Dust hovered over the ground as Peter Lim pulled in to the driveway at a snail’s pace. “Damnit,” he cursed under his breath. There were specks of clay hugging the tires, gathering in every crook and cranny, even in the folds of his Stetson. A coating of red settled everywhere. It had even increased the sun’s hue, now low in the sky.
Everything was terra cotta.
“Blue Spanish Eyes, prettiest eyes in all of Mexicoooo
Trueee Spanish Eyeeees, please smile at me once more before I gooooo.”
No matter how slow he drove, the red dust would inevitably stick everywhere. It was his own damned fault; had never bothered to pour concrete like everyone had told him to. Didn’t matter anyway, the whole town was covered in it.
Sooon I’ll returnnnn bringing you all the love your heart can hooold
Pleaseee sayyy si, si…say you and your Spanish eyes will wait for meeee.
He turned Engelbert Humperdink off as he stepped out of the truck.
Peter Lim was a no good son of a bitch. Everyone knew that, even he would tell you. He had dabbled in this and that until some fat man from Tennessee had cornered him one night at the bar. It was so long ago, Peter didn’t even remember his name. He had lured Peter with the promise of money and a shot of rye with a beer back. And “made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
Couldn’t refuse because the shot of rye had turned into four and then everything had become blurry. The fat man had rearranged his face. First punch, he looked like Gary Cooper. Last punch his nose was Walter Matthau’s. Or Karl Malden.
He shook his head at the memory as he walked into the living room. He didn’t take his hat off and moved directly to the ice box for a beer. The first two gulps almost burned his throat with their icy fire. He held on to the counter for balance and polished off the beer. He pulled a second bottle out and brought it with him to the backyard where he sat in a rickety beach chair left by the previous owners of the adobe house he had lived in the past two years.
To be continued.
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