Monday, November 14, 2022

El Curandero, fiction by Hector Acosta


The bright, yellow egg yolk sat perfectly unbroken at the bottom of the water-filled glass, the murky water magnifying its size and color. The sight of the yolk always reminded Juan of the story his mother read to him about the goose who laid golden eggs. All around the egg yolk were long, milky strands resembling spider webbing, the fiber stretching from the yolk itself and up to the surface of the water, where a thin layer of white foam had form.

        “You were right to call me Señor Parker,” Juan said in Spanish. “See all this?” he pointed to the strands, his finger following one of the strands to the surface, “this is all the bad energy which I pulled from your body. Someone wishes you ill.”

        He stopped and waited for Adolfo to translate the speech to Mr. Parker, who sat on the bed and stretched. Juan stayed quiet, watching Mr. Parker’s well-toned body ripple and shift as he stretched his arms to the ceiling and arched his back until it produced a satisfying and small cracking sound. Adolfo had told him that Mr. Parker was in his forties, but with his full blond hair, trim body, and wrinkle-free face, it was hard to believe. He’d be handsome if it wasn’t for the splotches of red which covered his neck, shoulders, and chest like irregularly shaped pools.

        After Adolfo finished translating, Mr. Parker got up and walked over toward Juan.

        “I knew it,” Edward Parker muttered, his eyes moving up and down the glass. He turned to Adolfo and said, “I had a deal go bad at work this week and haven’t been able to meet my daily steps goal all week. Not to mention this,” he said, motioning to one of the red spots.

        Juan gripped the glass tighter and tried not to look at Adolfo, only for Adolfo to cough and remind Juan he almost missed his cue.

        Adolfo, a man who, until a month ago, Juan assumed he would never see again. He was as thin as a bad lie, with shiny, slicked black hair frozen in place thanks to a hefty use of hair gel. He’d shaved his stubble, trimming it down to an angular goatee, but his eyebrows were still too bushy and big for his face, like dark clouds hovering over almond-colored eyes.

        Clearing his throat, Juan said, “You will need weekly limpias. This…” he motioned to the glass, “is too much to wipe away all at once.”

        It had been Adolfo’s idea to play the role of the translator for Juan’s Spanish-speaking only healer. “The guy is will be expecting a certain…ambiente, you know? He has certain expectations, and the fact you’re not a little old, hunchback woman is going to throw him off already. The least we can do is have you speak only Spanish.”

        “Should I wear a sombrero too?” Juan had asked.

        While Adolfo translated, Juan looked at the strands connected to the yolk. He’d added a bit of salt to the water beforehand, just like his mother taught him, so that when he cracked the egg and dropped the yolk in, he’d be guaranteed some strands. But Juan’d never seen so many appear so quickly.

        “And how much do you say he charges for each session?” Edward asked, his eyes on Juan, who tried to look wise and mystical. Juan wasn’t wearing a sombrero, but he wore a pair of loose, white pants and a flowy white shirt, along with a large silver cross he’d gotten off a pawn shop a day ago.

        “Well, Mr. Parker, it all depends on a variety of factors. As you can imagine, pulling away the bad shi—” Adolfo paused and corrected himself, “energy, out of a person, that takes a lot out of Don Alvarado.. It can even prevent him from booking more jobs.”

        “But he guarantees he can make me better? And get rid of all the bad energy?”

        Juan nodded when Adolfo asked him the question in Spanish.

        Edward again looked at Juan. The man’s gaze stirred things in Juan’s gut and drips of condensation caressed the fingers holding the glass.

        Walking over to Juan, Edward took the glass without asking. When he did so, his fingers grazed Juan’s, and maybe it was just Juan’s imagination, but he thought they stayed there longer than necessary. Edward brought the glass up and studied the egg.

        Adolfo and Juan waited, neither daring to move.

        Setting the glass down on a nearby counter, Edward said, “¿Qué dices, Curandero, de veras me puedes ayudar?”

        It was a good thing Edward had taken the glass from him, because hearing him speak Spanish, good Spanish, mind you, Juan might have dropped the glass himself.


        “I told you, Juan,” he said, “I told you this was going to work,” Adolfo said and reached for his drink, a giant frozen margarita with a small beer bottle embedded into it. When the waitress placed the drink on the table, Juan thought of another story his mom read to him once, of a sword stuck in some stone and the one person in all the kingdom who could pull it out.

        Juan stared at Adolfo and thought of the last time he’d seen him before he reappeared a month ago. They’d been living together in an apartment, both working as curanderos. Juan had always been the one with the deft hands and knowledge gleaned from his mother’s lessons. At the same time, Adolfo was better at talking with the customers, convincing them to either book another appointment or buy some of the herbs and candles. Things had been good, or at least Juan thought they were good. Until the day Adolfo told him he was leaving.

        “Nada personal, Juan,” Adolfo told him as he packed up his stuff. “But I don’t want to spend my life running eggs over abuelitas complaining about their arthritis and getting paid in tamales. I’m better than that.”

        Sometimes, in the middle of the night, or after he had too many drinks and left the bar alone, Juan wondered what he would have done if Adolfo had asked him to go with him. If he’d said Juan was also better than this life he’d been living.

        “I’ll never understand why you love these types of places,” he muttered and took a sip of his beer.

        They were seated in a local Tex-Mex restaurant corner booth, miles away from Edward’s neighborhood and hours from the meeting they had with him. The restaurant was empty when they’d first arrived but was now full of people done with work and celebrating the weekend. Bright decor and loud Mariachi music surrounded them, giving Juan the start of a headache.

        “What’s not to love? Adolfo said as the waitress appeared with a large tray of tortilla chips and a bowl of thick, nuclear yellow cheese.

        “Are you two hombres ready to order?”

        Adolfo went with something called a smothered, bothered, covered, border burrito, while Juan chose a plate of fajitas and asked for the kickin’ ranchero sauce on the side. Once the waitress left, Adolfo plunged his hand into the tortillas and reached for the queso.

        “Two men came looking for you,” Juan blurted out.

        Adolfo stopped mid-queso dip. “¿Quién?”

        Who, Adolfo wanted to know. He tried to keep his tone casual, but Juan noticed the edge of his word, the way it could have cut through flesh.

        “Dos tipos,” said Juan, “About a week before you showed up. Said they were old friends of yours.”

        They’d been waiting at Juan’s door one day after he came back from a job. One of them, a fat and bald guy with a bent nose, leaned against the stair’s railing, and the way the structure whined as he shifted his foot, Juan wonder if it would support him. The other one, big and muscular, and bien bien moreno, stepped forward and introduced himself as Santiago. Juan didn’t fail to notice they were now blocking his way inside. They were looking for Adolfo, Santiago told him, were old friends of his and heard he was back in town.

        “I could tell they weren’t your friends,” Juan said just as the waitress returned with their plates.

        “What you tell them?” Adolfo asked.

        “The truth. That I hadn’t seen you in almost three years, but if they did find you, to give you an ass-kicking for me.”

        Adolfo stared at Juan. “They bought it?”

        “They haven’t come back around since,” Juan said.

        “Good,” Adolfo said, reaching for the bottle of Cholula hot sauce. “Good.”

        Who were they?”

        “Just some guys, nothing you gotta worry about,” Adolfo said, uncapping the bottle and covering his already-covered burrito with bright red sauce.

        Juan grunted. “Bullshit. Those two looked like they would have skinned you alive if they’d found you. Let me guess—you owe them money?”

        "Nothing like that,” Adolfo said, unwrapping his utensils. Glancing at Juan, he sighed and said, “They weren’t happy with a limpia I did, okay?”

        Juan blinked, not sure he heard correctly. “I thought you gave that up?”

        “I’d do it every so often when either the opportunity came up, or I was desperate. Mostly just me swatting some vieja complaining about headaches or their bad love live with whatever branch I found beforehand.”

        “Why were those guys looking for you?” Juan asked

        “They’re brothers. They’d hired me to help out their sister and weren’t happy when I told them there wasn’t much I could do and that they should take her to a real doctor.”

        “Did you give them back the money they paid you?”

        Adolfo grunted. “¡Ni a putas! Why would I? I did my part. Plus, I always set expectations. Gave them a whole speech about how I wasn’t guaranteeing anything.”

        “What was wrong with the person?” Juan asked.

        Shrugging, Adolfo dipped a chip into the queso. “Cancer of some sort.”

        “God damn it, Adolfo,” Juan said. While Juan might not have followed all of the lessons his mother imparted on him, one he’d managed to adhere to was never giving people false hope. In his mother’s view, there was a large divide between the people she saw and their everyday maladies, and other curanderos who promised they could heal anything and everything.

        “It was a dumb mistake,” Adolfo said. “But don’t worry, I‘m going to fix it with those guys. That’s part of the reason why I returned here.”

        For a second, Juan wanted to ask if he was the other part of the reason Adolfo came back. But he knew better. Adolfo returned because of his new business idea.

        “You should see this guy, Chino,” Adolfo had said pulling out the nickname he used to call him, Chino—on account of Juan’s curly hair. “El tipo es bien extraño,” he continued. “He’s a...what do you call them, the weirdos who always think they’re sick or about to get sick? Hypocrites?”

        Juan didn’t know the word either, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t that. “And he wants a limpia?” he asked.

        “He will after I sell him on it.”

        It turned out Adolfo worked for Edward Parker as a driver. This despite the fact Juan knew Adolfo didn’t have a valid driver’s license. He could have asked how he got around that fact, but instead decided to stick to Adolfo’s plan, which sounded less and less thought out.

        “When I say the guy is weird, I mean it. The stuff he spends money on! Card readings, psychics, objects that supposedly will bring him luck. He’s one big walking mark, and I’m surprised no one has tried to milk him for all he’s worth already. “

        “Until you.”

        Adolfo shook his head. “You’re not listening. I don’t want to milk him dry. He’s our way in. All we need is to impress him, and he’ll start recommending us. You know how the richies are. They jump from trend to trend.”

        Adolfo cut into his oversized burrito, spilling its meat, rice, and beans contents into the plate, reminding Juan of the summers he spent in Veracruz, where his grandma ran a farm and kept pigs. Juan couldn’t have been more than seven years old when he saw his grandma slice open a pig’s throat, the blood spilling into the concrete pen and coating his grandma’s rough, brown skin.

        “You’re still good to follow through with the next step?” Adolfo asked without looking up from his plate.

        Tearing a piece of the flour tortilla, Juan piled it with meat and bell peppers. “You sure he’ll be okay afterward?” he asked. The meat was flavorless and stringy, nothing like the fajitas Juan would make at home.

        “You saw him today. He looks fine, doesn’t he?”

        An image of Edward sitting on the edge of the bed, the top button of his shirt undone, puffs of blond chest hair peeking through slipped into Juan’s mind, silencing the brightness of the restaurant. Blinking the image away, he found Adolfo staring intently at him. “Relax,” he said, “I’m only put a bit into his morning coffee, just like we talked about.”

        The discussion to poison Edward came up far more naturally than Juan would have ever thought.

        “We’re going to have to keep him on the hook, somehow,” Adolfo had been musing one day, shortly after Edward agreed to meet Juan. “The guy likes to jump from treatment to cure—toda la pinche gente adinerada son igual. They throw the money away without thinking about it. I’ve seen this guy jump from acupuncture to steam baths to vegan diets all in the same week.”

        “I thought the goal was to get him to recommend us to his other rich friends?” Juan had asked.

        “That’s not going to happen if we don’t leave an impression on him. He’s not like one of your regular clients, the ones who come to you just out of sheer belief and tradition. He’s going to want to see results.”

        “Even though there’s nothing wrong with him,” Juan said.

        “Pretty much.”

        Sitting across from him now, Juan wondered if Adolfo knew exactly what he was doing with the conversation, leading Juan to the same solution he had in mind.

        “Your tío get us more of the stuff if we need it?” Adolfo asked, finishing his margarita and setting the glass by the edge of the table for the waitress to pick up.

        Juan leaned forward, glancing around to make sure no one was listening to them. “What do you mean ‘if we need it?’” he asked. “You just said you’re barely putting any into the guy’s coffee. You know how dangerous that stuff is?”

        The truth was, even Juan didn’t know how dangerous the substance they’d been giving Edward really was. He was repeating what his uncle always told him about thallium poisoning. His uncle, who’d worked in an ore smelting plant over in El Paso for most of his life and used to tell Juan stories about his co-workers suffering diarrhea, hair loss, nausea, vomiting and “la piel bien bien roja, como el kool-aid qué te gusta.”

        The skin as red as the kool-aid you like to drink.

        “Cálmate, wuey,” Adolfo said, “There’s plenty left in that bottle he sent us. I’m just thinking for the future. For the next clients.”

        Leaning back in his seat, Juan picked at his meal and tried to ignore the migraine building in his head. “Estás loco,” he told Adolfo. “We got lucky with Edward. You have a way of giving him the stuff without him noticing. How would we do it with anyone else?”

        Adolfo grinned and said, “Way ahead of you.” Raising a queso-stained hand, Juan thought he was motioning the waitress over, but a different woman reached their table, Adolfo already pulling his chair back to stand.

        “You’re late,” he told the woman.

        “Hay no empiences,” she said, tugging the strap of her exposed bra. “I told you I didn’t get off till five thirty.”

        The woman was short, and curvy, wearing tight, bedazzled jeans and a white t-shirt that drew the attention of most males in the nearby area. She had long, black hair and big breasts, and when she leaned and kissed Adolfo on the cheek, it sparked a bolt of jealousy across Juan’s mind.

        “Juan, this is Sofía. Sofía, this is Juan.”

        Taking a seat, Sofía wasted no time reaching for a tortilla chip and dipping it into the queso, somehow managing to do so without getting a single drop of yellow on her polished nails. “Nice meeting you, Juan,” she said.

        “Uh, hi,” Juan muttered, glancing at Adolfo and trying to figure out what was happening.

        “Sofía here is a cleaning lady. She—”

        “I’m a house cleaner, pendejo,” she said and, in the same breath, flagged down a waitress and ordered a beer.

        Rolling his eyes, Adolfo continued. “Sofía is a house cleaner. I met her the other day while she was house cleaning Edward’s house.”

        “Has Adolfo told you how much of a weirdo he is? Requires I wear different gloves for each part of the house and that I wear these dumb little bags on my feet so ‘I don’t track dirt and other things from room to room,’” Sofía said.

        “We got to talking, and she mentioned how she services most of the neighborhood.”

        Juan’s heart raced, and his chest tightened as if he was trapped in a rollercoaster ride and had no control over where it was taking him.

        “It’s true. Every house in a three-block span is one of my clients.”

        “Tell her what you told me about the guy who lives across from Edward.”

        “Mr. Garth? Oh, he’s a freak too, but on a whole other level. Guy has a whole room dedicated to this weird collection of, like, cartoon toys and stuff. You should see the tetas on some of the toys he has up and around, bigger than mine.”

        “The other thing Sofía.”

        “Oh yeah. He believes in ghosts. Thinks he’s been haunted his whole life by his mom, who died giving birth to him or something.”

        “Sounds to me like he could use a limpia,” Adolfo said, running his finger around the bowl of queso, collecting the last bit. “Maybe a session to see if we can invoke el espiritu.”

        “Yeah, I can get you guys dirt on all my clients,” Sofía said. “And if I can’t find anything, I can help you poison them, like you’re doing with Mr. Parker.”

        Even though he’d been expecting it, the words still made Juan’s stomach drop. “You told her?”

        “I figured it out,” Sofía said, tapping on the table to get Juan’s attention. Ever since this guy showed up, Mr. Parker hadn’t been acting normal for the last few weeks. Then I heard him talking about you coming in to try to heal him and figured something was up.”

        “One morning she caught me putting the stuff in his drink. I had to tell her.”

        “Lucky for you both, I decided to join you rather than turn you all in. Lucky also because I’m going to help you expand,” Sofía said.

        “Expand?” Juan asked. “You want to poison every single client? I think that’s going to be noticed eventually.”

        “First of all,” Adolfo said, nodding to the waitress who picked up their plates, “If you’re shitting blood, are you going to tell your neighbor? But more importantly, how often do you think they notice people like us? You think they would ever realize if a cook started to include ingredients they’re allergic to into their food? Or the gardener directing pollen toward their side of the bedroom? We make their lives just a little bit miserable for a while, and then bam, we show up and make everything better.”

        Think about it, all these assholes hire people like us,” Sofía said, motioning to the three of them sitting around the table, “to keep their house in order, cook for them, fix their cars, and keep their yard neat, but I bet you we’re invisible to them.”

        “Come on, Juan. Don’t you want to stop taking the bus everywhere? Don’t you want to make something of yourself with what your mom taught you. I’m not saying we’re going to end up using the stuff, but it’s better to be prepared, right?”

        The grin Adolfo threw at Juan was one he’d seen countless times before. It was the one he gave him when they were both just getting hair on their lips and elsewhere when he dared him to follow him into the empty lot a few blocks from their house, where no one ever went. The same grin he gave him when he convinced Juan to dip into his mother’s purse and take twenty dollars.

        “I’ll reach out to my uncle,” Juan said, just as the waitress placed a five-layer tres leches cake between them.


        While there were still a couple of spots of red on Edward’s body, mostly cluttered among his left arm and shoulders, the rest had disappeared. Bare-chested, Edward marveled at this fact, staring at himself in the full-length mirror while Juan collected his stuff from the counter.

        “Increíble,” Edward said, turning around and craning his neck to inspect his back on the mirror. “Incredible,” he said again.

        Glancing at Edward, Juan’s eyes slid from Edward’s trim waist to his broad shoulders. He was browner than he would have expected, and he had a sudden image of Edward in a tanning bed wearing nothing but a speedo and those strange little goggles. Blinking away the image, he made some non-committal noise and returned to packing his tools.

        Juan has been treating Edward weekly for a little over six weeks now. The sessions usually consisted of an egg limpia or a barrida, which involved Juan bundling some herbs together, dipping the bundle into a bowl of water and then running the soaking bundle all over Edward, who was ordered to remain perfectly still with eyes closed. Juan enjoyed these moments, when he was close to their client, so close he could smell the cologne—some subtle, French thing, Juan guessed—and take his time inspecting Edward’s body. During the last session, as Juan was doing just that, he thought he saw one of Edward’s eyes flutter open and catch him staring, but he couldn’t be sure.

        “Incredible,” Edward repeated in Spanish and, to Juan’s disappointment, reached for his shirt lying on a chair. “And it’s not just the redness that has gone away. So has my migraines. I feel like I’d been living underwater for a few months, moving in slow motion and drowning, and I finally got pulled out.”

        Juan smiled and continued packing. If his uncle were right, Edward would still be feeling some of the effects from the thallium for a couple more months, but Adolfo had been tapering off on the doses for a while now, as well as introducing some Mexican pharmacy-bought antidote to counterattack it.

        “I’m sure Adolfo already told you I had some doubts about this whole thing in the beginning,” Edward said, sitting on the bed and buttoning up his shirt. “I hope you didn’t take it personally. I’ve just been searching and visiting so many places and people, trying to find something to…” he paused and frowned, running his hand through his hair as he grasped for an elusive word. Finally, he just shrugged and let it drop.

        This was the most Edward had spoken directly to Juan. Even though he’d shown he could speak Spanish, and spoke it well, he usually stuck with English and relied on Adolfo to “translate” for Juan. But Adolfo hadn’t been able to make this session, so it’d been only Juan and Edward this whole time.

        Qué bueno que lo pudiomos ayudar,” Juan muttered.

        “I imagine you’re going to be helping a lot of new people soon,” Edward mused, still sitting on his bed, watching Juan. “Adolfo told me he couldn’t be here today because he’s meeting Mrs. Dolson.”

        Adolfo had been busy this week, setting up meetings with many of the clients Edward referred them to, and figuring out who from their rosters of underpaid, overworked employees he could bring into their plan. For Mrs. Dolson, they were using Sofía, who cleaned the old woman’s house twice a week.

        “The old bitch always makes me do the bathrooms all over again,” she’d told Adolfo and Juan when they met for dinner at yet another tacky Tex-Mex restaurant.

        “Word of warning,” Edward said as he rose from the bed. “Be careful around her.”

        Juan thought he was talking about Sofía but realized Edward was referring to Mrs. Dolson. “She’s known to have roaming hands,” he said, closing the distance between himself and Juan with three strides of his long legs. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a wad of folded bills and presented them to Juan.

        “Adolfo handles the payments,” Juan said, looking at Edwards’s face and fighting the sudden desire to run a finger across the angle of his chin and feel his stubble.

        “This is for you. Think of it as a bonus for the work you’ve done,” Edward said. His lips thin but somehow fitting his face twitched into a smile as his eyes focused on Juan. “Take it.”

        The two words prickled against Juan’s skin, and he reached for the money. He thought he saw the smallest of nods from Edward when he took hold of the bills, and he almost let out a gasp as Edward’s finger skimmed across the palm of his hand.

        “When can I see you again?” Edward asked.

        “Adolfo handles the scheduling. I know he’s scheduling a lot of sessions, but I’m sure we can get —”

        “No,” Edward said shaking his head. “When can I see you.”


        Juan was pretty sure they’d forgotten his eggrolls.

        He checked the bag as he climbed the steps up to his third-story apartment, the Houston heat pressing against his back even as the sun dipped into the horizon. He rummaged through the chopsticks, multitude of soy sauce packets, and cartons filled with General Tso’s Chicken and Lo Mein. The eggrolls were the best thing the restaurant made, so good they were worth putting up with the place’s long wait time, overpriced menu, and dirty tables.

        He'd left Edward’s place without giving him an answer, stammering something about being late for his next scheduled session and racing out of there like a teenager fleeing a classroom after someone pointed out the tent in his pants. He replayed the conversation as he climbed the last set of stairs to reach his apartment. His stomach tingled with a mix of nervousness and excitement as he thought of the way Edward’s fingers lingered on his palm, the brazen look he gave him as he said he wanted to see him again, the emphasis of the word you. The single word stayed in his mind, the salt on the a rim of a margarita, and just like when he drank too many of those drinks, it made Juan’s stomach flutter.

        Thinking back to the moment lifted his mood to the point he almost forgot about the missing eggrolls. It also prevented him from noticing the man waiting at the top of the stairs until he almost bumped into him.

        Just like before, Santiago was blocking the entrance to his house.

        “Señor Alvarado,” the big man said as a way of greeting.

        “I already told you I hadn’t seen him,” Juan said, stopping five stairs away from the apartment landing. Hearing creaking from behind him, he glanced back and found the other one, the bald one, climbing up the steps. He was on the second floor already, and the way he was huffing and puffing, Juan thought there might be a chance he’d dropped dead before he reached him.

        Y te creímos,” Salvador said. “But that was almost three months ago. A lot can change in that time. Isn’t that right, Heriberto?”

        “Yea….a….lot…change,” Heriberto said, the man trying to catch his breath and sound intimidating at the same time. Juan would have found it funny if he still wasn’t wedged between two men, one who was nearly double in size of him.

        “We’ve been hearing some interesting things about you Señor Alvarado. That you’re working for the gringos and fresas. Is that why you can take an Uber now? Wasn’t he taking the bus last time we saw him?” Santiago asked his brother.

        “Yeah,” Heriberto said. “Not anymore though. It’s like he came into money.”

        “You’ve been watching me,” Juan said.

        “We’ve been watching for your….” Santiago paused and climbed down a step, the stairs groaning under his weight. “You know, what is Adolfo to you? They used to say you were primos.”

        “He’s my friend,” Juan said before correcting himself. “Was.”

        If Santiago caught the error, he didn’t show it, just took another step down. “Lousy friend. The rumor is he left you high and dry a few years back. Someone did that to me, I wouldn’t want him back in my life anymore.”

        “And especially not someone like Adolfo,” Heriberto chimed in, having finally caught his breath. He also took a step toward Juan. “Es un ratero, and a liar.”

        “I haven’t seen him,” Juan said, and this much was true. Technically, Adolfo was still crashing in his place, but he saw less and less of the man. He was either arranging new clients for Juan or scoping out the people who would help make the clients’ lives miserable before Juan swooped in and magically cured them.

        “Is he that busy with his new girl?” Santiago asked.

        “You know, the one with the big tetas?” Heriberto, only two steps below him, added. “Spends almost every night at her place seems like.”

        “What do you two have planned with that old woman?”

        Juan’s knee shook, and he almost dropped the bag of Chinese food he was holding. He wasn’t sure what to focus on first; the fact the two brothers seemed to know so much about Adolfo and his life, or that Adolfo had been lying to him.

        “Adolfo said he was going to return your money,” Juan whispered, a loud dim in his ears.

        “¿Qu­é dijo?” Heriberto asked. “I couldn’t hear him over the whimpering.”

        “I think he said Adolfo was going to return our money,” Santiago answered.

        “How much does he owe you?” Juan said and reached into his pocket, grabbing the money Edward had given him. “I can give you what I have right now. Maybe that’s en—”

        His words were cut short by Santiago slamming a fist into his stomach, yanking away his breath and instantly blurring his vision. The Chinese food fell on the floor, Lo Mei splashing against his tennis shoes as Juan fell to one knee and gasped for breath.

        “How pathetic are you,” he asked, gripping Juan by the hair and pulling him to his feet. “Guy goes and leaves you, and not only do you take him back—and don’t pretend you haven’t—but now you’re even offering to pay his debts.”

        Heriberto grabbed Juan’s left wrist, slamming it on the railing. “Hey, if the vato wants to pay Adolfo’s debt, maybe we should let him, Santiago.” He said and snickered. “Didn’t you always say you’d break each of his fingers if you caught up to him?”

        “Sabes que, I think you’re right,” Santiago said releasing Juan’s hair. Reaching down, he picked up a small loose concrete slab and held it in his hand like a baseball. “Hold him tight,” he told Heriberto.

        “No, please, wait,” Juan said, struggling against Heriberto’s grip. “We can pay you, I promise.”

        “You don’t get it, do you?” Santiago said, slapping him lightly on the cheek. “I want to hear this from him. I want to take everything out of him.” Santiago raised the hand holding the piece of concrete. “You? You’re just what I have to make do with till then,” he said and brought the concrete down.

        In order to prepare for the pain of having his fingers broken, Juan inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. He was so focused on being prepared for the wracking pain he almost missed the clanging sound and the way the rail he was being leaned against shook.

        “I think he peed his pants,” Heriberto said with a laugh, releasing Juan’s grip.

        Juan opened his eyes and cast a quick glimpse at the portion of the rail that his palm had been resting against just moments earlier. Even though the logical part of him already Santiago hadn’t gone through with his threat, a part of him still expected to see his fingers mangled and crushed. He stared at his uninjured hand and watched his fingers move under his command to be sure.

        “Tell him we’ll be back,” Santiago said as Heriberto reached into Juan’s pocket and took out the folded bills. “Make sure he knows that for what he did to us, we expect more than just a refund.” Patting Juan on the cheek one more time, Santiago let the slab fall to the floor.

        They descended the stairs without another word, the clanging of their steps attacking Juan’s ear as he slumped down on the floor among spilled soy sauce packets and General Tso chicken.


        The queso was a brighter yellow in this restaurant than at the last one, Juan noted. There were also chunks of brown meat and diced tomatoes trapped within the thick, congealed cheese. The appetizer had been the first thing Adolfo had ordered, but surprisingly, it’d gone untouched so far.

        “Four thousand dollars,” Adolfo said, his attention alternating from his phone and a small notepad on his side of the table next to the tortilla chips. “Just for this month alone. Mrs. Dolson has you booked two times next week—she says she really likes when you wear those tight shirts by the way—and the Garth guy has you every other Wednesday.”

        Juan only half listened, his attention on Adolfo himself. He’d made a couple of changes to himself in the last few months, starting with his new phone. “We need to present a certain look to everyone,” he’d told Juan at the strip mall store they went to pick it up. “Most of these people schedule everything electronically, and I can’t be pulling out an old phone that takes five minutes to load up the email app.” Juan cosigned for the phone contract because his credit was a lighter shade of red than Adolfo. His phone remained cracked and three generations behind.

        His clothes looked more expensive, something he’d been able to verify by looking through his section of their closest and fingering some of the price tags still left on the jackets and shirts. At least he did look good with them, though that might have to do with the new haircut and shave.

        “¿Oyes, Juan, me escuchas?” Adolfo asked, snapping his fingers in front of Juan’s face. “Did you hear what I asked you?”

        Blinking, Juan had to admit he didn’t.

        Adolfo grunted, “I wanted to know if you still thought Mr. Parker was worth doing? Guy still has you booked every week, but the asshole let go of Sofía, and it’s not like I’m driving him anymore, so we got no one to help us out with him. I know he’s the one who originally hooked us up with a lot of our clients, but it’s not like we need that from him anymore, and if we free up that day, I bet we can get Mrs. Dolson in for another session at double the pay.”

        The mention of Edward caused a burning sensation in his stomach, like heartburn, except he’d yet to eat anything. Squeezing his hands, Juan shook his head. “Yeah, I was going to talk to you about that. He mentioned he was pretty sure he wouldn’t need us anymore.”

        “Shit, really? Why didn’t you tell me? That works out perfectly then.” Adolfo’s thumbs flew across his phone for a few seconds and afterward flipped some pages on his notebook and crossed out a couple of lines. Glancing up at Juan, he asked, “You okay? You’ve been acting weird and moppy these last few days.”

        Before Juan could answer, the waitress came over to see if they were ready to order. Adolfo told her they weren’t, as they were still waiting for their third, but did ask for a Margarita—with top-shelf tequila, please. Juan asked for a water.

        “I’m okay, just tired, I guess. It’s been almost back-to-back sessions.”

        “Yeah, I know,” Adolfo said and picked up a tortilla chip, “but look at how much we made this month. And it’s not like we have a lot of expenses. This is almost all for us.”

        “And Sofía, right?” Juan asked.

        The tip of the chip broke against the stiff surface of the queso. Adolfo picked up a spoon and swirled the dip before saying, “She’s the reason you’ve been so pissy lately, isn’t it? You know she earns her share. You think la vieja Dolson would keep scheduling sessions if it weren’t for Sofía mixing her medication? Or Mr. Garth and how he keeps thinking it’s ghosts who keeps moving his shit around.”

        “It was supposed to just be us two,” Juan said. The words were muttered, yet to his ears, they felt like the loudest thing he’d ever said. His hands held the edge of the table as if afraid his words would shake the entire restaurant. “Three years ago, you left, and I was fine with it. I kinda understood. You would never be happy until you were…” Juan motioned to him, “here. But then you came back, we figured out how we could both get there, and then you brought her in.”

        Adolfo stared at him without saying anything. The silence grew, taking over the entire table so that when the waitress came with their drinks, she set them down and, without prompting, said she would give them more time and come back.

        “Maldita sea, Juan,” Adolfo muttered, reaching for his drink and taking a long drink out of it. “Why are you trying to ruin this thing? What we have is good.”

        “Sofía told me you’re moving in with her.”

        Setting the drink down, Adolfo nodded. “Shit, I told her to let me tell you, first.”

        “Just like you were going to tell me about the two brothers you still haven’t paid, I bet.”

        Adolfo’s stiffened in his chair. “What the fuck are you talking about.”

        “A week ago, they paid me a visit, Adolfo,” Juan said, his fingers tearing up a napkin, bits of white fluttering down to the table. “They told me you hadn’t paid them anything. Didn’t you say that’s why you came back, to make it right with them?”

        “Why didn’t you tell me, Juan?” Adolfo asked. His voice was calm, almost casual, but Juan could see his eyes, and the thoughts behind them. He looked like the stray cat his mom used to take in during the hot summers, the way the animal would be comfortable and kneading the carpet one moment and then desperate to flee the house the next. That’s how Adolfo looked, like he was waiting for someone to open the door so he could flee.

        Juan had meant to tell Adolfo about the meeting with the brothers on the stairs; he had even called him from the apartment landing, his pants stained with Chinese and his wrist pulsing in pain. His phone had gone straight to voicemail. And then he’d waited for him in the apartment, sat on the sofa after taking a long, hot shower and waited for him to come home. Except Adolfo didn’t come home that night, arriving at noon the next day and telling him how he and Sofía drove out for some tacos, got lost, but found a great little bar he would take Juan to the next weekend.

        With every bit of detail Juan heard about Adolfo and Sofía’s evening, the need to talk about the brothers compressed down a little further, squeezed until it became pocket size, and then he placed it in the deepest part of his brain.

        “I did make it right, I mean, I am going to make it right. I just needed to get a bit more money before I reached out to them. Fuck, Juan, you should have told me this. You don’t know those two. They’re dangerous. They could mess everything we’re working so hard on here.”

        “All because you won’t give them a refund,” Juan said. His voice cracked because he’d never been like Adolfo.

        Adolfo had nothing to say this time, which was all the confirmation Juan needed.

        “You didn’t tell them to find a doctor, did you? When you found out the sister had cancer.”

        Adolfo took another longer sip of his drink and said, “Not right away. ¡No sabía! I just assumed she was normal sick, and then later, they’d already paid me so much that for me to suddenly say no would have just angered them.”

        “So you kept taking their money while telling them you could make her better. Christ, Adolfo. That’s something we were taught never to do.”

        “Oh please,” Adolfo said, “Don’t bring you’re her into this. And don’t you pretend you’re any different. We’re all using their beliefs and taking their money, aren’t we?”

        “I’d never do what you did.”

        “No, you would just come up with the idea to poison someone.”

        The jab hurt, and for a moment neither spoke, only stared at the other. Then Adolfo took a deep breath and said, “This is why I left the first time. I like you, Juan. I really do. But whatever thing you think we have, it’s not like that. You were driving me nuts by the end. That’s why I think it’s better if I move out now before things get even more tense. We wouldn’t want to ruin what we have right?”

        If Adolfo had stopped right then and there, Juan might have had regrets. But he plowed through, adding, “After all, we got our business to think about.”

        Our business. Not us to think about. Juan would have even settled for our friendship. But looking at Adolfo, he realized it would always be like this. Too one-sided.

        “I wonder where Sofía is,” Adolfo said, glancing at his phone before he started to cough. The coughs were deep and long, sending Adolfo into short spasms as his chest heaved in and out.

        “She’s not coming,” Juan said.

        “What are you talking about,” Adolfo asked. The question was asked in between coughs, his face growing bright red. Redder than Edward’s skin had ever been.

        “She didn’t even think twice about it, Adolfo,” Juan said, lining up his fork and knife in front of him, so they pointed at Adolfo, who kept coughing, the sounds being lost by the cumbia playing over the restaurant’s speakers. “When I told her there might be a chance it might just be me and her from now on, and she said that would be okay.”

        She actually said, ‘Honestly, I always regretted not going for you, though I guess that would have been a waste,’ but Juan didn’t want to be mean and rub salt on the wound.

        “¿Qué me hicistes?” Adolfo asked, clutching his sides and groaning.

        In response, Juan set the empty thallium bottle between them. “You were right,” he told Adolfo, “we never consider those who serve us. Like the waitress who’s been helping us all night—I bet you didn’t even catch the family resemblance.”

        “Fa…family?” Adolfo muttered, his head dropping a bit.

        “To her younger sister. The one you gave months of false hope and left when it was too late for anyone to help her.”

        “¡Pinche culero!” Adolfo tried to lunge at Juan but instead tumbled and almost fell to the floor, caught at the last minute by Santiago, who’d appeared out of nowhere, still wearing his white cook apron.

        “Calmado, calmado,” Santiago muttered into Adolfo’s ear and helped him back up to his chair, where he propped him up and kept him in place by resting his two large hands on his shoulder.

        To Juan, he asked. “You finished here?”

        Juan looked at Adolfo. His eyes were already glazing over, and a small bit of drool slowly dripped from the side of his mouth. Juan had the waitress pour a full bottle of thallium into Juan’s drink, not having been sure how quickly it would react nor its full effect. He wondered if he used too much.

        “Yeah, I am,” Juan said, keeping his eyes on the queso and trying to ignore the whimpering sounds coming from Adolfo. “And we’re done, right?”

        “Yeah, buddy, absolutely,” Santiago said, in a tone that Juan figured would keep him up at night.

        Pushing his chair back, he thought about taking one last look at Adolfo but decided against it. He didn’t want to remember him this way.

        Walking outside the restaurant, the humidity assaulted Juan, his shirt immediately sticking to his skin. Glancing around, he spotted the Silver Lexus idling by a parking space and moved towards it.

        “Everything went okay?” Edward asked him when Juan slipped into the back seat.

        “He took it better than I thought he would. Actually wished me luck and said he was thinking of moving out of the city anyways.”

        “Really,” Edward asked in Spanish. “I’m surprised. I thought he would be upset about you deciding it was time to break off the business part. No offense, I liked him at all, but there’s nothing he was doing that you couldn’t do.” He patted Juan on the leg and let his hand rest on his thigh.

        “Yeah,” Juan said, closing his eyes and leaning against the leather seat. The car’s engine turned on, vibrations moving across his ass and back.

        “I have to drop you off at home. Have work to deal with, but hopefully, I won’t be long.”

        “It’s fine,” Juan said, trying to will away the image of drooling Adolfo that sat center in his mind. And it was fine. He trusted Edward. He knew they would work out.

        And if not. Well, he could always reach out to his tió.

Hector Acosta is an Edgar nominated author who lives in Houston with his wife and cats. His stories have been features in Vautrin, BAMS 2022, and more. He has been told he watches too much wrestling. 

Monday, October 24, 2022

Dixie’s Dry Gulch, by Ed Kurtz

Dixie’s Dry Gulch was the last place in Pulaski County where a drinking man could wet his whistle before he stumbled into Faulkner County, where the same drink would land him in stir for the night. Arkansas was the driest state in the Union with nearly half of its counties dry, which on any other day tended to rub Scott Pearl and Fatboy Dave Grant, prodigious drinkers both, the wrong way. On the day they were putting their plan together, on the other hand, robbing a roadhouse in a wet town and hiding out with their take in a dry town half a mile down the road made a hell of a lot of sense. Fatboy Dave’s cousin Alvis worked the bar at the Dry Gulch, so their first order of business was to make sure Alvis didn’t make it to work that night. This was Fatboy Dave’s problem, so he went off to sort it out while Scott procured the masks and a pair of shotguns he happened to know were stowed in the back office where he worked. 

And since Scott Pearl also worked at Dixie’s Dry Gulch, so he knew he would have to be careful. He couldn’t just pick them up and carry them out to his truck in the parking lot like he was taking out the trash or something. Probably nobody would say much of anything about it, him being so well known around there, but as soon as he and Fatboy Dave showed back up with the shotguns in their hands, somebody was bound to put it all together. No, something like this required finesse, which was why Scott cracked a plastic pitcher against the corner of the bar the day before. Hours later, he handed it to Flossie to fill up with Bloody Mary mix for the biker mamas behind the pool table. By the time Flossie was halfway across the rug that stretched from the front door to the back hallway, the weight of the liquid opened up that crack, and the entire pitcher all but exploded. Flossie was doused, but the rug took the worst of it. She went home to clean up. The rug was ruined.

Scott offered to haul it out to the dumpster as soon as he got around to it. He got around to it pretty damn quickly, too. The shotguns got rolled up in the rug, which he dumped into the cab of his truck, and he parked right behind the dumpster. Easy breezy. 

The masks he snuck out of his mama’s attic. He knew exactly where they were, tucked away in a cardboard box upon which his mother wrote HALLOWEEN in her precise hand with a black magic marker. There was an array of choices within the box, but Scott already knew which of his and his brother’s childhood costumes he wanted: his old clown mask for himself and Geoff’s Lone Ranger mask for Fatboy Dave. Geoff was six and a half years dead and gone, so Scott didn’t figure he’d mind too much, even if he was up in heaven like mama always said.

He stayed long enough to have a cup of coffee and to share three Pall Malls with his mama before heading back to the rendezvous point, the EZ Mart between Dixie’s and the interstate motel where Fatboy Dave was staying.  Scott draped his hunting jacket over the shotguns and went inside for a soda and some beef jerky while he waited. After he got back into his truck, slammed the soda and killed off the jerky, he was still waiting for Dave. He mindlessly ran a finger around the rim of one of the shotgun barrels and watched the clock gradually reach—and then pass—9:00. 

Fatboy Dave was late. That was not good. That wasn’t good at all.


Dave pulled up in front of Alvis’s doublewide and sat in the car for a spell, letting the engine idle and listening to the rest of the George Jones song on the radio. Dave loved the Possum and he’d be damned if he was going to cut the engine before the song was over. While he listened, he cracked open one of the beers from the six-pack he picked up on the way over and downed half of it in one go. The Possum warbled and Fatboy Dave finished his beer, thinking about all that money he and Scott were about to get their hands on. More than enough to escape his life and go try being somebody else for a while. Someplace where nobody called him Fatboy anymore. Someplace where he didn’t have to work road crews for next to nothing, only for Sharise to take most of that just because he knocked her up in high school when he was still just plain old Dave. Someplace where he didn’t have to live in a cheap motel and listen to guys bang escorts in the rooms on either side of him all night, every night.

 Someplace where Dave could just disappear.

The song came to an end, the DJ cut in for a station identification announcement, and as Dave swallowed the last warm dregs of his beer, he realized Alvis was standing on the cinderblocks that served as his front porch, smoking a Swisher Sweet cigar and staring Dave down. Dave grinned at his cousin and turned the key, killing the engine. Alvis didn’t smile back.

“Mornin’, cuz,” Dave called out as he hauled himself out of the car.

Alvis said, “It’s practically suppertime, Fatboy.”

“Sure, sure,” Dave said. “I know that.”

“Well,” the cousin drawled, “might as well come inside. Hotter than hell out here.”

Dave didn’t think it was half as hot as the last few days, but he followed Alvis into the trailer anyway. He was met by the familiar funk of low-grade cannabis that hung sticky in the air from all the ditch weed Alvis and his friends were always smoking. Some gameshow sounded a pathetic horn to signal a contestant had lost on the ancient black-and-white television Alvis had balanced precariously on moldering newspapers by his rumpled bed. On the bed, a woman with clown-red hair lay naked from the waist down, murmuring something to herself while she scratched at a cluster of scabs on her belly. She didn’t seem to notice Dave’s arrival, and Alvis didn’t appear to notice her. Dave just tried not to stare.

He had carried the remaining five beers from the car by the one empty ring and popped one free for Alvis. Alvis set it down on the kitchen counter without bothering to open it.

“Did you know there’s a dwarf in Norse mythology named Alvis?”

“What do you want, Dave?”

Dave chuckled nervously and freed another beer from the plastic rings for himself. He cracked it open, sipped, gulped, sipped some more. Finally, he said, “Why don’t you call out sick tonight and meet us up at Midtown?”
“In Little Rock? The hell for?”

“Just a good time and like that.”

“Who’s goin’?”

“Johnny Lee Lincoln and them.”

“Them? Shit, Fatboy, they’re there every night. I ain’t got to call out to see Johnny and them.”

“Heard Johnny signed up for the Army.”

“So what? This his last night in town?”

“Might could be.”

“Shit, Fatboy.”

“It’s just one night.”


“Anybody asks, I’ll tell ‘em I saw you puking your guts out my own self. What you say, cuz?”

Alvis swiped the can off the counter and opened it up with a satisfying hiss. It was as good as saying yes, as far as Dave was concerned. And by the time Alvis got tired of waiting around for Dave to show up at Jimmy’s Midtown Billiards, the whole damn thing would be over and done with. Everything was going much smoother than Dave anticipated it would. He had to fight to keep from laughing, he was so relieved. 

He felt downright giddy.

With a wink and a pat on his cousin’s shoulder, Dave said, “See you later on, then,” and turned for the door. Alvis was considerably faster than Dave and got there first, putting himself between the only way out of the doublewide and the big-boned cousin who was attempting to leave.

“Hold on a minute,” Alvis said. He sounded reptilian, the way he said it. Dave’s giddiness washed away as quickly as it had come. “How come you love Johnny Lee Lincoln so damn much all a’sudden?”

“Aw, come on, Alvis. Johnny’s not a bad fella.”

“Johnny whupped your ass twice in junior high and once in tenth grade.”

“Well, I was in tenth. Johnny got held back.”

Alvis pulled a face. Dave thought it looked like the old boy just tasted something shitty, but he knew it was just that Alvis didn’t believe him. 

Dave laughed a little, the way he always did when he wasn’t really paying attention to what somebody was saying but wanted to seem like maybe he was. Only this time, he was paying attention. Close attention. He began to sweat a little, small beads erupting from the pores along his mildly receding hairline. Alvis said, “It’s a little hot in here, too, ain’t it?”

“A little,” Dave admitted.

Alvis spread himself out over the door, getting comfortable, and lifted the bottom of his shirt just enough to expose the black grip of a Smith & Wesson tucked into his waistband.

He didn’t make for it; he just wanted Fatboy Dave to know it was there.

“Why don’t you tell me what the fuck is going on, Fatboy?”

Dave said, “Shit.”


At a quarter of ten, Scott decided the whole goddamn thing was off. He cranked up the A/C, tuned the radio dial until something he didn’t completely hate came on, and shifted into reverse just in time to see a pair of headlights appear in his rear-view mirror. The lights swept the cab of Scott’s truck, forcing him to squint and look away, and by the time he looked again, Fatboy Dave was pulling into the spot to Scott’s left. Only Dave wasn’t driving; he was sitting in the passenger seat, looking for all the world like a kid waiting to get scolded by the principal or some such shit.

Behind the wheel was Dave’s cousin, Alvis. 

Dave looked through the window to Scott and shrugged. This was not the plan. This was about as far from the plan as it could possibly be. Dave widened his eyes and scrunched up his brow, giving his friend his best death glare. Dave sank into his seat. Alvis got out of the car and flashed the biggest shit-eating grin in the history of shit-eating grins at Scott. 

Alvis said, “How do, Pearly?”

Scott rolled his window the rest of the way down as Alvis approached.

“Can’t say I expected seeing you tonight, Alvis.”

“See, there? I got surprised earlier my own self. Don’t recall the last time ol’ Fatboy dropped by my place like that, but there he was, tryin’ to talk me out of going to work tonight. Now, why do you reckon he would try something like that, Pearly?”

“I don’t know, man. He’s your cousin.”

“And he’s your partner,” Alvis said. “Ain’t that right?”

“Partner?” Scott said, aghast. “Jesus, Alvis, it’s not like we’re…”

“I told him,” Dave cut in. He pushed himself out of the passenger seat of his own car, struggling with how little space his cousin had left him to maneuver. “I told him what we’re gonna do.”

“We ain’t gonna do shit,” Scott said.

“That’s a fact,” Alvis agreed. “You two ain’t. We all are.”

“Sorry, Scott,” Dave said.

“Half for me and a quarter each for you two cocksuckers,” said Alvis. “Unless maybe you want I should go telling stories to certain folks?”

“He don’t want that,” Dave said.

“Shut the fuck up, Fatboy.”

Scott said, “I don’t want that.”

“Well, all righty, then,” Alvis beamed. “Let’s get us down to fuckin’ business, boys.”


Now the robbers were three, though only one of them was in any way happy about it. Still, they all crammed into the cab of Scott’s pickup, Dave in the middle, and headed south for Dixie’s Dry Gulch. There were shotguns for both Scott and Fatboy Dave, and Alvis had his compact Smith & Wesson. The only problem left to solve was the dearth of masks; Scott had only grabbed two from his mother’s attic. He’d had no reason to anticipate a need for backups. 

Scott said as much. Alvis said, “Give me your shirt.”

“What? No.”

“The hell not?”

“I got fuckin’ tattoos, man. That’s as good as showing my face.”

“Me, too,” Dave said.

“I don’t want your stinking shirt, Fatboy,” said Alvis. “Probably your stretch marks are identifying marks.” He really cracked himself up with that one, laughing himself hoarse. When he finished with that, Alvis lit a cigarette with the truck’s lighter, burned himself with it, yelped, and then tossed the lighter through Scott’s open window.

“What the fuck, man?”

“After tonight, you can afford a new one. Shit, you can afford a whole new truck.”

“Not on twenty-five percent,” Dave grumbled.

“Shut the fuck up, Fatboy,” said Alvis.

They pulled up at Dixie’s at half past ten. Scott pulled around to the back and parked it. To avoid further antagonizing Alvis, Scott pulled his t-shirt off and passed it over. He had a yellow safety vest from a short construction stint in the truck bed that probably smelled to high heaven, but it would cover up most of the tats he was worried about. 

Alvis tied Scott’s t-shirt around the bottom half of his face like a neck gaiter while Scott pulled the hard plastic clown mask down over his face. Dave tried to do the same with the Lone Ranger mask he had been assigned, but the string broke almost as soon as he tried.


“The hell happened?” Scott said, his voice low but urgent.

“This goddamn thing is too small.”

Alvis said, “Your goddamn head is too big.”

“Come on, man,” Dave said. “It’s a kid’s mask.”

“Jesus Christ,” Alvis growled. He untied the shirt-gaiter and set to ripping the shirt in half. 

Scott’s chagrin was written all over his face. “My shirt,” he said.

“Fuck your shirt,” Alvis said. He passed half of the shredded fabric to Dave, and the two of them affixed their impromptu gaiters. “Okay, ladies? We done crying, now?”

Dave heaved a sigh. Scott said, “Let’s get this done.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Alvis said, and he punctuated it with a loud, ill-advised hog call. “Soooooo-eeeee!”

“Kee-rist,” Scott said low. He thought about how badly this was going already, before any one of them so much as set foot inside the Dry Gulch. 


Flossie Sims pushed a small pile of wet, broken brown glass with a broom toward a much larger pile of wet, broken glass of varied colors in front of the jukebox. The juke was playing the Hag, who was bemoaning hippiedom, and Flossie hummed along to the familiar tune while she swept. 

On the opposite side of the bar, Huck Barber was shaking Squint, real name unknown, by the shoulders in an attempt to wake the old biker up. Squint had been the one to recruit Huck into the Boozefighters MC back in the day, so nobody at the Dry Gulch ever cut the old boy off. Most nights he ended up passed out behind the pool table, and most nights it fell to Huck to get Squint back on his feet long enough to guide him into the back office to sleep it off. Once in a while the old man would put up a fight, but with just the one leg and hardly any meat left on the bones he still had, it never was much of a fight. 

Apart from Flossie, Huck, and Squint, the only other person left in Dixie’s Dry Gulch was Duke Franklin, another back-in-the-day Boozefighter who went blind after his ride spun out on a patch of gravel and he ended up wearing a concrete highway barrier wall for a hat with one of his ape hangers stuck in his side. He ought to have been wearing a brain bucket, but who did? Everybody told Duke he was lucky to be alive, but after twelve and a half years he was still waiting to feel like that was in any way true. Still, the man could put them back, as well, if not better than any BFMC member in good standing or bad. It was a rare night in Dixie’s when Duke wasn’t the last man sitting upright.

Flossie brushed the sticky glass shards into a pan and dumped them in a wastebasket before straightening up and saying, “You ‘bout done with that beer, Duke? Time to lock up.”

“You’re allowed to serve ‘til two,” Duke complained. It was the same song every night.

“Midtown serves ‘til five,” she reminded him.

“You driving?”

“Dream on, big man. I gotta put my kids to bed.”

Duke chuckled softly and finished his Michelob, swallowing the lukewarm remains of it when the front door swung open and slammed against the wall.

Flossie’s head shot up. She saw the shotguns before she registered the men carrying them. From behind and between them, a third man erupted like pus from a boil, branding a compact pistol and hollering with black fabric wrapped over his mouth. She couldn’t understand a single word of it.


Alvis tried again, slowly this time.

“I said, put your hands up and don’t move.”

“How the fuck we gonna put our hands up if we can’t move,” Duke said.

Scott said, “I think he means first you put your hands up, but then you don’t move no more after that.”

“That’s how I understood it,” said Dave.

“Shut the fuck up, Fatboy!” roared Alvis.

Scott gasped. Flossie did, too. 

She said, “Dave?”

Scott said, “Fuck.”

“Can’t have that,” Alvis said, and he pointed his little compact right at Flossie’s face.

Her steel gray eyes flicked from the handgun to Dave, and then back again. 


She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Her wet eyes seemed to tremble in the low light. 

Alvis said, “Sorry,” and he shrugged at Flossie.

His finger touched the trigger, at which point Dave’s shotgun barked fire and most of the back of his cousin’s head transformed into a sort of misty paste that spattered three tables. 

Flossie squeezed her eyes shut and screamed. Alvis collapsed in a heap of arms and legs, which to Dave looked very much like a puppet with its strings just cut. There was a whiff of smoke in the air, but it was overwhelmed by the coppery stink of the dead man’s open crater of a skull. 

Dave’s eyes welled up and spilled over. “I never did like you much, Alvis,” he told the corpse on the floor. Nobody could hear him say it over Flossie’s continued howling.

“Jesus jumped-up Christ, Dave,” Scott sputtered. “Jesus Christ, you blew his goddamn head off.”

“Yeah,” Dave agreed. “I reckon I did.”

“What in the blue fuck is going on in here?” Duke demanded to know.

“It’s—it’s all right, Duke,” Flossie told him. She took his arm gently. “It was Alvis Boggins come to rob us, but Dave—Dave here…”

Dave pulled the torn shirt down from his face. “I got him, Duke. Don’t worry. I got him.”

“Jesus,” Scott said, shaking his head. He quietly lay the shotgun he was carrying down on the bare floor where the rug used to be, said “Jesus” again, and then walked right back out of Dixie’s Dry Gulch, letting the door slam behind him. 

He wasn’t the first to go; outside, Scott saw Huck Barber peeling out on his Cruiser. Squint was nowhere to be seen, so Scott reckoned he was likely still sawing logs in the back office. He slumped his shoulders, pulled his clown mask off, and went slowly, dejectedly, back to his truck. No money, no nothing, and all because Fatboy Dave’s crazy cousin had to go and fuck it all up for everybody. Especially his own dead self. Stupid son of a bitch.
Scott pulled out of the parking lot with a brief glance over his shoulder to see if Dave was coming out or not. He wasn’t. Scott left him there and pointed himself vaguely southwest, with ideas of kicking around Texas for a little while floating around his head.

“I expect I better call the Sheriff’s Department,” Flossie said inside, her voice wavering. She was still grasping her broom, her knuckles white from how tightly she held onto it. 
Dave pried her fingers loose and took the broom, along with the shotgun he came in with, to the back. Squint was out cold on the ragged old brown-and-yellow davenport in the office. Dave stowed the gun and the broom in the cobwebby corner behind the filing cabinet. He then went back for the other gun and did the same.

After Flossie took the part of Scott’s shirt that Dave ended up with and tossed it out with all the broken glass she’d swept up, the three of them—Flossie, Dave, and Duke—had themselves three glasses of Pabst on the house while they waited for the Sheriff’s Department to roll up. 

Dave savored the beer, figuring it was going to be his last for quite a long spell. Flossie patted him on the leg and said, “Don’t you worry, ain’t nobody gonna say you was with them.”

Her eyes flitted to the awful body of Alvis on the floor when she said them. She’d covered the head with an apron from behind the bar, but the blood seeped through almost immediately.

“Nah,” he deferred after a short but satisfying sip. “I’m tired, Flossie. Thanks, but I’m just so damn tired, by God.”

She nodded like she could understand that. Dave smiled at her. After another minute or two, they could both hear the sirens in the middle distance, growing louder all the time. 

Dave closed his eyes and waited.

And he kept on smiling.

Ed Kurtz is the author of The Rib from Which I Remake the World, Bleed, and the Boon trilogy, among other novels. His short fiction has appeared in Best American Mystery Stories and Best Gay Stories Originally hailing from Arkansas, Ed lives in New England.