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“Why were you at the garage?” he whispers.

Play for time. Big breaths. Got to get out of here. Hit him with something.

“Why were you at the garage?”

“Señor, I think you’re mis-”

He grabs a handful of hair, drags me out of the chair, and throws me to the deck.

“Who put you up to this? Who? Is Esteban too fucking chicken to do his own legwork? How much did he pay you? What’s his angle? What’s his fucking angle? Answer me, you little bitch.”

I try to scramble away from him but he grabs my ankle and pulls me back across the deck. He kneels down on my legs and draws his gun.

“We’re going to get some fucking answers or you are gonna fucking disappear.”

He slides the hammer back on his.38 and points it between my legs.

“Maybe I’ll just blow your cunt off. Won’t be able to whore then, will ya? Won’t be able to fuck movie stars on the side. What’s Esteban’s cut on that little racket? Eh? Still not talking?”

He pushes down on me with all his weight, crushing my thighs. He points the gun at my head.

“Nah, forget that, I don’t want to wound ya. One in the temple, a group of three beside it to triple check. That’s the ticket. Vanish you off the face of the Earth. Message to that Mex bastard: Mind your business, Esteban.”

“Señor, I don’t know what you’re t-talking about,” I stammer.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about?” he says, leaning forward to slap me across the face. My lip catches a ring on his hand and starts to bleed.

“Think I’m stupid? Is that what you think? Think because you fucking speak English you can beat me in a battle of fucking wits? I’ve been through the fucking war, señorita. I’ve been farther than you’ll ever fucking go. Farther than Esteban, farther than all of ya.”

“Señor, I-”

“No. No. Forget it. Don’t talk. I’ll get it from him. You’re history, little girl. Nobody knows you from Adam. You’re life ain’t worth shit. One less dumb whore for us to worry about. Close your eyes, sugar.”

He climbs off me and stands back so the blood splatter won’t get on his coat. He points the gun, squeezes the trigger.

I start to scream from somewhere deep. From New Mexico. From Havana. And deeper still. Louder than the helicopter at my uncle’s house in Santiago, louder than the prisoners in the Cominado del Este.

Scream and scream.

“Jack! Help me! Help me! Jack!”

“There’s no help coming, little sister, this is my t-”

A blur. A smash.

Jack barreling into him. Knocking him down. The gun going off and simultaneously flying out of Briggs’s hand. No bluff. He would have killed me. Jack punching Briggs twice on the head. Briggs thumping Jack on the back of the neck. Jack crumpling. Briggs getting to his feet, kicking Jack in the stomach. Briggs looking for the pistol, looking on the deck, under the chairs, behind him, and finally at my right hand.

“Ok, now, steady on. Hold on a minute. Let me explain something, let me explain just a little.”

I put my finger to my lips. “Ssshhhh.”

He shushes, puts his hands up.

Jack dry heaves and manages to get into a sitting position.

“What’s going on, María?” Jack says, choking out the words.

What to say? “I don’t know, Jack. I think Sheriff Briggs has gotten me mixed up with one of the other girls. Since coming here I have broken no laws and I have kept to my own business. I only want to work hard and stay out of trouble.”

Briggs looking at the gun. Eyes wide. Still can’t believe it. Are you scared? Are you having a premonition?

“What in the name of all that’s fucking holy is going on, Sheriff?” Jack asks, furiously. Boxer shorts, T-shirt, no shoes. His face white with anger. Jack gets to his feet and I offer him my hand. Show solidarity. Jack takes the hand.

Briggs’s brain up to Mach 5. Thinking escape routes, consequences. The movie star. The movie star’s lawyers. The wetback with the gun. He clears his throat.

“I think I’ve made a terrible mistake here, Mr. Tyrone. I got a tip that someone from the Mex motel was asking questions about the, uh, car trouble, that, uh, Mr. Youkilis, that we dealt with in May. I thought it might be a blackmail attempt or an attempt to get a scurrilous story into the tabloids. I showed pictures and María here was ID’ed.”

Jack looks at me, doubt flashing between his eyes. In one sentence the fucker’s changed the game back again.

“But I was with Jack,” I say, though of course Briggs didn’t say when it was.

“She was with you?” he asks Jack.

Jack nods. “Sheriff, María was with me. She wasn’t asking anybody questions. She wasn’t doing anything. She was with me,” Jack insists.

Briggs frowns.

And now is the moment to turn that pond of doubt into an ocean, to show him that I’m completely innocent, that he or someone else has gotten this thing entirely wrong, that the tip was garbled, the ID screwed. Something.

I smile meekly, take two steps across the deck, and offer him his gun.

The barrel glistening. Bullets in the chamber. The death end pointed toward my heart.

He looks at the weapon, looks at me, nods.

He takes the revolver and puts it back in its holster.