Chapter 12

When Steele had first arrived in Cactus Point from the northwest, he entered town on Main Street. One of the first side streets that intersected Main Street was Tubac Lane. More an alley than a street, it was so small Steele hadn’t noticed it. It was located at the opposite end of town from the big houses of the mining executives and Marco Perez’s people. All but one store in that alley had gone out of business, partly due to the location, but mostly because of the sole remaining open business, the Red Dog Saloon. The bar’s lowlife customers and ruckuses had driven most people away. That was fine with Red Maran, the owner of the bar. It provided the seclusion he and his customers craved. And now that there were no other businesses in the alley, even Buck Ka-e-te-nay wasn’t called when a fight broke out. Of course, when Red Maran told someone to pay for the damages, they paid.

Red Maran was a burly man with a right arm thicker than his left from his blacksmith days. He was always in need of a shave, and his unkempt bushy red hair fell into his eyes and over his ears and shirt collar. The son of an alcoholic prostitute, he had grown up in a little shack in Louisiana hearing the squeaking bedsprings and male grunts coming through the thin wall separating his bedroom from his mother’s. If his little room could be called a bedroom. It was where he slept on the floor atop a few dirty blankets. The clothes he had worn that day were his pillow. And they were often the same clothes he wore the next day. The rented shack had a bedroom, a kitchen with tiny eating area, one bathroom, and the room Red slept in. Most of the rent was paid with his mother providing sexual favors to the fat landlord with yellow teeth and bad breath.

After his prostitute mother’s customer would leave, she’d call Red into her bedroom. He never knew if she wanted his company or the bottle of whiskey he was ordered to bring. He would enter the bedroom to find his mother on the bed wearing a flimsy robe or simply with a bedsheet wrapped around her nude body, showing more skin than she should have. Her hair would be dirty and disheveled and her makeup messed up, especially the bright red lipstick smeared around her lips. The room would smell foul—sweat and sex.

Paulie, as she had named her son, would carry the whiskey to his mother who would take a long swig from the bottle and thrust it back at him. If he hesitated to take a drink, she’d slap his face, so he learned at an early age to become her drinking buddy. That wasn’t too bad. The only times he had seen her happy was when she was drunk. But it was a two-edge sword. When she sobered, she was hell to be around.

When Red was fourteen or fifteen, he honestly didn’t remember, he heard screaming coming through the wall. And smacking sounds. He sat on the floor leaning against the wall with his knees up and hands pressed to his ears, elbows out, eyes shut tight, teeth clenched. Men had gotten rough with his mother before, and he even had to tend to her bruises and cuts, but when he heard a lamp break and something crash against the wall he was leaning against he stormed into his mother’s bedroom.

Both his mother and the man were naked. She was sprawled across the width of the bed on her back with her head hanging over the side. The end of her hair was folded on the floor. The shattered lamp lay next to the bed. The only chair in the room was overturned against the wall Red and his mother shared. The man stood over Red’s mother, pummeling her tear-stained, bruised and bloodied face with his fists.

Red charged, driving his shoulder into the man’s back, knocking him over onto the broken glass. The brute came up cursing, the cuts on his hands and knees bleeding. He lurched at Red who ducked under the outstretched arms and picked up the only thing around. The broken lamp. When the man turned and attacked, the boy swung the lamp with a sweeping motion. The jagged edge of the broken glass sliced through the man’s throat. Blood spurted out like a fountain. The man grabbed his neck with both hands and dropped to his knees, gurgling, drowning in his own blood. He stared up at Red in disbelief before falling forward. His forehead and nose crashed onto the stained carpet and he rolled onto his side.

Red backed up and stared down at the squirming man clutching his throat. Blood everywhere. When the man’s body stilled, Red’s attention turned to his mother. He called her. She didn’t move. He stepped up to her and looked down at her lifeless eyes staring up at him. He poked her shoulder. Nudged her. And then felt for a pulse on the side of her neck. He jumped back. There was none.