Free Book Excerpts

Two men bring two women to America illegally. Ugliness follows.

Excerpt

ROBINSON LOADED THE last lobster chest. The battery was fully charged, both wing tanks topped off with fuel. This was his lucky morning. A mechanic on the field had two slightly used fuel injectors he couldn’t use; they were threaded for Robinson’s Continental engine. The mechanic told Robinson to keep them, no charge. Robinson buried his head inside the engine to replace the injectors then felt a light tap on his shoulder. “Quien?”
“Marco,” Morelos wheezed.
“Ola, Morelos.” Robinson promised he would be out of Freeman’s hanger within an hour.
“Es no problema,” Morelos assured. He told Mark of a woman dentista and a young girl.
“So?”
“They must be in La Paz today. I say to her maybe you have room.”
Robinson locked down the cowling then rolled down his sleeves.
“Morelos, I’ve got a sick engine and a dead alternator.” Robinson shook his head. “No.”
“I say to her she can speak with you. Marco, please? She is a nice young lady. She can pay.”
Before Robinson could argue, Morelos was gone.
Robinson towed his Centurion onto the tarmac in brilliant light, beneath a sky as clear as gin. He was in a rush to get airborne. He covered the ice chests then cinched down cargo straps; a low voice called his name, a feminine voice.
“I am looking for Mister Robinson.”
The way his head pounded, Robinson did not bother to look. He said he had been looking for the same person for years.
“You are Mister Robinson?”
Robinson ducked out of the cargo hatch. “I was this morning. What can I do for you?” Oh, sweet dying Jesus! She was celestial. He revered thin women. What she lacked in flesh was compensated with a bonus of curves, curves other women could only pray for. He wanted to say something clever. What was Flaco line? ‘When did they let you out of heaven?’ But his head wouldn’t allow thought and speech. She steadied a blossom in her hair, the wind was about to sweep away.
“Morelos tells me you are flying to La Paz. This is true?”
Robinson spread lotion on his hands, “Yes, Ma’am.” Wind lifted her skirt; he caught a glimpse of her perfect thighs before she smoothed it down.
“My sister and I must be in La Paz today. The only bus to Mulege leaves tonight. Possibly you have extra room?”
Her English was perfect; obviously, she’d been educated in the States. But something about her frosty voice didn’t go with her delicate body.
“We live in Mulege and—”
“Lady you don’t want to fly in this plane.” Robinson forced a laugh, “I have to fly this pig.”
She glanced up into his face with a puzzled expression. “But if you—”
“Look, lady, it’s an airborne disaster.” Patiently, in stages, Robinson explained his ailing engine. Two valves weren’t sealing, he was down to one radio, “and that bad boy has attitude. This engine is two-hundred hours past overhaul.”
Lourdes opened her purse. “I would be pleased to pay.”
She did not look, speak, or move like any woman Robinson had ever known. No earrings—no jewelry or make-up. She didn’t need it. Robinson shook his head. He would never-ever touch tequila again! “You don’t understand, ma’am. We’ll be over the gulf—open water? An hour-maybe two.”
“But the ferry must remain in port. All commercial flights are cancelled.”
“What does that tell you? Lady, I’m not insured, no life jackets or flares. Keep your money. I can’t fly for hire; they’d pull my business permit.”
Her shoulders fell. “Forgive me.” Her eager smile melted to a pout. “I can see you are busy.”
“Geeze lady, you do have a choice.” Fresh wind molded her blouse to full formed breasts. She started for the terminal. Something about her was familiar —the voice? “Hey,” Robinson called, “you don’t remember me, do you?”
“No,” she said over her shoulder, “I don’t think so.”
He watched her liquid hips. What the hell, she couldn’t see his eyes through his sunglasses. “Sure,” he called, “You’re the one who sings with Octávio Sanchez. On the weekends”
Lourdes stopped then turned. “Flaco?”
“You don’t remember me. Juana La Loca’s night club?”
“You are the one who plays jazz on the piano?”
Robinson grinned then took off his baseball hat and glasses. “I’m the guy.” He motioned her over. “Okay-okay, c’mon I’ll take you. Get your sister and your bags. I’m in a hurry. I’ll wait here.”
Lourdes ran up to him; almost child-like, her knees broke with a curtsy as she shook his hand. “I am Lourdes Contreras. Thank you, Señor Robinson.”
His head felt like road-kill. Something passed from her hand to his. He let out an idiot laugh, “God will punish you if you don’t go to the potty first.”
“We’ll be right back.” Lourdes rushed off.
Robinson mopped his face with his sleeve. An odd pleasure swept through him, like Christmas. Pleasure he supposed, that comes from making someone happy. “Frailty thy name is woman.” A familiar voice broke his thought.
“Ola, Señor.”

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Copyright 2010 Bruce Payne. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.