FACING FLACO by Daniel Kuttner

Lola, my new ‘66 VW bug, had done fine negotiating Route 66 from LA across the desert, but she had begun to struggle up the grade that began east of Gallup, New Mexico. The higher altitude meant that the gas pedal no longer made a difference from halfway down until it touched the floor. At least the mountains were cool, even chilly, this July evening, so she kept a solid 65 mph.

I was a college midshipman beginning a short summer vacation after six weeks of training at sea. On the passenger seat I had my atlas, a gallon cooler of lemon-limeade, and a family-sized bag of Doritos. That was all I needed to keep rolling.

Unlike the newer interstates, this two-lane highway was dark. My slow eye-blinks stuck closed longer and longer. I shook my head to clear it. I could top off the gas tank in Dalhart, Texas, grab a bit of real food, stretch my legs, and put some water on my face. From there I could make it to Topeka for tomorrow’s run-up US 77 and I-80 to Omaha, my parents’ home.

The time zone change made an hour disappear. I was relieved to smell the Dalhart feed lots. Their ammonia odor cleared my brain as I pulled up to a pump at a ramshackle Marathon station. The buzzing fluorescents flickered overhead in the station’s tallest sign. Moths and beetles circled around it. One guy was filling a dented fifties pickup truck, his straw hat askew.

I popped open the trunk, stepped onto the oily concrete on the pump apron, and yawned as I stretched. The luminescent hands of my 24-hour military watch showed 02:05.

Stepping to the front, I lifted the trunk lid and felt a twinge of embarrassment. My life was on display. I had laid out most of my clothing loose in the trunk. My khakis and dress uniform bore the trunk’s imprint. I adjusted my uniform pant legs to cover my dress sword. Its gold filigree might attract a thief, and real fighting swords like this weren’t cheap. I’d lucked out when they issued me this beauty. A semester of fencing and some military hand-to-hand training had made the sword more than a fancy ornament.

I twisted off the gas cap, pulled out the nozzle, and started the pump. I inserted the hose, locking the handle to fill ‘er up. Lola took almost the full ten gallons, showing $2.89 due. I stowed the hose and stepped into the station.

The line to the counter only had two ahead of me. The first customer scooped his change off the counter into his pocket and strode away. He squeezed past me, giving me a face full of cigarette smoke.

Outside, a gleaming, black Lincoln Continental pulled up next to the rack of tires. Its lights and engine switched off and a door opened.

“Sir, you’re next.” The lanky black man behind the counter gave a gap-toothed grin.

“Thanks.” I handed him a five. “Let me have one of these, too.” I pulled an alleged tuna sandwich off the counter rack. “This thing won’t give me the runs, will it?”

He laughed and slapped the counter. “Naw. Made fresh ever’ day, gaw-ron-teed.” He rang up the sale and counted out my change. “Thank-you, suh. Ya’ll come back naw, hear?”

“Sure.” I took a step back and felt a foot beneath my left heel. A push propelled me into the counter, moving it an inch or two.

“Cabron!” Growled a voice behind me.

As I grabbed the fixture to regain my footing, my change spilled onto the floor. I glanced downward to see where it was going.

A black gator-hide cowboy boot stomped on the dollar bill.

“Don’t you got more manners than that, gringo? You stepped on my hand-made boot.”

My eyes slid up the boots, past the creased black pants, silken black shirt with blue mother-of-pearl snaps, and bolo tie adorned with a clump of turquoise the size of my fist. Above that perched a squint-eyed, dark-skinned, Mexican-Indian face, unlighted cigarillo dangling from thick lips. A black felt cowboy hat perched atop his pilot’s sunglasses.

I managed to squeeze out one word, “Sorry,” as I reached for my change on the floor.

“’Sorry’ ain’t gonna cut it, pendejo. You mess up my nice shine. Cost me five bucks.” He swayed slightly. The odor of alcohol wafted my way.

The Mexican faced the counterman. “Where’s my day’s cut, Jimmy?”

Jimmy searched behind the counter and handed over a fat envelope. “Here, Mr. Flaco.”

Cowboy grinned at me. “See? Respeto. They call me Flaco around here. Know what that means?”

I picked up a quarter and a dime. “No.”

“Stand up and face me like a man. It means Skinny. When I was a boy, the older guys picked on me and gave me that name. Now, I’m a big man around here. I’ve made it a title of respect.”

He pointed to the cash register. “You’re done for today, Jimmy. Close up and go home. You didn’t see nothin, right?”

“Yessuh.” The black man shuttled over to the register, pushed some buttons, put the money into an envelope and that into a safe. He shut off all the exterior lights and all but one inside and slipped past us. The door banged closed, jingling a cowbell.

I’d been coasting, but now things were looking serious. I slid backward, but was blocked by the counter.

“Let’s take this outside.” Flaco gestured toward my car. “You’re gonna see how I maintain respect.”

As he moved under the one remaining light, I glanced back at this man. Beyond the truculent set of his jaw, I noticed a few facial scars, a missing tooth, and a bulge under the left armpit, covered by his vest. He was thin and wiry, with a slight beer gut.

An old Chevy stuttered to life and ground into gear. I caught Jimmy’s large eyes glancing my way, then forward.

Flaco spit. “He won’t be no help to you, man. You’re in my hands.”

The Chevy drove off, trailing a plume of smoke.

Shuffling toward my car, I heard a pistol safety clicking off. I froze.

“Keep moving, maricón. This’ll be over soon.”

“I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“Nope. I’ve got a territory to protect. Gringos like you come down here and disrespect my turf … want to take what I’ve worked for. I got to nip that shit in the bud.”

I stopped in front of my open trunk, embarrassed to see my personal items on display to my likely murderer.

Flaco wobbled, then took a firm stance, his hands displaying an assortment of turquoise rings and bracelets. Pointed at my chest, his gun glinted under the sole overhead mercury-vapor lamp.

The pistol was a plated .45. The black hole in the muzzle stared at me like a Cyclops. How would that huge slug feel, slamming into my rib cage?

Would they ever find my body? I pictured Karlene, the one good thing about Omaha. Would she mourn my death? My parents would say I must’ve deserved it.

Flaco’s grinning mug with that thin, scraggly mustache would be the last face I’d see. What a pathetic finale.

The sound of the hammer locking back shoved my mind from self-pity to survival mode. I had to make a move. I’d just finished a semester of physical training. I’d just disembarked from a US destroyer, commanding crews of its five-inch guns and steering the ship through two Pacific storms. The memory made me stand taller.

“Mr. Forty-Five don’t think you’re so big, man.”

Backing closer to the open trunk, I reached behind me and felt for the hilt of the sword. I wondered how to unsheathe it and slash the gun away without getting shot.

Flaco’s grin faded as his eyes moved to the open VW trunk. His gun hand wavered. He nodded toward my folded uniform.

I saw a chance to use a different kind of weapon. “Yeah. Just on my way home from ‘Nam, fightin’ for the US of A ...” I shook my head. “... and now, someone I was defending wants to kill me. Sad.” I looked down at my feet, then glanced up.

Flaco’s eyes darted from my face to the uniform and back. “You were in ‘Nam?”

“USS Ingersol, DD 652.”

“My brother’s over there. Ever go to Saigon?”

“Sure,” I lied. “I probably ran into him.”

The gun lowered a few degrees. “His name’s Roberto … Bob.”

I gripped the sword’s hilt. “Is he OK?”

“He called us last week.”

His eyes moist, Flaco lowered the hammer and holstered the .45 inside his vest. He stepped forward, right hand extended and open. I let go of the sword, wiped my palm on my hip, and returned his handshake. He gripped my forearm with his other hand and pumped.

I exhaled.

“Sorry ‘bout the misunderstanding, hermano. This is a rough town. I got to protect my own. But a friend of my brother’s? I’ve got to make this right. Let me buy you dinner.”

“That’s OK. I’ve got a lot of driving—”

Flaco’s lips compressed. He frowned. “Refusing my invitation would be an insult, esse.”

“I don’t want to be a burden, is all.

“It is I who has the burden. I almost shot you, amigo. I must do what is right. Come get in mi bólido. You can sit in front.”

“Tell you what, Flaco, let me follow you in my car so you don’t have to bring me back. Plus, I hate to leave it here so late.”

He laughed. “Sure, marinito. I know a good place that’s open all night. It’s not far, and the owner, he owes me un favor. I’m gonna buy you the biggest, best chicken-fried steak you’ve ever seen. Mucho gusto.”

I shut Lola’s trunk, fumbled out the keys, started her up, and followed Flaco toward the mostly-dark town, ready to Steve McQueen it out of there and back to the highway if things looked chancy.

We came up to a bright, festive restaurant with chase lights surrounding the sign: Leo’s – Best Chicken-Fried Steak in Texas.

I parked close to the lot’s exit and walked to Flaco’s car. As we entered, conversations stopped, and all eyes turned to Flaco.

“Hola everyone. Say hello to the gringo friend of my brother… what was your name?”

“Daniel.”

“Danielito! He is a sailor back from Vietnam.”

I waved.

“Hola Danielito!” The crowd cheered, salted with other greetings.

I smiled.

A man in a frilly white shirt, black slacks, and pointy shoes swept over, bearing menus. He guided Flaco and me to a back-corner table, removing the printed card marked Reserved. “Señor Flaco, I am honored to serve you tonight. Anything you desire is of course gratis. You can sample our new appetizers, too.”

Flaco waved away the menus. “Graciás, Leo. Two chicken-fried steak dinners. Corona con limón verde to drink for me. And you?”

“I’ve got a long drive … root beer.”

“Of course, sir.” Leo bowed his head and turned to leave.

Flaco grabbed his sleeve. “And Leo: Don’t spare your delicious gravy.”

“Sí, Señor Flaco.”

The appetizers, then our steaming main dishes, arrived in mere minutes.

As we dined, various customers approached Flaco. After exchanging murmurs in each other’s ears, the supplicant backed away, smiling and thanking him. Whatever Flaco was, he hadn’t exaggerated his influence among the citizenry.

The steak was tender with a bubbled, crunchy crust. I consumed it to the last drop of white gravy.

I visited the restroom to recycle the soda, plus some of my day’s worth of lemon-limeade. I combed my hair, relishing my turn of luck.

When I returned to the table, Flaco was gone.

Leo trotted up, palms forward. “Señor, el Flaco sends his regrets. He was called away on an urgent matter.”

I shook my head and felt for my wallet. “Shit.”

“Oh, no señor, the bill is settled. You are our honored guest.” He handed me a folded piece of paper.

Outside, I stood under the overhead light and unfolded the note.

Danielito: I trust our dinner made up for our misunderstanding. Any time you are in town, call me and I will ensure you want for nothing. Flaco

I slipped the note into the glove compartment and started the VW, relieved I hadn’t drawn that sword.