7. Plata, Plomo, Verdad

"You think he's still alive?"

Hank was back with his third partner. Jeremy or something was his name. A slim kid from the Boneyard, who'd grown up hunting rats for fun in the catacombs beneath the ruined city. They were looking at the Decanus of the contubernia who'd just tried assaulting their position. A well-placed shot had nailed the point man, and a remote C4 charge had hit the rear three in the column. The rest had been easy pickings.

Hank shrugged. "Maybe." He gave the Decanus another kick. A mumble, a trickle of blood out of the corner of one mouth.

Jeremy leaned down. His face turned mean. "Fucker's still breathing."

"Yeah? Well Legion armor is good, I'll give 'em that." Hank squatted down to join Jeremy. Pushing his fingers through the dying man's shoulder pads, he could feel the fading pulse through arteries ripped open by a .308 round. When he pulled the fingers back, they were sticky with drying blood and sand.

"Should we take him back?"

Hank glanced down the pathway through which the raiding party had been advancing. "There's still a few frag mines covering us down there, right?" Jeremy nodded. Hank picked up one of the Decanus' arms. "Then let's go."

By some miracle, the man began to get better as he was being carried back to Forlorn Hope. Or maybe he'd just been faking it. Either way, he was heavy, and as soon as he could walk, Hank and Jeremy were taking turns prodding him along with their rifles.

They learned his name was Drusius Corvus, First Decanus in the Sixth Century of Seventieth Cohort of the Fifth Legion. He'd been born near Old Tucson, and his complexion suggested a Mexican ancestry. He insisted they call him Drew, which Hank and Jeremy refused to do, calling him 'Fuckface' instead.

On the second night, the three men had sat down to cook a meal next to one of the steep bluffs lining the Colorado River. Drew offered to teach them how to cook a stew if they would just untie his hands. So they did-while tying his by the neck and leg to a nearby tree. There, leashed like a dog, Drusius taught Hank and Jeremy how to make Legionnaire's Stew. Even Jeremy had to admit, it was pretty good.

That night, as Hank stood watch, Drew began to speak. "I've seen you before." Hank froze. "You were with the first cohort, first Legion-I remember. You were one of the standard-bearers during the Boulder City anniversary."

Hank turned slowly, careful not to wake the other man. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The decanus laughed. "Heh heh, what do you think, I'm going to run around telling the profligates? Nah, your secret's safe with me." Then, he added, in a tone almost too friendly. "Glad to know we're on the same side."

Hank repeated himself. "I said, I don't know what you're talking about." Then, he added, with emphasis: "I'm not wearing a mask for the Bull anymore. You can tell Vulpes to go fuck himself."

Drew's laugh was bitter. "What, you turning on us now? Living with the profligates make you soft? I don't believe this."

Hank leaned in close and yanked on the rope around Drew's neck. Drew's eyeballs bulged a little and he gasped for breath. "I'm done. You hear me? Out of the game. I'm on my own side now." Then let go of the rope, Drew gasping for breath.

"There ain't" -pant- "ain't no such thing as your own side, Frumentarius." Then Drew spit on Jeremy, and repeated a bit louder. "Frumentarius!"

Jeremy came to, his eyes blinking away the caked desert sand. "Wh-what? Whatsit?" He saw Hank trying to choke the Decanus to death. "Hey! What are you doing?"

Hank spoke quickly. "Little bastard was trying to escape." He kept his hands around Drew's neck, keeping the Decanus from speaking.

"Huh? His legs are still tied."

Hank looked down, his face flushing. Jeremy caught the look of guilt. "What's going on here?"

Drew wriggled free of Hank's grasp. "This man, he's a Frumentarius."

Hank reached over to choke Drew again, but Jeremy grabbed his wrist. "Let. Him. Speak."

Drew spoke quickly, hurried breaths punctuating every other word. "Ever notice how every single one of your patrols since the first one has gotten ambushed? Or how every single one of this man's sniping partners has gotten killed?"

Jeremy turned, a look of ice on his face. "Is this true, Hank? Is this true?"

Hank stood, looked guiltily from one man to the other. "I'm out of the game, Jeremy. I'm going straight now. That's why this bastard's accusing me." Then he added, weakly. "I swear."

Jeremy launched a left hook into Hank's face, knocking him down. "You BASTARD!" Then, while Hank was down, he began brutally beating him. "Go straight-I'll let you go straight-let you learn to walk straight-motherfucker-" Another series of punches. "They start by making you crawl in Alcatraz prison, then bend over-maybe after ten years you'll learn to walk straight again-" Hank made no effort to defend himself.

While Jeremy had been delivering a beatdown on Hank, Drew had managed wriggle out of the neck leash. He lunged forward and grabbed Hank's combat knife, breaking both of his still-leashed ankles in the process. In spite of lying on the ground at an awkward angle, the pain shooting up his legs, and having only one good arm, Drew's throw was deadly accurate. The tip slipped neatly between Jeremy's shoulderblades, the Boneyard kid slumping onto Hank's chest, coughing out blood.

Hank scrambled to his feet shock. "What the hell... what the..."

Over the next ridge, both men heard voices, indistinct, sounding like an NCR patrol. Drew was lying on the ground, smiling. "Now we're both in the same boat, profligate."

Hank immediately shoved Jeremy's body over the edge of the bluffs. "No." Then he leaned, inches from Drew's face. "What's to keep me from killing you, too?"

Drew pointed over at the rising cloud of dust behind the ridge, then to the bluffs next to them. "Lucky for me, a patrol is coming up. What you gonna do-kick me down there along with him? I'll scream 'Frumentarius' like crazy, and once they find both of our bodies, you'll look guilty as hell."

The patrol drew closer. Hank slumped. Drew continued. "Nah. You tell 'em-tell 'em that the Legion had me tied up and was about to kill me. You tell 'em that your partner this time was unlucky, just like last time. And then-" -Drew smiled his smile that made Hank uncomfortable- "-you'll no longer be on your own side. I'll join it."

Then, suddenly, Drew's face adopted Evelyn's pained, cloistered expression. "Is he still alive?"

"What?"

The voice, again, louder, from around him now. "Are you still there? Hank?"


Hank awoke with a start, grimacing. Each hearbeat shot pain from his middle of his spine to the back of his neck. He found himself looking into Evelyn's sea-green eyes. She was staring with a look of mild exasperation mixed with concern down at Hank. He lifted his head, found he was lying in the screened in-porch of the farmhouse. The farmer's wife, the cripple, the mutant, and the dog were also there, along with a teary-faced Val. A palpable air of slight embarassment hung about.

The farmer's wife had set tea out. Evelyn handed him a glass. Hank drank it, choked a little. Val rushed forward, held the glass until Hank finished it, a fresh wave of tears rising from her eyes. Evelyn looked slightly amused, reached out, ran her fingers through Val's hair in a motherly gesture.

Hank finally croaked out the obvious question. "What's going on?"

The farmer spoke. "You didn't look too good, so we thought we better call your employer."

The detective checked his watch. Miraculously, it was intact. It was six-forty. "In the evening?" Hank asked to no one in particular. The small crowd gathered around him nodded. Hank felt the back of his head, his expression getting a little pale as he felt the clotted blood.

His wife, a stout, matronly lady in her early fifties, looked accusingly at her husband, then turned to Hank. "You've been out cold for a day." She leaned forward, wiped his face down with a damp towel. "I'm Mrs. Boise, and this is my husband. We're sorry about what happened."

Val interrupted-"You better be sorry"-then shut up as Hank threw her a look.

Evelyn led Val out to her car, the cream colored Chryslux. Mrs. Boise accompanied them-along with the supermutant, who was carrying a crate of something. Hank walked over to the well. The supermutant immediately set down the crate, ran over, and hauled up a bucket, then began to clumsily try and wipe Hank down.

"Alright, alright, it's fine, I can do it myself. Thanks." The mutant stood aside. Hank finished cleaning up and joined Evelyn at her car.

The farmer then spoke up. "Look here, if it's all the same with you, we'll get your car patched up-If you'll tell me what your suit runs you, I'll make good on that, too, Mr. Redstone."

Val spoke up. "It's okay, Mr. Boise. We'll take care of it."

The farmer turned to Val. "It's just that they're after everybody out here, tearing up our irrigation ditches-trying to make our land worthless so they can pick it up for twenty-five caps an acre-"

Hank, Evelyn, and Val nodded. The farmer continued. "Anyway-Bud here is sorry, too. He wants to give you something to take back with you."

Hank looked at the mutant, who was now holding the huge crate again. It was full to the brim with ripe-smelling purple mutfruit. "Thanks, Bud."

They hired a tow truck labeled Tejada-"Didn't know Raul Tejada did tow trucks too," Val commented-then piled into the Chryslux for the drive back to New Vegas.

Val continued. "Thanks for coming, anyhow." Evelyn shot her an awkward glance. Hank looked between the two women amusedly. He pulled out a cigarette case, offered one to Evelyn, who refused. Val threw him a jealous look, then Hank guiltily put the case back in his jacket.

Hank continued. "That production field's a con job."

Evelyn and Val spoke simultaneously. "What production field?"

Hank looked at the two with a look of slight amusement, then replied. "Val Verde-they're conning the NCR into building it, only the Floramin won't go to the NCR-it'll go here."

Val replied first, quickly. "The Valley?"

Hank nodded. "Everything you can see, everything around us-the entire Colorado River Valley-half of the Mojave, and half of Arizona." Hank then felt around in his pockets, found the land records. "I was at the Hall of Records a few days ago-in the last three months, James Knoxville has bought 95,000 acres, Earl Masterson 224,000, Clarence Baxter 152,000 acres, and Harold Bigman Johnson 375,000 acres, just along this stretch of the Colorado alone."

Val gave a small chuckle. "Harold Bigman Johnson?" Evelyn laughed as she heard the name.

Hank didn't get it. "Know him?"

Val replied. "No, I think I would have remembered, right?" Evelyn nodded in assent.

Hank shrugged. "Yeah-they've been blowing these farmers out of here and buying their land for peanuts-have any idea what this land'll be worth with a steady Floramin supply? About seven hundred million more than they paid."

This time, Evelyn spoke. "-And Charles-he knew about it?"

Hank nodded and smiled, ruefully. "It's why he was killed-" Then he began to shift around in his seat, fumbling around for something. "-Harold Bigman Johnson-Harold Bigman Johnson-"

Hank pulled out his wallet, excitedly now, spilling its contents onto the seat. He snatched up the obituary column he'd folded up earlier in the week.

"We got it. We got it, baby."

Val and Evelyn spoke together again. "Got what?"

Hank read, proudly, like a schoolboy reading an A-grade paper to the class. "There was a memorial service at the Blue Paradise Rest Home today for Harold Bigman Johnson. He died on the 15th of this month."

Evelyn shrugged. "Is that unusual?"

Hank held up the land record sheet again. "That was a week ago. Then sometime this week he bought 375,000 acres of land. That's unusual."


The car pulled up before the elegant hacienda-style rest home, its entryway illuminated by streetlights. There was a small sign giving the name of the place in elegant neon scroll, sitting atop a manicured green lawn.

Hank got out of the car with Evelyn and Val. He offered each girl an arm, then led the three to the entrance.

They were approached by an unctuous, well-dressed man in his forties, with a flower in his buttonhole. He saw Evelyn and raised a hand in greeting.

"Hello there, I'm Mr. Astor. Can I help you folks?" As he spoke, he took in Hank's disheveled, bruised appearance.

Hank replied smoothly. "Yes, I sure hope so. It's Dad-" -Hank gestured toward his torn clothes and nose bandage, then turned towards Evelyn- "-I just can't handle him anymore, can I, sweetheart?"

Evelyn shook her head. Val fought the urge to step on Hank's foot.

The well-dressed man raised his hand to his mouth. "Oh my goodness."

Hank followed up hastily, with an apologetic tone. "Nothing to do with Dad. It's me, actually."

Val cut in. "They just don't get along very well. Granddad's an absolute angel with everyone else."

The man stammered for a moment. "Oh-well-I don't know-"

Hank covered for him. "Naturally, I want the best for him, money is no object-"

The man glanced at Evelyn's diamond earrings and wristwatch. "-Perhaps if we could meet your father-"

Hank interrupted. "There's just one question."

"Of course."

Hank dropped his voice to one barely above a whisper. "Do you accept anyone with a Great Khan ancestry?"

Evelyn and Val both looked at Hank with surprise.

The man answered, embarassed. "I'm sorry-we don't."

Hank replied smoothly, clasping his hand over the man's shoulder. "Don't be sorry, neither does Dad." Then he turned to Evelyn. "We just wanted to make sure though, didn't we, honey?" Val stepped on his toes as he used the term of endearment. Hank ignored it.

Evelyn stared back at Hank, both amused and appaled. She nodded slightly. Hank went on. "Just to be certain, I wonder if you could show us a list of your residents?"

The man's response was clipped and pointed this time. "We don't reveal the names of our guests as a matter of policy. I know you'd appreciate that if your father came to live with us."

Hank locked eyes with the man, spoke confidentially. "That's exactly what we wanted to hear."

The man relaxed. "Oh, good."

Hank spoke again. "I wonder, is it too late for us to have a look around?"

The man began to lead them into the building. "I don't think so-be happy to show you-"

Hank cut him off. "Would you mind if we took a stroll on our own?"

The man looked nervous for a moment, then stammered a reply. "Just, if you will, confine yourself to the main building-it's nearly bedtime."

Hank smiled. "We understand." Then, turning to Val, then Evelyn-"come, dearies."

The parlor was modestly decorated. Either by accident or design, the primarily octogenarian guests had segregated themselves. In one wing, the men were playing poker and dominoes-one elderly gentlemen sat at the piano, playing a Dean Domino piece.

In an adjacent parlor, several white-headed ladies worked on a quilt. Hank stopped, turned to the wall-pointing-then he said: "They're all here. Every goddamned name."

On the wall hung a posterboard, titled DAILY ACTIVITIES and divided into several columns. Atop each column was a heading-Lawn Bowling, Bridge, Fishing, Horseshoes, Barbecuing-with a list of names of the guests, entered under certain activities, for certain days.

Evelyn and Val turned to Hank. He gestured out to the retirees in both wings. "You're looking at the owners of a five million acre empire."

Val replied, astonishedly. "They can't be."

Hank shrugged. "They may not know it, but they are." Then he walked towards one of the women knitting and working on the quit. "Hello, girls."

A chorus of greetings responded. Hank continued. "Which one of you is Clarence Baxter?"

Six of the ladies immediately pointed at one of the women sitting in their midst. She looked up bashfully and nodded her head.

"Are you Clarence?"

"Yes." Her voice was kindly, but slightly slurred, senile.

Hank smiled. "I've been wanting to meet you."

She blushed. "Why?"

Hank hesitated, then gently delivered the next question. "Did you know that you're a very wealthy woman?"

The woman smiled, looked down, and returned to her stitching. "I'm not."

"Well you own a lot of land."

The woman looked back up, shook her head. "Not anymore." Then a sorrowful smile. "Oh some time ago, my late husband owned a good deal of beach property in San Francisco-but we lost it."

Hank looked at the quilt. In it was the head of a wasp-among the rest of the crazy quilt pattern. Hank pointed at it. "That's just lovely."

"Why thank you..."

He looked through the quilt for other pieces of the wasp-found a wing-and by it-the initials C.H.L. He cocked his chin toward that particular scrap of cloth. "Where did you get this material?"

The woman responded, somewhat indistinctly. "The Casa Door Hunting Lodge-"

Hank raised an eyebrow. "The Casa Door?"

The woman repeated herself, slower this time. "No-the Cazador. It's an insect. My son and grandson are members-and they take very nice care of us."

Hank smiled. "How do they do that?"

"Oh-give us things-not just some old flag like this, but-"

Hank knelt down, leaned closer. "But what?"

They were interrupted by the clipped, tense voice of the well-dressed man. "We're a sort of unofficial charity of theirs, Mr. Redstone. Would you care to come this way? Someone wants to see you."

Hank looked up, saw the man in the doorway, one hand on Evelyn's shoulder. Val was nowhere to be seen. Hank got up. "See you later." A chorus of goodbyes followed.

He and Evelyn walked towards the rest home manager, who was now standing at the front door. Also at the door was a heavily-scarred tribal, who was holding onto a handcuffed and sedated Val with his left arm. The right arm was a stump, plasma burns forming its punctuation mark.

The tribal spoke first. "Come on-I want you to meet somebody, Hank."

Hank glanced from the tribal, to the rest home manager, then back to the tribal again. "Can we leave the lady out of this?"

He pointed at Val. "Her? No, you kidding me?"

Hank snorted, gestured towards Evelyn. "I meant the redhead."

The tribal nodded, hesitantly. "Yeah, why not?"

Hank replied. "Okay, I'd like to walk her to the car."

The tribal held up an arm, blocking his path. "She knows where it is."

Evelyn spoke quickly. "I'm staying."

Hank looked at her and spoke forcefully. "Get in the car."

Evelyn began to walk, hesitantly through the doorway. The tribal made the mistake of opening up the glass door in the entryway, putting his back to Hank for a small moment. Hank closed the distance in one swift motion, pulled the tribal's leather jacket up over his head, then spun him around forwards and backwards. Dizzy and blind, the tribal danced about helplessly, .357 magnum clattering to the tile floor. Hank then grabbed the jacket and rammed the tribal's head once, twice, thrice into the glass, shattering it, then turned him around and starting ramming his head into one of the concrete arches-finally finished by clasping both his fists together and delivering a hard blow to the back of the neck. The jacket was now dripping something red. The tribal went down and did not get up.

The rest home manager screamed, then saw the gun and began to reach for it. Just before he did, Hank's foot connected with the gun barrel, sending the piece flying thirty feet down the hall. Hank fixed the manager with a murderous stare. The manager backed away, bumping into the crowd of excited ancients gathered behind him.

Hank ignored them, lifted Val over his shoulder, then turned and walked into the gravel parking lot. As he did, he noticed two more men-plainclothes, nervous movements-coming straight for him. Hank stopped. The two men fanned out and continued closer. Hank began to back up.

Suddenly a pair of headlights appeared between the men. In a moment, Evelyn's car was headed across the lawn directly at them, accelerating as it got near. The two plainclothes men looked at each other in disbelief, then dove for safety. The car skidded to a stop, fishtailing a little on the grass.

Evelyn opened the passenger door. "Get in."

Hank threw Val into the backseat, then hopped into the passenger side door. Two shots-wide misses. The screech of tires, and then they were off.


Evelyn looked straight ahead, driving. After a moment, she took one hand off the wheel and rubbed her left eye a little. Hank watched her, smiling slightly.

Over the horizon, the bright lights of New Vegas popped one by one into view. Hank sat back in the seat, glanced at Val. She looked to be sleeping soundly, just like Hank himself had been on the farmer's front porch.

Hank then glanced back at Evelyn. "So, you have a place in New Vegas?"

Evelyn laughed. "Y-yes. A few months back, Charles and I reserved the Presidential Suite at the Tops for our fifteenth anniversary."

Hank looked back down the road. The lights of the highway floated past them, dreamlike. "Fifteen years?"

Evelyn laughed, a little more nervously this time. "What?"

"Nothing, I just didn't take Charles to be a cradle robber."

Evelyn opened her mouth, as if to respond, but then closed it. Hank rolled down his window, then offered her a cigarette. She took it with haste.

Hank continued. "You know Val back there?"

Evelyn's response was clipped. "Y-yes-I-I recognized her from the pictures. So, I guess not."

"You do or you don't?"

Her voice was strained. "N-no. I mean, Charles did mention her once or twice-"

"He mentioned her? In what way?"

Evelyn fumbled for the words. "He-he said she was a friend, just that, nothing more."

Hank took out a cigarette of his own, looked at it, then lit it. "A friend, eh? So you knew about the affair beforehand?"

"Well, no, not really. I just always thought Inkay was meeting her on that basis."

Hank shrugged a little. "Sometimes I have trouble believing you, Mrs. Inkay."

"What do you mean by that?"

Hank took a puff. "I mean you say things that make me think you're pretty smart, but then you go and tell me stories that only make sense if you're really stupid."

Evelyn was silent for a moment. She threw her cigarette out the window. Then she spoke, changing the subject. "Look-there is something I should tell you. The hunting lodge the old lady mentioned-the pieces of the flag-"

Hank finished her sentence. "-The Cazador Hunting Lodge."

"Yes. It has to do with my father."

Hank shrugged, interjected flatly: "I know."

Evelyn continued: "He owns it." Then she stopped, looked over at Hank. The car began to drift into the opposite lane. Hank grabbed the wheel. Evelyn's voice suddenly lost its composure. "You know?"

Hank looked over, not understanding her feelings. "I saw him."

Evelyn slammed on the brakes, pulled over the car on the shoulder. "You saw my fa-father? When?"

"Three days ago." Hank stubbed out the cigarette in car's ashtray, then rolled up his window.

Evelyn-panicked. "You didn't tell me."

"Well, there hasn't been a lot of time."

She leaned closer, now. "What did he say?" Then again, more insistently, chewing out each syllable: "What. Did. He. Say?"

Hank leaned back a little, made a defensive gesture. "-That you were jealous, and he was worried about what you might do."

"Do? To whom?"

Hank nodded towards the backseat. "Inkay's girlfriend, for one thing." Hank paused for a second. "He wanted to know where she was."

Evelyn leaned forward, her head briefly touching the car horn. There was a short honk, then she jerked her head back up as if zapped by live wire. "I want you to listen to me-my father is a very dangerous man. You don't know how dangerous. You don't know how crazy."

Hank's voice was flat. "Give me an example."

Evelyn didn't. "You may think you know what's going on, but you don't."

Hank resisted the urge to grin. "That's what your father said-are you telling me he's in the back of this whole thing?"

Evelyn was actually shaking now. "It's possible."

"Including the death of your husband?"

"It's possible-please don't ask me any more questions now. I'll need to take care of some business once we get to New Vegas-just wait, wait for me there-and I'll be back. I need you. Please?"

Hank blinked twice. "Maybe-" He didn't get to finish. Evelyn leaned in, too quickly for Hank to react, and swallowed his lips. Hank was reminded of how deep passion always welled up from desperation.

"Promise me. Please?"

Hank didn't answer. They sat there, still, in the darkness for what felt like a long minute. Then Evelyn restarted the engine, and they were on their way.