Juarez Square and Other Stories Read Online Free

to struggle for what to say. “Those freelancers told me you were an orphan, did you know that?”
    I shook my head.
    “Well,” Guzman said, “I guess we both know the truth now.” He called in another guard and muttered something to him. I took a shaky breath and resigned myself to a walk in the desert.
    The guard grabbed my arm and said, “Hold still, this will sting a bit.” He placed a small boxlike device over my tracker scar and held it firm. My arm tingled for a few seconds, then the guard nodded and said, “Done, Don Flaco. It’s deactivated.”
    Guzman sighed and said, “I think it’s time for you to go and find a different life…Maharth.”
    ***
    For the next couple hours I sat alone in my tent, the day’s events whizzing through my mind like a movie on fast forward. I’d dreamed of my freedom for so long, the sudden shock of actually having it left me dumb and speechless. Two more days riding until we reached San Antonio, then I’d be free to do what I wanted, to choose my own direction. But what direction? I had no friends to catch up with, no family who gave a damn, no past to return to.
    I left the tent and wandered around camp. The night air was quiet and peaceful. There were still a few fires going and their fading embers gave everything a warm glow. A handful of guards and workers sat around the fires, talking in low tones. As I passed by they stopped speaking and looked up at me. One of the guards, the one who’d taken care of Abner, motioned toward my arm. “Nice to have that thing out of you, yes? Where will you go now, brujo ?”
    I touched the tracker scar on my arm, then turned and made my way to Guzman’s tent. He was still awake and the guards let me through. I stepped through the mosquito netting and Don Guzman looked up from his papers. “Yes? What is it, br —Maharth? Have you decided where you’re going to go?”
    Don Flaco looked different. Or maybe he didn’t look different, and it was just me seeing him differently. Seeing something in his face, something I didn’t need the hierba to see. Something I might have seen all along, but only noticed now.
    In this world of lies, finding someone you could trust was no small thing.
    “Don Flaco,” I said. “My name isn’t Maharth, it’s Brujo . And Guzman territory is my home.”

 
     
     
     
    Training the Fundies
     
    “My God, look at me.” Ford stood in front of the mirror and lifted his arms to the sides, then lowered them. The suit jacket looked five sizes too big. “This used to fit me like a glove.”
    He removed the jacket and dropped it to the floor of the cramped room. “I can’t wear this to the baptism. I’ll look ridiculous.” He pondered his reflection and frowned. These days he hardly recognized this strange body as his own. The leathery, sun-abused skin, bony arms and visible ribs. It was an underfed, day laborer’s physique, so different from the pale, pudgy frame he’d known most of his life.
    Esmeralda sat on the bed with the baby on her lap. “Who cares if it doesn’t fit perfectly? I love that jacket on you. It’s been years since I’ve seen you in it.”
    Ford turned away from the mirror, disgusted. “Jesus, I’m emaciated.”
    Esmeralda raised her eyebrows. “Why don’t we say lean and fit?” She bent down over the dozing infant and cooed. “And it doesn’t matter, anyway. We’d love Papi gordo o flaco , fat or skinny, wouldn’t we, Manuelito?” She gently placed the infant in the tiny crib wedged between their bed and the wall. She covered him with a tattered blanket, kissed the top of his head, then turned to Ford.
    She took a deep breath and said, “Can we talk about it?”
    Ford pulled a shirt over his head, then moved to the window, his back to Esmeralda and the baby. An ever-present film of windblown sand clung to the outside of the glass, obscuring the apartment’s sixth-floor view of the West Texas desert. Cacti and scrub brush dotted the gray-brown landscape that