The Beasts of Juarez

a beautiful place. He and Tanya had spent more than a few weekends there with Janie. Tanya even brought her on Thursdays to watch Otis play softball with some of the guys from work. Of course, that was back when the world was more normal and Tanya wasn’t off living her best life without them.
The courier was now seven minutes late. Otis couldn’t help fearing the worst. Trying not to let his mind leap to false conclusions, he flicked his cigarette butt on the asphalt, lit another, then took a deep drag and tried to remain calm. He hung his elbow out the window and filled the cab with a long exhale of smoke. He turned and watched as a dog shoved his body under the residential fence line then trotted out into the park a few feet before breaking into a full-out run.
“Freedom,” Otis said as he watched the black lab go.
The last time he and Tanya visited the park together, they had come for the Feria Juárez, a summer event he and Tanya agreed was one of their favorite experiences. That weekend, they ate from half a dozen Mexican food stands until they were stuffed. As the sun began making its way to the horizon, they spread out a blanket, lay on the grass together, and listened to a concert. Tanya wanted to smoke with a fun couple they met that day, so they all got high and laughed, and it was the best time ever. This was no longer that park, not anymore.
Due to poor maintenance of the softball fields, the surrounding grounds, and even the uneven walking paths, Modesto Gomez was now a source of complaints by the locals. After COVID happened, with the world in such an unsteady state economically, the park fell upon even harder times.
That didn’t change the determination of some families to enjoy it, or for some seniors to continue putting together pickup softball games on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Ever since Tanya left him, though, he hadn’t picked up a bat or even thought of hitting a ball. His whole life had gone to hell after she left. Now all he wanted was to get out of this grimy wasteland.
Colorado was gorgeous from what he’d seen in pictures and on the internet. He could move there and take up snow skiing, live off-grid in a cabin in the woods, or even go hunting whenever he wanted. But that was a pipe dream. Even now, nine minutes after the courier was supposed to be here, he felt that dream swiftly unraveling.
The truth was that if this job worked out, if the courier would just get his dumb ass there on time, he would officially be in bed with the kind of people who wouldn’t want him leaving town just yet. And if these people continued to pay the way they were paying him now, he’d probably stay a little longer. It couldn’t hurt to pad the savings account a bit before making that midnight run to Aspen.
In the side mirror, Otis saw a maroon-colored Impala make the turn from Francis Street onto Edna. He breathed a sigh of relief, took one last drag of the cigarette—a short one—then flicked the second butt into the street where it would smoke itself out.
The lowered Impala cruised past him, the tinted passenger window rolled halfway down. The driver’s head was covered with a blue bandana, his eyes were hidden behind big black sunglasses, and he wore a white wife-beater that showed off what might be a nice tattoo on a sculpted shoulder. The guy looked big, like he could take Otis if push came to shove. Otis hoped it wouldn’t come to that. If it did, he’d just as soon put a bullet in the guy.
The Impala’s driver gave him a nod of acknowledgment—which Otis returned—then he drove up the road far enough to turn around and head back Otis’s way. The Impala moved like a shark swimming through shallow waters knowing it could kill anything it wanted at any minute if only it made the decision to do so.
Otis reached over and grabbed the envelope with his left hand because in his right hand was a throwaway pistol he’d picked up a few years back. It was a .38 Special, six in the wheel, the hammer cocked and ready for action. Discreetly, he checked his surroundings. It was just the two of them for now.
The courier pulled up next to Otis’s truck and showed him the picture of the carpet van crossing over the border. He verified the markings with what he’d been told to expect and zeroed in on the van’s plates. They matched. Satisfied, Otis reached out and took the picture. He slid his finger onto the .38’s heavy trigger. The revolver rested sideways on his lap, aimed across his thighs at the Impala just in case he needed to shoot through the doors.
Calmly, like it was nothing, he handed the courier the envelope. The man took the cash, nodded, then slowly drove off, just another predator cruising through shallow waters, deciding what he wanted to kill, what he wanted to eat.
Otis carefully decocked the hammer then set the gun aside. Picking up the phone, he dialed the client’s number.
When the old man whose real name he did not know picked up the phone, he fell into a brief, phlegm-rattling cough then said, “Yeah.”
“It’s done,” Otis said. “They made it across.”
“You have the photo we requested?”
“It’s in my hand as we speak. I’ll take a picture of it and text it to you.”
The grumpy prick said, “You’ll have your payment by this time tomorrow. If anything is out of order—”
“It isn’t.”
“Yes, but if it is…”
“I’m aware of our arrangement.”
“Good.”
The client hung up before Otis