Bloodbath

The gaunt faced man looked across at El with satisfaction. "There now." He tapped the tips of thin fingers on the tabletop. "I thought you might have that kind of trouble. I thought this disguise was ill-advised, but it amused him. He was confident in you."

"Do you pay the bar owners for the damage your men will do?"

The man stretched his lips. "Very funny. Now, I presume you have the item?"

Interesting. El focused on the other man. He doubted he would be able to maintain a deception for very long, when he had so little idea what was going on. He wondered for a moment what Sands would do in the same situation. Probably, he'd drag it out as long as he could, to see what he could learn.

"You were going to drug me and steal it," he said.

The man's eyes hardened. "A misunderstanding, I told you," he said. "That's not how he operates."

"I think you should pay me, first."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Pay you! Payment was made in advance, you idiot. You've done very well so far; this is no time to get stupid." He drew out a gun and pointed it at El. "Hand it over, now."

So much for continuing the deception. El shrugged mentally. He didn't really care what mess he'd stumbled into. He'd find out what he could, and then get away from here.

"You've sent all your help down the street," El said, allowing menace into his voice. "Do you think you can take me alone?"

The sound of gunfire erupted in the distance, centered on the other saloon.

From the side of his vision, El saw the bartender, the only man remaining in the club, reach swiftly beneath his bar. El was faster. Both spring-loaded pistols appeared in his hands. Aiming one at each man, he shot the bartender, dead, and shot the gun from the gaunt man's hand. His table companion yelped, leaped to his feet, and cradled his gun hand in the other arm.

"Sit down," El ordered him. "Hands on the table."

Furious, the man did not move. "Just who do you think you are?" he shrieked.

"I know who I am. I don't think you do. Sit down, or I'll kill you, too." He extended the arm holding the gun that had just fired at the man.

Fear and possibly, understanding, dawned on the man's thin face. He sat.

"What item am I supposed to have?" El asked.

"A book," said the man, looking around him in panic.

"What book?"

"I don't know," the man cried in a rush, "some rare Dumas book! Look, just go now, and no one will hurt you."

"How generous. Who is 'he'? Who do you work for?"

The man paled, leaped up, and made a dive for the door. El shot him reflexively. He collapsed at the doorway, a growing blood stain blossoming on his linen jacket.

Damn. El had meant to leave him alive. Oh well. He stood, picked up his guitar case, and walked to the bar. He opened the cash register, removed all the bills, and stuffed them in a pocket. At his feet the dog whined.

El looked down. The yellow dog, still lying on its side, thumped its tail against the wood floor. El reached down and scooped the dog into his free arm. He walked to the door, stepped carefully over the gaunt man's body, and stood for a moment in the street.

Gunshots still sounded from the other bar. A young boy in a yellow T-shirt, one of those who had fled from El before, crouched fearfully behind the black Mercedes out front. El was glad to see him. Carrying the dog meant he didn't have a free hand.

"You! Boy!" he called. The boy looked at him with wide dark eyes. "How would you like to make 100 pesos?"

The boy looked interested, but still did not speak.

"Take this knife," El struggled to extract a knife and a 100 peso note while still holding the dog and the guitar case, "and slash the tires on these cars. Then get out of here. Can you do that?" He gazed directly into the boy's eyes.

Nodding, the boy accepted the knife and the money.

"Do you know whose dog this is?" El asked in a conversational tone. The dog nuzzled its head into El's elbow.

"N-No one's, Señor," said the boy.

Shrugging, El palmed his pistol on his left hand so he was holding it beneath the dog's body. He strode out into the street, headed for the other bar.

A man, bleeding from a wound in his side, stumbled out of the first saloon, and scrambled into the tan Pontiac. El watched warily, but he squealed away from the building, back the way the car had come, not noticing him. The gaunt man's thugs stepped out of the door and looked in his direction. One of them put on sunglasses. Behind them came some of the men who had accompanied them from El Club Dumas, looking a bit disheveled. El continued walking, gripping his hidden pistol, and the group met him just beyond his jeep.

One bodyguard stopped and the others imitated him. El nodded to him, and veered toward his jeep. He put the dog on a seat, sheathing his pistol out of the other men's sight. He turned to face them.

The first bodyguard regarded him levelly, glanced past him toward El Club Dumas, then said, "Those men will give you no further trouble."

"Muchas gracias," said El.

After considering him a moment more, the group continued down the street, urgency in their pace. They were missing three of their original number. Three for three, and the cartel men had been outnumbered.

El looked inside. The place was a shambles and six bodies lay sprawled in pools of blood. He was glad to see no sign of the bar owner or his wife. He put the cash in his pocket into their register, and sped back out to his car. The dog whined a weak greeting.

"You just stay there," El said. He drove down the street, passing El Club Dumas, as frightened townsfolk started to emerge from nearby shops and homes. The young man who had placed a cell phone call was crouched over the body of the gaunt man, and saw him drive by. El heard him yell an alarm, and a few seconds later gunshots whistled by the jeep. One hand holding the dog on the seat, El slammed the pedal to the floorboard. In his rear-view mirror he saw men pile into the luxury cars outside El Club Dumas. By the time they were no longer in sight, not one of them had followed him, however.

Good boy.