Coming May 18: The Eviction of Hope

Once again, an editor who should have known better has asked me to lower the standards for an anthology. This one is special.

 

First off, I had my work cut out for me. Here’s the list of the other writers involved: Hector Acosta, Mark Bergin, Joe Clifford, Paul J. Garth, Carmen Jaramillo, Dana King, James L'Etoile, Gary Phillips, Matt Phillips, Tom Pitts, Travis Richardson, John Shepphird, Holly West and Frank Zafiro. I don’t think even I on my worst day could take the edge off the excellence this group conveys. So the pressure’s off.

 

Second, this is as well-conceived an anthology as I have seen or heard of. There’s not just a unifying theme for the stories; there’s an actual bible. It was half a dozen pages of history, logistics, characters we could share, and rules to observe so no one inadvertently stepped on anyone else’s story.

 

Now that I’ve piqued your interest, here’s the lowdown from editor Colin Conway himself:

 

It’s eviction day for The Hope Apartments. The residents have known about it for over a year. It’s too bad they ignored all the warning signs.

 

More than a century ago, developer Elijah Hope constructed a state-of-the-art hotel. As the generations passed and tastes changed, The Hope spent two decades as an underutilized office building before conversion into a low-income housing project.

 

Rundown by years of human occupation, The Hope has become a hollow shell of its once great self. It is home to drug addicts, petty criminals, and those hiding from others. The city has long turned a blind eye to The Hope as surrounding neighborhoods gentrified and pushed their disaffected in its direction.

 

But now The Hope is preparing a return to its original glory. The current owners plan to convert it into a boutique hotel. The only thing standing in their way is the eviction of over one hundred units.

 

Each resident knew this fateful day was coming, yet most chose to believe it would never arrive. They ignored the posted signs, the hand-delivered warnings, and even the actual notices.

 

Many stayed until the bitter end.

 

These are their stories.

 

I was, and am, supremely flattered to have been included in this collection. It’s different from anything I’ve ever worked on, and I tried to come up with a story that stretched my abilities. I’m happy with how my contribution turned out, and I know you’ll be impressed with the others, which I have read from the ARC.

 

The Eviction of Hope drops May 18. You can pre-order here.

Stylesheets

 

A few weeks ago we talked about grammar. (Well, I did. No one else had much to say.) That was supposed to include a discussion of stylesheets, but the grammar post was plenty long, so here we are today.

 

Stylesheets are fine, in their place. Newspapers or magazines need consistency, lest they look, and read, as if assembled by the proverbial thousand monkeys on a thousand typewriters. I have a stylesheet of sorts for this blog to remind myself to enforce certain things I feel strongly about. (Oxford commas, for example. I acknowledge there are two schools of thought: those who use Oxford commas to provide clarity and flow to the writing; and those who are wrong.) It’s also my blog, so no one else’s opinion really matters.

 

Strict adherence to a stylesheet bothers me when publishers insist on one for all books. I have been fortunate that Down & Out Books isn’t hardcore about this, though I have had discussions with editors because I insist on something that doesn’t agree with the stylesheet they prefer. I understand, and agree, the book needs to be consistent throughout, but it is pedantic beyond description to think anyone cares that one author used Oxford commas and another from the same publisher was wrong.

 

I use punctuation similar to musical notation, especially in dialog. I’m trying to convey to the reader where the speaker hurried on or paused, and how long the pause is. This means I may use a period, comma, dash, or ellipsis in non-traditional manners that may not be welcome to a grammarian. I don’t want to have to argue about what the stylesheet says should go there. Paraphrasing Raymond Chandler, when I use an ellipsis/comma/period, God damn it, it is done with the eyes wide open and the mind relaxed and attentive.

 

Grammar, of which punctuation is part, evolves, as even a quick reading of Lynne Truss’s delightful book Eats Shoots and Leaves will show. Too rigid an adherence to stylesheets will only stifle the inevitable changes. To pick a point in time when grammar was “correct” or “proper” is to deny the history of the topic about which such pedants claim to know so much. (There’s an example of classically proper grammar actually making the sentence harder to understand.) I’ll admit, the misuse of “less” when “fewer” is appropriate affects me as fingernails scraping across a chalkboard. That doesn’t mean I should be a bigot about it. (In my defense, “less” implies an analog, thus less specific, measurement; “fewer” is more digital.)

 

Do stylesheets serve a purpose? Absolutely. In their place. And that place need never be too broadly construed.

Talking Marketing with Beau Johnson

 

Finding out about author and cheese aficionado Beau Johnson is one of those serendipitous things that happen when you’re a writer who blogs. I don’t remember who put us together in the first place, but Beau has become a regular guest on OBAAT, and one I look forward to having. (Or why else would he be a regular?)

 

Aside from being a prolific short story writer, Beau is a tireless promoter of other people’s books. He’ll be here this summer when his new collection launches, but Beau posts almost daily on Facebook and Twitter about other authors’ work far more than about his own stuff. What is it about him that drives this passion to be supportive of others? Is it just because he’s Canadian? Read on to find the deeper motives behind this apparent selflessness.

 

One Bite at a Time: You tweeted recently about how hard it is for you to promote your own work, yet you enjoy doing it for others; my feelings are much the same. I know why I’m that way, and we may get into it later, but since this is your interview, why do you think this is the case for you?

 

Beau Johnson: Dana!  First off, thank you for having me here on your blog.  I always appreciate the space you give me.  As to your question: self-consciousness is the main reason I suppose.  I mean, I've seen that guy, we've all seen that guy, the one who promotes nothing but his or her own work endlessly?  I never wanted to be that guy.  I dread being that guy.  On the flipside, I came to understand no one else was going to push or care about my own work more than me. Since I was already doing my pay it forward thing (book pics for those that helped me during the release of my first book and some fine people who took me under their wing at my first and only con) I decided to expand and incorporate, settling on what I believe to be an 80/20 split.  I try to plug my own stuff no more than four times a week but if something other comes up, I'll adjust.  All told, it allows me to function on social media in a much better frame of mind.

 

OBAAT: I like that you have something of a formula to balance your promotional efforts. I need to come up with something like that myself, at least so I might be able to console myself by saying, “Sure, I flogged my book four days in a row, but I also posted or at least retweeted about three others each of those days.”  Do you ever find the balance hard to maintain? By which I mean, some days you just don’t feel like it?

 

BJ:  Ha! Yes, almost every day if I'm honest! Goes back to that self-consciousness thing---or something I call "too much Beau."  I mean, what I'm doing is fun, I choose to do it, (and seriously, there is no better feeling than making someone's day) but even I get sick of my mug after a while, you know?  However, I know I will never please everyone, so I go with the notion I'm only going to live once so I'm going to focus on the positives for the most part.  You don't like such things, and I'm quite sure there are people out there that do not, well, that's what the mute or block buttons were created for, right?

 

OBAAT: What’s the worst part of self-promotion?

 

BJ: I think you pretty much sum it up in your question. But to elaborate: I aim not to annoy or bore. 

 

OBAAT: I’m no shrinking violet. I enjoy time in the spotlight, whether it’s an interview or sitting on a panel. What kills me is asking people for those opportunities. Is that similar to your situation, or how does it differ?

 

BJ: Well, I think I have to be an extrovert to go about things the way I have.  I'll put myself out there, don't mind making light of myself, but really, I don't get many of the opportunities that you suggest.  I don't go looking for them either, so I have to own that too.  But when I say all this, I must add an addendum—this year and the end of 2020 have and are proving different. I have now been on three different podcasts (I wore a tie each time I swear!) with a fourth on the horizon, and attended and read at a Noir at the Bar, so things are looking up in the opportunity department.

 

OBAAT: Are you doing anything different to get these opportunities, or is it a matter of making the ask?

 

BJ: I'm not doing anything different, no, just a gradual process I think.  The pics, Beau's Book Nook, Not Beau's Book Nook, it seemed to hit a point where people began to really notice, or dug it, and hey, here we are.  I say this knowing full well I'm small potatoes compared to some, however, but hope to one day spread the greatness of what I like further than I'm currently able to.

 

OBAAT: You noticed an uptick in your sales the more you promote others’ books. Why do you think that is? Karma, or something more concrete?

 

BJ: I want to say that people have discovered the greatness which is Bishop Rider, and that word of mouth has travelled, but nah, it's karma, it's the writing community giving back, perhaps a little of both. I have no concrete answer really, Dana, but admit I'm enjoying the ride.

 

OBAAT: Have you ever considered a partnership with Kraft or Saputo to tie their cheeses to your books? Maybe some kind of a product placement deal? (You knew I couldn’t go an entire interview and not ask about cheese.)

 

BJ: Ha! I was hoping there'd be a cheese related question! For sure, let's get Saputo on the phone: we'll call it the Cheesening!

 

(Learn more about Beau and his books on his Down & Out Books page and his own web site.)

The Cost of Promotion

 Self-promotion is my least favorite aspect of writing. Not that I don’t enjoy live or virtual appearances; I love them. Setting them up is painful. Bookstore slots have been harder to get for indie writers such as myself for quite a while, so I know to meet them halfway. I’m working to set up a panel for a local bookseller that has been good to me in the past so they can have four or five of us there, broadening the potential draw as well as the number of books that might be sold. I’m all in on that.

 

What brought me up short last week was a response I received from another store:  “We require a $100 deposit prior to the event. We will return this deposit if we sell $100 worth of books.”

 

My initial thought was, “huh?” Then, “I don’t think so.” After which it occurred to me to ask my author friends on Facebook these three questions:

 

Am I being unreasonable?

Am I missing something?

Is this now the way of the world?

 

I received 36 responses, of which 32 ranged in tone between “No” and “Fuck no.” (My favorite was a suggestion to send then 100 virtual dollars.) Two described similar situations they have encountered, though neither was a straight-up “pay to play” deal. Two others provided reasons why it was okay for the bookstore to do this.

 

As one might presume from the breakout of responses, I consider my initial thoughts confirmed. The folks who pointed out things I had not thought of did so in a (mostly) respectful manner, so I feel I should address them here. (By “mostly respectful” I mean there was one comment that strongly implied I was too big for my britches, which is not the case. At least not here.)

 

Their key point was that promotional efforts aren’t free. I get that. All business have overhead. It’s called “the cost of doing business.” The vast preponderance of the store’s promotional costs are things they’d do whether I made a virtual appearance or not. Web site. E-mail lists. I have to assume they place ads in local media as a matter of course; listing this month’s events is part of the ad copy.

 

The cost of bandwidth and order fulfillment came up. For bandwidth, see above; it’s a sunk cost, and they’re not adding to it for me. As for the costs of order fulfillment…really? If they don’t sell any books, order fulfillment is free.

 

One commenter went on to say, “In other words, why don't all authors just set up a Zoom call and tell people on Facebook to drop by? Because the bookstore has a cachet. It has vetted you.”

 

First of all, setting up Zoom calls and telling people on Facebook is exactly what some authors are doing; I’m considering it myself. That would cut the bookstore out of the deal altogether. Cachet is nice, but while this is a mystery bookseller with an excellent reputation, it’s not like I’m asking for a spot at Powell’s or The Strand. As for vetting, not to blow my own horn, but this is my seventh professionally published book and I have two national award nominations. Another hundred bucks doesn’t add anything to my seriousness of intent.

 

 One commenter asked the person who raise the above points “in what other form of entertainment and sales does the headliner have to pay to show up and entertain?”

Only one comes to mind: Strip clubs. I might be willing to risk $100 for an event at the Bada Bing.

Grammar

 It is a little-known fact that I chose first-person POV for my early stories in large part because I was uncomfortable with my grammar. Writing in first person I could always say any quirks were indicative of the POV character’s grammar, not mine.  (I tell this to anyone who asks, but the fact remains little known because of how few people listen to me.) I came through public school at a time when “linguistics” was a thing, and linguistics has only two parts to any sentence: the noun and the verb. To me, you might as well speak Latin as discuss subjects, predicates, participles, gerunds and the like. (Actually worse. I have some idea of common Latin phrases, which I have learned on an ad hoc basis.)

 

While never taught “proper” grammar, I did read. A lot. Non-fiction when I was younger, and the weekly news magazines, such as Time, Newsweek, and Sports Illustrated. (I miss those magazines. The Internet has largely made them irrelevant, but I enjoyed look back on events with even a few days’ context. It was also nice to get informed, rational opinions from people who had earned the privilege and not anyone with a keyboard and an internet connection. You know, like me.) Over time I developed a keen ear for what “sounded right” that has served me well over the years.

 

I have learned a few things. “Affect” vs. “Effect;” “fewer” vs. “less.” I now recognize the perils of passive voice. This led me to make an effort to learn “proper” grammar several years ago, during which time I leaned a key fact:

 

Much of what an English teacher would call “proper” grammar is bullshit.

 

I understand creating rules of grammar was an effort to ensure clarity in writing and they served that purpose well. I’m in favor of anything that gives the reader a fighting chance. But following, or enforcing, rules just because they exist creates writing that is too often out of step with how people actually interact. This is eloquently shown in Winston Churchill’s famous dismissal of the edict never to end a sentence with a preposition: “That is something up with which I shall not put.”

 

Suffice to say, if the meaning is clear, the grammar is almost certainly close enough. If getting the clarity you want is hanging you up, then the problem may well be grammatical, in which case it’s time to crack the book. Not that you should follow what you find slavishly, but you’ll at least figure out where the problem is.

 

 

 

The Eighth Angel, Finale

 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3 & 4

 

5.

The Anderson Ranch, southeast of El Paso, near the Rio Grande

 

John Anderson spent the day pacing. Delivering Travis to Angel de Venganza had been as easy as John had feared. Cooped up on the ranch, never allowed to travel alone since members of the posse started turning up dead, Travis jumped at the chance to go to El Paso alone for a simple errand. John knew Travis would find justification to spend the night drinking, gambling, and whoring. John would never have minded if Travis had been able to confine himself to those activities. He’d been young once himself.

Travis in town on his own was what led to the current predicament. No whores caught his drunken fancy that night, so he forced himself on a young married woman named Rosalyn Bentley. Travis almost had to kill the husband when he came looking to avenge his wife’s honor. John never learned all the details, but some agreement assuaged Bentley’s grievance; a scapegoat was needed. Jaime Escalante had a reputation as a roughneck and Lothario. He had been known to flirt with Rosalyn Bentley and there were white men in El Paso who had suspicions about their women’s interactions with Escalante. Hanging the rape on him would only work if no one looked too closely, and there were people who mattered in El Paso who would not be inclined to look closely at all.

John Anderson knew none of this when he agreed to hire a posse to bring back the accused rapist. At the time he’d been proud to see Travis step forward to choose and organize the men, attributing it to a growth of civic responsibility. Only later did he realize the story Travis and Bentley cooked up would not hold water were the Mexican allowed to face charges.

Dark thoughts and recriminations occupied John’s mind all day until he noticed the shadows creep along the side of the main house. Travis had left not long after sunup. John had begun to worry the Mexican might have gone back on his word when he heard a horse approach at a full gallop. The hoofbeats stopped at the edge of the front porch and a voice he didn’t recognize at first began to scream.

“Daddy! Daddy! God damn it, Daddy. Come look what that son of a bitch half-breed beaner did to me!”

John ran to the front door. Travis sat his horse so close to the porch he could dismounted directly onto it. He was hatless with hair hanging over his face in long strands. Tears dripped form his jaw. Snot fouled his mustache.

“What is it boy? What happened?”

“What happened? What happened? This happened!”

Travis pulled the hair back from his face to look straight at his father. Branded into his forehead was the letter V, the lower point almost to the bridge of the nose, between the eyes.

John felt ill. Refused to look away. “Did they hurt you, boy?”

Travis’s face a mix of pain, rage, and confusion. “They? Weren’t no they. One man. Same one killed Red and Easy and the others. Picked me off on the way to town like he’d been waiting for me. First time in almost a year you let me go out alone and…” A flush of realization came to Travis’s face. “You knew.”

“It was the price of saving your life.”

“You worked it out? You talked to him? Knowing what he’d been doing, you met him and didn’t kill him?”

“We have to answer for what we did. To atone.”

“You got a brand on you I don’t know about? What the hell does V stand for, anyway? He said you’d know. Said it was appropriate.”

Tears clouded John’s vision. Travis had lived within a mile of the border all his life and knew no more than ten words of Spanish that weren’t insults or blasphemy. “Violador, I expect.”

“What’s that in English?”

“Rapist.” John was already recovering. “Get Esmeralda to put some of her salve on that burn. I’ll help you down.”

Travis reined his mount away from his father’s reaching hands. “I don’t need no more of your kind of help, you old bastard.” Walked his horse to the corner of the house. “I’m warning you, old man. You best sleep with one eye open form now on.”

John let him go. Much as he loved the boy and as much as his son was hurting, he knew the only way Travis would come at him was to hire it done. John stood alone and watched the sun begin to sink across the river. All the work he’d done. Buried a wife, a daughter, and a younger son, only to leave his life’s labor to such an heir.

He didn’t know how long the man had been sitting his horse at the crest of the ridge. Only after Joh focused on him did the rider tip his hat before walking his horse down the other side.

 

6.

Southwestern United States and northern Mexico

 

Seven years later, it surprised no one when Travis Anderson hired six gunmen to bring Angel de Venganza back to the Anderson ranch, dirt still falling on his father’s casket. The men, renowned bounty hunters all, ranged as far as Yuma, Fort Smith, Denver, and Chihuahua. They examined hotels and saloons and brothels and stage lines and train depots for two years. Travis had no idea how much whisky or how many whores he paid for.

He recalled them when the expenses began to cut into his own habits. In all that time and distance they encountered no one who had seen or had knowledge of a man named Angel de Venganza. He had no family nor friends nor enemies. No birth or baptismal records. No headstone.

Men who knew Easy Book in Texas could not place the name. The men who’d been drinking with Red Durham in Bisbee never had a name for the young Mexican Red sat with that night. Never got a good look at his face. The livery owner was new in town, the previous proprietor having moved on. California, maybe. Or Oregon.

The only person to see Angel de Venganza after John Anderson watched him ride his horse into the setting sun was Travis Anderson, who saw him every night.

 

The Eighth Angel, Chapters Three & Four

 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

 

3.

Northern Texas or southern Oklahoma Territory

 

Angel lay on his belly at the crest of a hog’s back as he looked across a small stream meandering through some bottom land. The sun rose behind him to reflect off the water. He’d been there for over an hour waiting for Kansas Jack Sloat to awaken.

Kansas Jack had not been easy to find. With warrants bearing his name from Texas, Colorado, New Mexico, and Arkansas, he only remained available for Angel to track due to guile and cunning.

Angel pulled a Sharps rifle from the grass beside him as Kansas Jack shrugged off his bedroll. No more than 250 yards distant, in line with what little breeze there was. He rose and stretched. Started a fire for his coffee. Scanned the horizon 360 degrees. Angel remained motionless, knowing he was not visible, as flat to the ground as he was, buffalo grass around him and the sun rising behind.

Jack poked the fire to get it burning how he wanted. Walked away to a small stand of trees to do his morning business. He had returned to within thirty feet of the fire when Angel shot him low in the belly.

Angel walked down the reverse slope of the hill to retrieve his horse. Slid the rifle into a saddle scabbard and mounted. Allowed the horse to pick its own pace down the hill toward the stream. No need to hurry. Kansas Jack would wait.

 Jack had crawled to within a few feet of his kit when Angel’s roan splashed int the stream, the sound drawing the wounded man’s attention. He looked toward the water, a hand shielding his eyes from the morning glare. Lay motionless until his face showed recognition of his plight. Started crawling with increased vigor.

Angel let his horse amble through the water. Jack got within a foot or two of the pistol sticking out of his bedroll before Angel drew his Colt. Thumbed back the hammer. Jack froze at the click of the cocking mechanism. A quick calculation before he reached for the gun. Angel shot him through the hand.

Jack yelled. His other hand fluttered, unsure of which wound to cradle. “Son of a bitch! Who the hell are you?”

“That was a mistake. Walking away without your guns.”

“I checked. Everything was clear.”

“Not as clear as you thought.”

“I asked once already. Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Angel de Venganza.”

“That supposed to mean something to me?”

“Not yet.” Angel holstered his gun and sat his horse. “What about Jaime Escalante? Maria Rodriguez? Do those names mean anything to you?”

Realization crossed Kansas Jack’s face. “The pistolero in that canyon south of Juarez.”

“My friend in the canyon. My friends.”

Kansas Jack glanced again toward his pistol. Not three feet away. Resignation began to settle onto his features. “You the one killed Easy Book?”

“And Red Durham.”

“Red’s dead, too?” Angel nodded. “Pete Davis.”

“Not yet.”

“You will, though.” Not asking. Angel nodded. Kansas Jack grimaced. “What about that peckerwood Travis Anderson? It was him started all this.”

“His turn is last.”

“Why’s he get to live longest?”

“So he can know what is coming.”

“His old man?”

“He will have his own reckoning.”

Kansas Jack rolled from his side to his back. Looked into the sky. “Gonna be hot.”

“Not compared to where you are going.”

Kansas Jack said, “Kiss my ass” with no venom, almost like to felt obliged to say it. “How’s it gonna go? You leave me here to fight off the coyotes and buzzards till I bleed to death? Or do you got something clever in mind?”

“I am not a clever man.”

“You outsmarted me sure enough.”

Angel scanned the horizon. Jack was right. It would be a hot day. The morning sky was beautiful. “I am not here to make you suffer.”

“You’re doing a damn fine job of it, if it’s not your intent.”

“I only want you to understand why you are here. Dying by my hand like this.”

Kansas Jack closed his eyes. Shuddered. “I won’t beg, and I won’t apologize. Not asking no consideration, but I argued against killing the woman.” Wiped his brow with the sleeve of his union suit. “Would it be too much to ask for my hat?” Pointed. “Sun’s coming right in my eyes.”

Angel dismounted. Picked up the hat. Tossed it to Jack. Positioned his horse between the dying man and the sun.

Jack left the hat be, shaded now by the horse’s shadow. “I’m obliged to you.” Breathed like someone was sitting on his chest. “We took a job. For money. We did it. That’s how I earn my living. I never figured to die indoors but I damn sure never thought I’d go out like this, gut shot by a Mexican that’s keeping the sun off me while I die.”

Angel tapped his thumb on the butt of his pistol. “Why did you do it?”

“I told you. It was a job.”

“How much were you paid?”

“I don’t remember.”

“That much?” Angel shook his head. Put a foot into the stirrup. Gave Kansas Jack a long look before mounting.

Jack said, “So that’s it? You’re gonna leave me here to die after all?”

“No.” Angel turned the horse so it stood alongside the man on the ground. “They should not have died, but Jaime and Maria died well. I will give you the same opportunity.” Drew and cocked his pistol. Aimed so Jack could look into the barrel. “You can look away. You can close your eyes. Or you can watch the bullet come for you. It is your choice.”

Kansas Jack said, “I’ll see you in hell.” But he watched.

 

4.

El Paso, Texas

 

Angel held the pistol along his leg as he opened the hotel room door. The man in the hallway was at least sixty years old. Tall with a bit of a stoop. Hair was white and wispy on top. He wore expensive clothes and boots and the hat in his hand cost more than a cowhand made in a month. “You the one goes by Angel?” Pronounced as Angel did.

“Si.”

“You know who I am?”

“Si.”

“You know why I’m here, then.”

“Si. I did not think you would come alone.”

“Then you don’t know why I’m here. You mind if we sit?”

Angel stepped back. The man entered the room. Took the only chair. Angel leaned against the wall.

“You killed them all. Didn’t you?”

“Jaime killed one. In the canyon.”

“You killed the rest, though.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“You went to the trouble to find me and you have to ask me that?”

“Are you finished?”

“Almost.”

“Just my son left to kill. Is that it?”

Angel did not think that required an answer.

“What Travis did was wrong. What I did was worse.”

“I can forgive you protecting your son. Sending five men to kill two you knew were innocent is not so excusable.”

“That’s not why they were sent.”

“Think of who they were. What did you expect to happen?”

“I didn’t know the woman would be there. The man I wanted brought back to stand trial.”

Angel shook his head. “That might have exposed your son’s responsibility. You could not risk it.”

“I didn’t know at the time my son was responsible. I give you my word on that.”

Angel didn’t answer right away. “A trial would never have happened. Vigilantes would have taken a role.”

The older man lowered his head. Nodded. “I expect so, knowing what I know now.” The room remained silent but for the sound of the man’s breathing. It had an unhealthy rasp. “How can we make this right? Short of you killing us?”

“An act of contrition.”

“That some Catholic thing?” Angel nodded. “The way you mean, it stops short of killing Travis?”

“You are not concerned for your own life?”

“I got it coming.” The older man tapped the hat against his leg. “I lived my whole life trying to do right. Drove a hard bargain but I honestly don’t think I ever cheated a man or took unfair advantage. Maybe if I had more experience doing the wrong thing it wouldn’t have gone so bad this time, but, Lordy, I have left the path. So, yeah. You think I got it coming, I have no argument for you.”

“And your son? Travis? He does not have it coming?”

“I never taught Travis wrong from right. Not proper. You want to take this out on someone, take it out on me.”

“You do not think a grown man should be able to figure out for himself that rape and murder are wrong?” No answer.

Angel straightened himself from the wall. Sat on the corner of the bed closest to the older man. “You deserve to die for what you have done.”

Tears filled the man’s eyes. No fear on his face or in his voice. “I do.”

“I believe the penance you are putting yourself through is more righteous than a quick death. An act is still required.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Give your son to me.” Angel went on before the man could protest. “I swear to you on Jaime’s and Maria’s graves I will not kill him. I suspect he will not be as willing to make amends as are you, so it is likely I will have to impose his contrition upon him.”

“Torture?”

“Not the way you mean. Any physical pain he endures will be far less than what you are putting yourself through.”

“You won’t kill him.” As if afraid to believe it.

“I will not kill him. I give you my word.”

“What’s my part?”

“It must be you who delivers him to me, and he must know it was you who betrayed him.”

“But you won’t kill him. Cripple nor blind him?”

“I will return him to you in perfect working order.”

The man showed his resignation. “When and where?”

“Send him to town one week from today. Alone.”

The man looked into Angel’s eyes. Either saw or didn’t see what he looked for. Whatever he saw, he stood. Slapped his expensive hat against a thigh. Halfway through the door he stopped and turned back toward Angel. “How do you know I won’t have a posse waiting for you?”

“You won’t.”

John Anderson settled his hat. “No, sir. God help me, I won’t.”