"Scott Wolven - The Underdogs" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wolven Scott)

"For Christ's sake, help me," Greg said to me. I grabbed the crowbar off the front seat of Greg's Toyota and followed. Bill Glass was getting out of the truck. I swung the crowbar for all I was worth, right into his shin. It hurt my hand, but he went down, grabbing his leg. I yarned on it again, as hard as I could. I'd never hit anything so hard in my life. Greg was there, flipping the injured man who had referred to himself as Bill Glass over and putting a set of handcuffs on him, so both hands were locked behind his back. Greg grabbed the cuffs and used them to pull the injured man who was moaning to his feet. He stumbled him across the parking lot and tossed him in the back of the Toyota. Greg climbed in behind the wheel and I jumped in at co-pilot. I'd brought a bottle of whiskey with me, just in case, and used this moment to take a swig. I offered the bottle to Greg.

He shook his head. "You drink a lot," he said.

"I'm no fun sober," I said. I took another swig from the bottle and put it on the floor of the truck.

The man we were pretty sure was Ed Hurd sat up in the back seat.

"Fucking scumbags," he said through the Plexiglas. "I'll sue the shit out of both of you. My name's Bill Glass, you've got the wrong man." Then he moaned. His right leg, the one I hit, rested at an odd angle. I must have shattered it.

We drove north in silence. Fields of grain and lentils spread out from the road on either side, an inland sea that waved with the breeze. Farms and beautiful fields, right to the outskirts of Spokane. The drive took a little over an hour and a half. We started to see the outskirts of Spokane, starting with The Hangman Golf Course. Just after we passed the sign, the man in the back spoke.

"I'm Ed Hurd," Ed Hurd said.

Spokane is the land that time forgot. As we drove into the city, I read the old advertisements from the walls of the brick buildings. Lion Overalls, The King Over-all, A Free Pair If They Tear. Henry Strong, A Good Cigar, For A Nickel. Drink Nehi. We passed under a set of train tracks and Greg maneuvered through downtown until we were in front of the Marshall's office. He left the truck running while he went inside. In a minute, he came back out with four US Marshall's, all in plain clothes. They took the man out of the back seat of the truck and led him inside. Greg went back in too and then came back out. He hopped in the driver's seat and started back south to Moscow, Idaho. On the way home, he told me that the Marshall's gave him a check for the reward and he'd go to the bank with me on Monday, to settle up. And we watched the fields roll by again. We talked about being partners, and how well the capture had gone. We were partners and we'd have to do it again. Soon. Fugitive life in the West was no longer the cakewalk it had once been. Newell and Thorn were on the job. Let all the hardened criminals take notice. Somewhere on the ride home, I finished my whiskey.

* * *

Sunday came and I decided to eat breakfast at Benny's. I sat at the counter, facing the wall. Some people were eating, but it wasn't crowded. An older, Mexican man moved slowly down the counter and sat next to me, on the stool to my left.

"How is your breakfast?" he asked. He spoke with a thick Spanish accent.

I was eating a Western omelet. "Good," I said with my mouth full.

"That's good," he said. He smiled. His teeth were bright white. He kept on. "You're Greg's partner, right? He came in yesterday late and told me you were his partner. That you and he would hunt men together."

"Yeah," I answered. "We're partners."

"In hunting men, you are partners?"

I nodded. "Yeah, yes - I mean, in hunting men. We're partners."

We sat at the counter. A picture of a Mexican woman in a very colorful dress hung on the wall behind the counter. She was dancing. The old man looked at the picture as he spoke.

"When I first came to this country, I was one of those men. One of those men who never had a chance to start over. In Mexico, they call them los de abajo. I think the best translation I've ever heard is "the underdogs." You hunt the underdogs." Even though there were other people in the diner laughing and talking and eating, all I could hear was the old Mexican man. He kept on.

"I am Benny and this is my place. For today, eat your food, finish what you have, enjoy your meal. Do not pay - for this meal, since I have talked to you so much, you are my guest." He turned to look at me. "But from now on, you always pay. I know sometimes my son, he trusts. He trusts Greg when he has no money, because he knows Greg works, and now he will probably trust you, because you work with Greg." He shook his head. "Well this is Benny talking. You hunt the underdogs and that is your business. But no more trust. Hunting men is not working, in my eyes." He got up from the stool and walked slowly toward the kitchen. He stopped and looked at his son, sweating behind the kitchen grill and I heard the old man's words. No more trust.



SCOTT WOLVEN has a fellowship in creative writing at Columbia University. His fiction appears in Emerging Voices Online (http://www2.netdoor.com/~rief) and Permafrost and is forthcoming in CrossConnect and Mississippi Review. The title "The Underdogs" comes from Mariano Azuela's great 1915 novel Los De Abajo.

Copyright (c) 2000 Scott Wolven