Chloe O’Brien eased her boot back and forth. The half-frozen mud of Main Street both crunched and slurped. She breathed deep, stretching her neck. Gordon, Texas, was doing well. Many of the small buildings were brick—a Ford dealership, a mercantile, hardware. Stolid, they squatted, soldiering on against the cold, the gray, the mud. They looked how she felt.

The storefront Angelo Tucci had disappeared into moments earlier had no current markings, but she could see where the word ‘saloon’ had been lazily scrubbed from the brick. She shrugged. Maybe it still functioned as such, maybe not. Small town Texas didn’t seem to notice prohibition one way or the other, although the Eighteenth Amendment seemed to have given her local host gainful employ. Maybe it wasn’t all bad after all.

Inevitably, this line of thinking brought her back to her father, who’d spent more than a year in prison on the trumped up charges of inciting a riot over the issue. Really he’d been protesting the government’s attempts to rule on people’s moral and private lives—people like Chancho. She’d heard that in parts of the U.S., crime syndicates were using prohibition to rise to prominence, but only a self-righteous rube wouldn’t have seen that coming.

A few wooden steeples rose above the flat commercial roofs. She knew it wasn’t fair to judge all Christians based on the behavior of some. Calming her own self-righteous tendencies, she reminded herself that Chancho was about as Catholic as they came, and he seemed pretty reasonable. Then she rolled her eyes at her own dubious assessment of the man who’d become known as the Motorcycle Mexican.

For the millionth time she marveled at how Chancho’s run from the law had gotten him elected to public office, while her dad had been thrown in prison for helping him. And here she was, fifteen months later and still helping him. Why? The man was exasperating. She knew he loved her father, and was doing all he could to help. It wasn’t that.

She closed her eyes and shook her head, not wanting to think about Chancho or her father. Instead she gazed from hillside to building to the skeletal structures of dormant hardwoods dotting the sleepy town.

A weekday morning, and barely a soul stirred. Those who did seemed oppressed somehow. Chloe forced herself to draw another deep breath. The gray of winter had settled over central Texas before Christmas and stayed past the new year.

She studied the town more astutely. Gordon hosted three cotton gins with multiple gin ponds on the hill south of town. Tugging her boot from the mud, she sauntered across the railroad tracks running east and west, bisecting town. No doubt Gordon was usually more energetic.

A man, hat brim pulled low, hurried past her.

Chloe could have ignored him, except for the little boy in tow. Dangling from his father’s iron grip, the boy’s feet skimmed across the muddy ridges of the road. Twisting by his wrist, he swung his legs vainly for purchase—for one satisfying dip in the muck.

The father only held him higher. Giving up, the boy went limp. Briefly she and the boy connected eyes, sharing the utter injustice of the moment. He doubled the drastic downturn of his pouting lips before disappearing into the merc.

Chloe looked down at her trembling hands. In broken gasps she drew a deep breath. Near hysterics, the instinct became impossible to ignore. She closed her eyes and pressed the bridge of her nose, forcing back the tears.

Instantly, she knew the obvious answer to the question why she’d come to Gordon, why she followed Chancho everywhere. But the answer only forced a new question. Was he really the one, or just a convenient means to an end? And for God’s sake, why didn’t her desires ebb and flow in a logical order like other women?

Eyes still closed and with a final girding, she confessed her deepest need. “I want to be a mother.”

“Why signora, we have a just barely met, and dis hardly seems de time or de place.”

Chloe gasped and cringed simultaneously. She held the grimace for a full three beats of her heart before opening a single eye to see her nearly midget-like, albino, Italian host wink at her. “Mr. Tucci.” She exhaled, “We meet again.”

“Le mie scuse, signora. I did not intend to leave you so a desperately alone among dese,” he removed his cap and bowed, “dese passionless streets.” Grinning, he continued. “I can affect even de strongest of women.”

Chloe snorted and shook her head. “Mr. Tucci, I assure you I’m, it’s just…” she swallowed. “While I was waiting I--” Snapping her fingers rapidly, she waved her hand about. Finally she breathed deep, regaining her composure. The miniature Italian had won this round. “What’s next?”

“Ah,” Angelo cocked his head. “I do not wish to inconvenience signora with de, how do you say, unsavoribles of a my profession.” He wrung his cap in his hands.

“How gallant. But really, Mr. Tucci. For years I raised my Irish father, and now I work for the likes of the Motorcycle Mexican. Unsavoribles are my profession.”

He slapped his leg and stamped. “Bello! The Motorcycle Mexican. I knew I recognized him. The local paper only had a sketch. Did de man no justice at all.” He pulled her close and stood on tiptoes, speaking in a mock whisper. “Maybe he and I could share some tricks, no?”

“I’m sure he’d like that, although he tends to think of them more as stunts than tricks.”

Angelo nodded, looking her over anew. “Well in that case, Signora O’Brien, would you care to accompany me on my next unsavory errand?”

“I’d be delighted.” She offered her arm, holding it low enough for the irresistibly quirky Italian to take it in his own. “So what brought you to Gordon, Texas, of all places, Mr. Tucci?”

“Angel. My friends, dey all call me Angel.”

“Due to your angelic complexion?” Chloe smiled, deflecting any possible insult in the question. The banter lightened her mood.

Angelo pushed open the door to a store she hadn’t seen the name of and held it for her while bowing with a flourish. “There is that. And I think dey hoped de temperament would rub off along with de name.”

“Why Mr. Angel, are you suggesting it hasn’t?”

“Not until now.” He shuffled his feet, dancing a quick jig. “Maybe I will turn over a new leaf.” He removed his hat again, wringing it in his hands. “But I a beg your pardon signora, I believe I have left some things under de old one.” He slapped the counter, which rose nearly to his chest, and nodded at the gentleman proprietor.

“Angel! You old devil. Standard order?”

“Gratzi.”

“It’s waiting round back. I’ll put it on your tab.”

“Gratzi.” He turned toward Chloe and winked.

“Who’s your lady friend?” The shopkeep tipped his hat, a smile on his lips. “Don’t think me rude, ma’am. But I find it a little shocking is all, to see such a pretty thing with this warthog.”

Angelo pulled his cap low over his eyes before dancing a quick circle, making a show with his fists. “Papini! You godless tyrant!”

Chloe raised her chin. “Why, everyone knows pigs are the smartest animals in the barnyard.”

“Well said, Miss. Well said.” The shopkeep turned serious, reaching out to arrest Angelo’s display of machismo. “Any news? You gotta tell me, old friend.”

Angelo shook his head. “I have been steering clear. There is a real ugly smell. My donkeys, they don’t like it. I don’t like it.”

“Dammit, I’ve got family there.”

Angelo yanked his arm free. “So did I.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that, you know what I mean.” The shopkeep sagged. “How is he?”

“Real bad.” Angelo ushered Chloe toward the door.

The shopkeep thumped the counter. “Just be careful, Angel. People are scared. You know how people get when they’re scared.”

The bells over the door chimed and shut behind them. Chloe took Angelo’s hand in her own. Stepping off the boardwalk, she neared his eye level. “What was that about?”

He grunted and looked away. “I am scared too.”

“This is about the letter Mrs. Marcon sent to Chancho and Starr.”

Angelo pounded his chest, hat in hand. “I have run shine through quarantine dozens of times. Been a sneaking in and out of Thurber since state-wide prohibition. Nothing has ever scared me like this.” He gestured toward the low lying hills around them. “These hills have become de borderlands to Hell.”

Finally, an opportunity for what Chloe had been dying to ask. “What exactly is it? A new sickness?” She squeezed his hand tighter. “And what did he mean about people being scared?”

“This thing is bad, signora. Real bad.” Angelo shook his head. “But enough of this morbid conversation.” With a wink and point of his chin the pair sauntered toward the Tucci home. “What has brought you to Gordon, Texas, of all places, Signora O’Brien?”

She sighed. Of all the innocent questions to be asked, or did he know something deeper lurked beneath this one?

She looked down into the tiny Italian’s sky blue eyes. Ripples of pink flared around the edges like the sunrise. Striding hand in hand, the pair swung their arms like schoolyard chums. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped.

Angelo nodded. “My brother and I, we traveled to America six years ago. Left our wives back home in Italy.” He sighed. “We found de old stone house empty and bought it from de man you just met. We fixed it with our bare hands.” He clenched his fist before his face. “The perfect fit for de four of us. We were so close to buying de tickets.”

“And now?”

He rubbed his bleary eyes. “We would have had de money last year if I had not lost my job at de mine for punching that bastard Vezzoni in his big, fat nose.”

Chloe gave him a dubious look.

He shrugged. “I can jump pretty high when I need to.” Ducking and dodging, he danced over the road’s rough surface. “Since then I have been running shine, grappa mostly. Some say mine is de finest in three counties. Anyway,” he snapped his suspenders and took her hand again. “Enough about ole Angel. I showed you mine, now you.”

It was impossible to resist his earnest energy. Chloe suspected Angelo knew it full well. He’d learned to use his diminutive stature to his advantage. She worked up a smile.

Angelo continued, “We both know to be a mother there are certain,” he wagged his head, “prerequisites, no?” Drawing a long whistling breath, he continued. “While I would be more than honored, Angel is not so dense to think he is de one who has caught de lady’s eye.”

“Mr. Tucci! I—” She tried to let go, but he squeezed her hand tight.

 “It is clear enough that you are sweet on de Mexican. The only question is how much.” She started to object. “Signora, I am Italian. I may not know much, but I know how to fight, drink and make love. It’s been said you should never drink with an Italian unless you welcome one or both of de other.”

She rolled her eyes and nodded. “I’ll have to remember that. But I’m Irish. Fighting and drinking I’m good at.” She shrugged.

“Ah.” He tutted. “You lack de confidence. Take this tip from ole Angel. You, signora, are more beautiful than de goddess Aphrodite emerging from de Mediterranean fresh from birth and fully formed.” He emphasized his point by gesturing the curves of a woman with both hands.

“Angel, you are a devil!” She shoved him.

“Angels only speak de truth. Do not misunderstand. I am whole-heartedly pledged to another. But there is nothing a man desires which you do not possess.”

“You old honey dripper.” Chloe blushed bright red, sweat forming around her collar.

He took her hand, swinging it energetically. “And Chancho, from what I hear, is a man.”

“Yes.” She nodded thoughtfully. “He’s a good man.”

“Well then, if I may offer one more bit of angelic wisdom?”

She nodded for him to continue.

“Even a good man can be blind in love.”

~~~

Kneeling, Chancho scanned the street from one end to the other. None of the many homes showed signs of movement, no concerned residents despite the gunfight in their own neighborhood. Fresh horse tracks churned up the area behind the stand of junipers where he’d seen movement from the window. The man in black had been on horse. A thought nipped at Chancho’s mind, but he fled from it.

Instead, he turned toward downtown Gordon, the direction Chloe and Angelo would be returning from soon. Again Chancho thanked God Chloe hadn’t been present. His frantic mind clutched at the need to protect her. After seizing several deep breaths, he rushed into the stone house to help clean up. Angelo Tucci did not deserve to see his loved ones like this.

While Starr scattered a bag of cornmeal over the worst puddles of blood, Chancho located a canvas tarp. He bent over Marcello’s head and nodded toward Starr. “Ready?” Together they heaved Marcello onto the tarp, followed by Mrs. Marcon. The movement reopened the fresh wound across Chancho’s back, flooding his mind with fears of infection. He stretched to gain eyes on the gash.

“Whattaya got there?” Starr stepped behind Chancho.

“Señora Marcon had some pretty sharp nails.”

Starr pulled Chancho’s torn serape further open. “Not that. This here skin art.”

“Of course.” Chancho had momentarily forgotten. “The eagle clutching the snake. It’s the official seal of my country. My old country,” he quickly added. “It represents the ideals of freedom and equality for the common man. I wear it as a reminder, and a memory.”

“Memory?”

Chancho closed his eyes. A flash of his past imprinted across the blackness of his mood. “Fallen compadres.” The tattoo maintained a tension between his ideals and the cost they regularly inflicted on those closest to him.

“I like it.” Starr faced him. “That said, you might have a new scar across the middle of it.” With sudden fear in his eyes, he gripped Chancho’s shoulder. “You don’t think…”

“I was wondering that too, mi amigo. But we’ve got other questions to answer first.”

“Like what the hell is going on here.”

Chancho nodded. Counting on his fingers, he numerated the things they knew for certain in an effort to clear his mind. “People are getting sick.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Thurber’s under quarantine.”

Starr nodded.

“Señora Marcon thought Texas Pride Energy is responsible through at least negligence, if not criminal intent.”

“That part seems far-fetched, if you ask me.”

“Maybe so,” Chancho agreed. “But our opinions aside, she clearly implicated them in a mining accident that supposedly claimed the life of several miners.” He took a rag and scrubbed blood spatter from the plaster wall.

“That’s where the trail runs cold, if you don’t mind me saying. Were they killed or were they not?” Starr paced the room. “I mean. I may not know what the hell just happened, but I know those are two dead bodies on the floor.”

“She said her husband, Serge, hadn’t been killed, but afflicted.” Chancho winced as he stretched above his head to dislodge a fleck of carnage from the ceiling.

“And what in high-heaven is that supposed to mean?” Starr nodded toward the bodies on the tarp. “Were they afflicted? She also said her husband came back to life, there was a secret mine—”

“A woman with yellow eyes.”

“And a black book.”

Chancho stared at Mrs. Marcon’s glassy eyes, wishing she’d been delusional, and yet increasingly afraid she’d been completely lucid. His and Starr’s simple visit to the countryside for gathering anecdotal testimony had elevated to a matter of life and death. “Let’s cover them.” He grabbed the sheet from Marcello’s bed and they spread it over the bodies.

Starr pinched his nose from the nauseating odor. “As long as you’re counting things we know for certain, let’s not forget someone busted down the door and dispatched our friendly hosts.”

“The man in black.”

“If you say so. But from where I’m standing it looks like we owe this guy.”

A shiver shook Chancho from boots to sombrero. He’d been so caught up with the who, he’d forgotten the why. “Someone knows what’s going on and is trying to cover it up.”

“Or someone simply saw the danger and is trying to stop it.”

“Either way, mi amigo, these were executions. Contagion or not,” Chancho sniffed the air, “we both know this stinks.”

“Whoa there, bucko.” Starr resumed his pacing. “Let’s not lose sight of the real issue here. That thing,” he pointed toward the bodies beneath the sheet, “threw me across the room with a flick of its wrist. Call me crazy, but it seems like you’re worried more about the guy who saved us than the things that nearly gravied our giblets.”

“I don’t think he was trying to save us.” Chancho returned to wiping down the wall. “What if Marcello and Señora Marcon were killed over what they knew? Over what we now know?”

“Then why leave us alive?”

“I don’t know, mi amigo.” The thought Chancho had labored to banish earlier gnawed on his gut until he turned pale and sweaty. “But I want us to stay that way. I want Chloe to stay that way. No more fallen compadres.”

“In that much we’re agreed. Look, we don’t have to figure it all out. When Chloe gets back we’ll get the hell outta here and go for help.”

Chancho slapped his forehead. “Chloe and Angelo could be in danger as well, even over what they don’t know.” He turned to throw his rag in the basin. “We need to find them.”

“No we don’t.” Starr nodded toward the door where Chloe stood mouth agape, Angelo squeezing her hand and trembling.