Dark Moon Crossing Read Free

fiddle,” he said, patting his paunch.
He really did seem vastly improved since his ulcer surgery. “Anyway, it’s
going to be a whole lot easier with Walter here taking up the slack while you
and Tally are gone.”
    “I’ll second that.” I raised my glass. “Attention, everybody! My
esteemed co-editor and I would like to propose a toast to officially welcome
our new man on the street, Mr. Walter Zipp.”
    There was applause and a rousing chorus of agreement from the staff
while another round of margaritas was poured. Brian re-filled my glass and
Ginger leaned in to whisper, “You sure Lupe’s coming?‌ It’s a quarter past
seven.” Her worried gaze roamed over the crowd gathering around the buffet
table, picking at the chips and dip. We had a cauldron of refried beans
simmering inside, but that hardly constituted dinner.
    “We’ll just ply them with more appetizers till she gets here,” I
assured her, trying to quell my escalating uncertainty. It was long past the
time she should have arrived.
    To keep everyone’s mind off the fact that the main course had not yet
materialized, I suggested we all share the funniest or most bizarre story we’d
ever covered. Tugg entertained us with several gems from his early days as a
cub reporter and Jim had us all in stitches as he repeated his golden toilets
along the freeway story. I, of course, shared my last two big assignments and
then we urged Walter to tell us all a little about himself and his last job in
Sierra Vista. He hoisted his bulky frame from the chair and gave us a lopsided
grin. “I’m happy as a pig in shit to be here,” he slurred, running a hand
through his short-cropped brown hair, “cuz there’s big trouble brewing down
south.”
    Oh. Good opening. The mothers of some of the younger kids exchanged
startled glances, so I quickly interjected, “Well, we’re all equally happy to
have you here but trouble sounds like a good story opportunity to me.’
    “Not if you live and work there now, it isn’t. I’ll tell you what,” he
said, hitching up his pants with one hand. “The ranchers and just plain
everyday God-loving Americans living near those border towns have about had it
with those damned illegals. They’re pouring across like cockroaches and are
just about as easy to catch. And, I’ll tell you what, if you add the growing
number of White separatist groups springing up to that equation…well, you mark
my words, people, there’s going to be bloodshed before this is all over. I’m
glad to be out of it. Real glad.”
    Bleary-eyed, Jim piped up. “Hey, man, there’s nothing funny or weird
about that story.”
    Walter edged him a look of mild annoyance. “Oh, yeah?‌ Well, try this
on for size. The last piece I was working on before I left, and this is just
one among several other strange stories, concerned a particular jumper they
caught in Morita.”
    “What’s Morita?‌” Ginger asked, casting a pensive eye at her watch.
    “A ghost town about half a mile or so from the Mexican border. Not much
left but the mine and a half a dozen buildings. Anyhow, the caretaker cornered
this wetback hiding in a shack and turned him over to the Border Patrol.”
    “Why does a ghost town need a caretaker?‌” I asked.
    “Cause it’s on private property and there was an accident there last
year, but that’s another story,” he said with an impatient swipe of his hand.
“So anyway, this Mexican claimed….”
    “Hate to tell you, Walter,” Jim cut in, “but this still ain’t funny and
it sure ain’t weird.” He turned to all of us and said, “Let me tell you guys
the one about the lady who kept a cow in her bedroom.”
    Walter put up a hand. “Keep your pants on, Jimbo. I intend to win this
contest under the most bizarre heading if you’ll just let me finish.”
    Jim continued to look skeptical while everyone else leaned forward a
few inches.
    “The guy claimed—and I don’t know what the hell he’d been drinking or
smoking