was dead quiet.

Sanchez wasn’t screaming anymore.

His curses had fallen on deaf ears.

No ears at all, really.

Curtain wondered if the idiot had given up yet.

He wondered if Jesus Sanchez had finally learned his place.

When Kirby and Curtain caught up, Wyatt was leaning against the SUV. He looked as thirsty as Curtain felt.

But right now, Wyatt couldn’t do Curtain a bit of good. Wyatt wasn’t the driver. He didn’t have the keys.

Curtain said, “Give me the keys, Kirby”

“Fuck that.” Kirby didn’t even look at him. He unlocked the liftback and grabbed the extra canteen.

Curtain said, “Toss it here.”

“Fuck that too.”

Curtain bristled. It was his canteen. After all, he was the boss. But Kirby acted like he had forgotten all about that. He gave the canteen a shake, smiled at the enticing slosh.

The fucker knew exactly what he was doing.

One more chance, Curtain thought. I’ll give him one more chance.

“A joke’s a joke,” Curtain said.

“This ain’t no joke,” Kirby said. He raised the canteen, as if he were proposing a toast. “Here’s to assholes who can’t say thank you.”

Curtain had been mad, but now he was boiling. If the big Irishman didn’t give him the first drink, he’d fire his Mick ass on the spot and let him walk home.

With his very fast hands, Kirby unscrewed the cap.

Before Curtain could say another word, the first bullet caught Kirby square in the chest. A second made a red puddle of his belly. Then Wyatt stepped over Kirby and shot the big man one last time in the head.

“Jesus,” Curtain whispered. “Jesus!”

Water burbled over the dry earth. Wyatt scooped up the canteen, saying, “He would have killed you, Mr. Curtain.”

“Over a canteen.” Curtain shook his head in astonishment. “Over a fucking drink of water.”

“No,” Wyatt said. “You and I both know that it was a little more complicated than that.” He stared down at the dead man and shook his head. “Some dogs just never learn to heel.”

A moment of silence followed. Not out of respect for the dead man. It was just that there wasn’t anything else to say about Kirby.

But there was more to be said.

Curtain swallowed hard. “How about that drink?”

Wyatt stared at the canteen. Curtain stared at it too.

Wyatt smiled. “You want a drink, patron?”

The last word slapped Curtain hard. Rita’s word. And the way Wyatt said it, you’d think he really wasn’t joking at all.

Wyatt raised the canteen to his lips. He took a long drink, his Glock trained on his employer’s very thirsty belly.

It came clear in Curtain’s head. The trip through Apache Canyon. Wyatt jockeying for position, always ending up in the middle of the pack instead of the back. Wyatt couldn’t do anything there. Not sandwiched between the two men he wanted to kill. Kirby was fast, and even if Curtain wasn’t, Wyatt wasn’t the kind to take chances. So he waited until they reached the Mercedes, and Kirby had a fistful of canteen, and —

“I would have done it sooner, Wyatt began. “But — ”

“You don’t have to draw me a diagram,” Curtain said.

“I know. You’re smarter than that.”

And that was the truth. And that was awful. Because Curtain could see it now, all of it. Wyatt and Rita. Christ, he wondered if they’d fucked down in Puerto Vallarta, right under his nose.

And Jesus Sanchez… he wasn’t even in the picture. He really was a fucking stableboy, for Christsakes. Wyatt and Rita had played it all very smart, convincing Curtain that his wife wanted nothing more than the proverbial roll in the hay when she really wanted so much more.

Curtain had to admit they’d make a good team. Different style than his, but good. More of a division of labor kind of thing — the girl with the MBA and the guy with the gun.

They’d make a good team, if they had the chance.

Curtain stared at the canteen in Wyatt’s hand. He wanted to smile, but he didn’t. He kept his smile to himself, and he spoke slowly, calmly…

“About that drink… ” Curtain began.

Wyatt smiled. A condescending smile. A smug smile.

He said, “There’s a difference between being a fast study, and being fast.”

Wyatt raised the canteen.

Curtain went for his gun.

But that wasn’t his game.

Not at all.