The Tortilla Curtain Read Free Page B

the skin trying to get out. “Friggin’ thing only had three legs to begin with,” he suddenly shouted, “no wonder he couldn’t get out of the way!” His laugh reverberated through, the vast hollow spaces of the room, a salesman’s laugh, too sharp-edged and pleased with itself. And then his face came back to the moment, sober suddenly, composed round the pale tawny bristle of his mustache. “But it’s a bitch, I know it is,” he observed in a sort of yodel. “And don’t you worry, we’ll have your car for you any minute now, good as new. Feel free to use the phone.”
    Delaney just nodded. He’d dialed Kyra at work and was listening to the number ring through.
    “Hello?” Her voice was bright, amplified, right there with him.
    “It’s me, honey.”
    “What’s wrong? Is it Jordan? Something’s happened to Jordan?”
    Delaney took a deep breath. Suddenly he felt hurt, put-upon, ready to let it all spill out of him. “I had an accident.”
    Now it was her turn—the sharp insuck of breath, the voice gone dead in her throat. “Jordan’s hurt, isn’t he? Tell me, tell me the worst. Quick! I can’t stand it!”
    “Nobody’s hurt, honey, everybody’s okay. I haven’t even gone to pick Jordan up yet.”
    A numb silence, counters clicking, synapses flashing. “Are you all right? Where are you?”
    “The Acura dealer. I’m getting the headlight fixed.” He glanced up, lowered his voice, Kenny Grissom nowhere in sight: “I hit a man.”
    “Hit a man?” There was a flare of anger in her voice. “What are you talking about?”
    “A Mexican. At least I think he was a Mexican. Out on the canyon road. I was on my way to the recycler.”
    “My god. Did you call Jack?”
    Jack was Jack Jardine, their friend, neighbor, adviser and lawyer, who also happened to be the president of the Arroyo Blanco Estates Property Owners’ Association. “No”—Delaney sighed—“I just got here and I wanted to tell you, to let you know—”
    “What are you thinking? Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea what one of these shyster personal-injury lawyers would do to get hold of something like this? You hit a man? Was he hurt? Did you take him to the hospital? Did you call the insurance?”
    Delaney tried to gather it all in. She was excitable, Kyra, explosive, her circuits so high-wired she was always on the verge of overload, even when she was asleep. There were no minor issues in her life. “No, listen, Kyra: the guy’s okay. I mean, he was just ... bruised, that was all. He’s gone, he went away. I gave him twenty bucks.”
    “Twenty—?”
    And then, before the words could turn to ash in his mouth, it was out: “I told you—he was Mexican.”

2
    HE’D HAD HEADACHES BEFORE-HIS WHOLE LIFE was a headache, his whole stinking worthless pinche vida-but never like this. It felt as if a bomb had gone off inside his head, one of those big atomic ones like they dropped on the Japanese, the black roiling clouds pushing and pressing at his skull, no place to go, no release, on and on and on. But that wasn’t all—the throb was in his stomach too, and he had to go down on his hands and knees and vomit in the bushes before he’d even got halfway to the camp in the ravine. He felt his breakfast come up—two hard-cooked eggs, half a cup of that weak reheated piss that passed for coffee and a tortilla he’d involuntarily blackened on a stick held over the fire-all of it, every lump and fleck, and then he vomited again. His stomach heaved till he could taste the bile in the back of his throat, and yet he couldn’t move, that uncontainable pressure fighting to punch through his ears, and he crouched there for what seemed like hours, hypnotized by a single strand of saliva that dangled endlessly from his lips.
    When he got to his feet again, everything had shifted. The shadows had leapt the ravine, the sun was caught in the trees and the indefatigable vulture had been joined by two others. “Yes, sure, come