'The books of the future may not meet any of the conventional criteria for literary value that we have today.' Time Magazine
BRING ME THE HEAD OF JOHN GRISHAM
Stefano Boscutti
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Stefano Boscutti
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Discover more titles by Stefano Boscutti at boscutti.com
This is a work of fiction. While many of the characters portrayed here have counterparts in the life and times of John Grisham, the characterizations and incidents presented are products of the author's imagination.
BRING ME THE HEAD OF JOHN GRISHAM
MEXICAN BACK ROAD
Please don't look at me like that.
JOHN GRISHAM'S head gives me one of those looks. It sits tilted upright in a metal bucket of salted ice, strapped in the passenger seat of a stolen police car. The one I'm driving down some crumpled dirt road. I'm heading into the desert country around Coahuila, away from La Pesca and a thousand bad decisions.
I'm almost certain I didn't cut off your head. Mind you, not a hundred percent certain, because my memory's a little fuddled. Statistically? Say, somewhere between sixty-three and sixty-seven percent. Maybe a little higher.
I try to make sense of the creased road map. Everything is written in Spanish, and my Spanish is not good.
I straighten my filthy glasses and try to lean forward to switch on the air conditioning, but the seatbelt holds me back. I undo it, lean forward, and press the button twice. Nothing.
I wipe sweat off my brow with the back of my hand. My limp tie is pulled loose. My shirt and suit can't remember the last time they saw a dry cleaner. My shoes are scuffed like my soul.
I've got a cigarette in my shirt pocket. I've been saving it for a special occasion.
I've been drinking a lot of tequila. That's where I heard the story about the million dollar reward for your head. I was drinking in a bar. Not sure about you, but to me that's a lot of money. Yes sir, a lot of money.
John Grisham's mouth is level with the lip of the bucket. As the stolen police car rattles down the broken road, so does his head, from side-to-side, so it looks like he's disagreeing with everything I say.
Locals say the best way to keep cool is to warm your body with a little tequila. I think it's a myth. How can that possibly be true? I don't know about you, but I don't think you should believe everything you hear in a bar.
I roll my eyes at John Grisham's head.
All I know is it's hot. It's always hot.
An old paperback of Bradbury's "Fahrenheit 451" lies on the dashboard, baking beneath the windscreen.
How about some music, John? Take your mind off the heat. Country? Classic Rock? What about the Eagles? I'm sure I can find "Hotel California" somewhere.
There's a mess of wires under the dash, as if someone had ripped them out and roughly twisted them together again.
I press the tuning button, and the radio scans through local stations, catching snatches of songs and voices and static and bad commercials, before fading out to nothing.
You died of a brain aneurysm, don't you remember? You were staying in one of those private vacation apartments at La Quinta Huachinango, on the outskirts of town. You clutched the sides of your head. Thought you were having a migraine attack. Next second, you're flat on the floor, deader than dead.
What do you mean you didn't know about the reward on your head? It was the talk of the town. Everyone knew about it.
Juan told me about the reward when he bought me a drink in that bar. It was posted by Jose Cardenas Fuente. The one they call El Biblio, The Librarian. They say he has the largest private collection of crime books in Mexico. Used to be a drug kingpin, before he retired.
I have no idea why he wants your head, John. You'll have to ask him.
But if you hadn't died, I'm pretty sure somebody would have killed you for it.
Juan figured two heads would be better than one. Rosaria told me you'd been interred in the side of the cemetery. A shallow grave, nothing fancy. Not one of those domed mausoleums reserved for drug dealers and local politicians. We dug up your coffin and were just about to open the lid when, klang! Somebody smashed me in the back of the head with a shovel. I saw stars. I really did.
I touch the back of my head, middle-aged hair matted with dried blood. It still hurts.
When I woke up, I saw the coffin lid was open and your head sat in that bucket. Juan was next to me, dead. A handwritten note knifed into his chest. 'This is going to happen to everybody who doesn't understand, the message is for everybody.'
That's not very good English, is it, John? It's a transitive verb, right? Well, you'd know. You're the writer.
There were two other dead bodies there. Narcos riddled with bullets. Blood everywhere.
And a dead policeman. Did I mention the dead policeman?
I grabbed your head, jumped into the police car, and took off. I wasn't going to wait around. Everybody steals everything here. It's a way of life. They have more car thefts than burglaries here.
Anyway, John, I'm not really stealing it. I'm borrowing it.
I take the cigarette out of my shirt pocket. It's my last one.
John Grisham's head keeps giving me that look.
Things are finally turning my way. We're leaving the beautiful, unspoiled coast of Mexico, and the promise of both a vacation or retirement lifestyle that redefines paradise. We're off to see El Biblio and claim what's due.
No, we're not driving to Ciudad Juarez. Do you think I'm crazy? The Juarez Cartel control that land.
We're heading to El Biblio's hacienda outside the village of La Linda, up near the border. High up in Los Zetas country. Taking these back roads, so we don't draw attention to ourselves.
It may take a little longer, but it's less risky. I'm not sticking my neck out for anyone.
Lost? I'm not lost. I know exactly where we're going.
Something moves in the thin scrub. Might be wild dogs, fighting over whatever's left of whatever they took down last night.
There's not much scenery. Mesquite scrub everywhere. The occasional prickly pear. Some low-lying lechgila, mensuite, creosote.
I don't know my way around here? Who does? And how can you even tell I'm lost? You can't see over the dash.
Oh, it's a feeling. Really? You've got a feeling I'm lost?
I rub my temple.
I'm not lost. I'm not confused. I've got a headache, that's all. You could stop talking, that would be a good start.
Weak? I'm not weak, just a little tired. How can you say that? Do you know anything about my daughter? Do you know anything about my life?
GUST OF WIND
Lonely weeds and dry branches shiver.
I'm lost, and I never finish anything? Really, you think so? You know me?
John Grisham's head doesn't say anything.
Really, you can tell by looking at me?
I wind down the window, and dust and warm air rush in.
Then who am I getting the money for? Who's the reward for?
I cock my ear.
What? Sorry, I can't hear you. Oh, you don't know, John? You're at a loss?
I look out at the parched hills.
It's for Kristen, my daughter. She's an English major at Amherst. The million dollars is for her. She needs the right start in life.
After everything I've done wrong, it's time I did something right.
She deserves it. Everything she puts her mind to she achieves. She won the Armstrong Prize in her first year. She's got her mind set on becoming a writer, an author.
A million dollars means she won't have to worry about money.
After the divorce, I wasn't the world's greatest dad. This way I can repay her for my mistakes.
I smile at John Grisham's head.
This way I can put your head to good use.
I put the cigarette to my lips and pull out a Zippo lighter, flip open the lid, and strike once, twice, without sparking a flame.
Her mother left me, and then I kind of left myself.
I strike the lighter for a third time, and the rear window implodes. Showers the cabin with blasted glass.
"Should I Stay or Should I Go" pours in from the car racing behind me. It's not the original by The Clash. It's a raucous Hispanic version by Los Fabulosos Cadillac, grumbling louder and louder as the car draws closer. Dust storms rise in its wake.
It's a gold Cadillac, like Elvis Presley used to give away in the seventies. There's a BORED NARCO behind the wheel and an ANNOYED NARCO leaning out the passenger window, handgun outstretched and about to fire again.
The gold Cadillac zooms up beside me, and the Narco’s gun levels with my head. I slam the brakes, slip and swerve, and stop on the embankment. The gold Cadillac slides to a stop on a wave of dust, the thumping Clash classic kicking on.
Wind carries away the wave.
I see the passenger door open, and the Annoyed Narco steps out. He cracks his neck and strides towards me, a palm-sized gold ornament of Judas Tadeo, Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes, dangling from a chain around his neck.
I furiously roll up the window, lock the door, snatch the key from the ignition. Narco shakes his head, disappointed, then lifts his gun and blasts two shots straight through the window. Glass explodes everywhere.
He slams his gun into the back of his pants, reaches in, and drags me out by my hair. Tosses me to the ground, and then reaches back into the car. He pulls out the bucket with John Grisham's head, holds it up, smiles, and puts it on the bonnet.
He turns to look at me.
I scramble backward in the dirt and dust. He sees my wallet fall out. I reach for it, but he steps on my hand. He picks it up and thumbs it open.
He looks back at the driver in the gold Cadillac and shouts over the song.
El idiota no tiene dinero.
He pulls a picture of my daughter out of the wallet. It was taken on her first day at college, all smiles and sunshine. He flicks the picture at me.
He pulls out my business card. Bob Proctor, Sales Consultant, Liberty Life Insurance, 301 Avenue E, San Antonio, Texas 78205. Telephone 210-250-3171. Fax 210-250-3105. For all your life insurance needs.
He flicks the card at me, lifts the bucket from the bonnet, pulls out his gun, and aims it at my head. A gust of dust tumbles behind him.
Quizás, deberías haber hecho un seguro de vida a tu nombre.
FINGER ON TRIGGER
My life flashes before my eyes. Not all of it. Just the disappointing parts.
The marriage break-up. The lawyers. The divorce.
Liberty Life Insurance convinced me to come down here. To sell life insurance to a new real estate development, an upscale, gated community. On full commission, because then I could really make some money.
La Pesca is a town in Tamaulipas on the Gulf coast, about halfway between Matamoros and Tampico. Long, sandy beaches with a handful of palm trees. Single-story dwellings, small market that opens in the morning, open-air restaurant. There're no tourists, no ATMs.
RISING DUST
It was supposed to be paradise on Earth, full of rich Americans scared of dying. Why else would they buy life insurance. It was a shambles. Nothing was built. Six bags of cement was all I ever saw. Figured I'd be the first one there, no competition, no risk. But after a year there was still nothing.
I spent all my money on fees and bribes. For what? For nothing?
My ex-wife told me I never took a chance on anything, never took a chance on life. Well, I'd show her. I'd make something of myself. Not for her, mind you. For Kristen, for my daughter. Her mother kept telling her what a loser I was.
That's when I moved into sales.
I wanted to help my daughter, that's all. And it led to Mexico and a year of broken dreams. And that led to too much tequila, which led to the bar and led to Juan, and led to the cemetery and that shallow grave, and then John Grisham’s head.
SLICING SUNLIGHT
The sound of rotor blades thumping as dust swirls over the stolen police car. An army-green Medevac helicopter rises over the hill, spewing gravel and dust in its path. I can't see a thing. The helicopter chops through the air, low and loud. A loudspeaker replays a recorded warning.
Usted está violando las leyes nacionales de inmigración. Puede ser arrestado y sometido a juicio. Usted está violando las leyes nacionales de inmigración. Puede ser arrestado y sometido a juicio.
Dust clears, and the gold Cadillac is gone. So is John Grisham's head. So is the stolen police car.
MEXICAN MEN, WOMEN and CHILDREN leap up from behind mesquite scrub, scattering for their lives.
The helicopter banks and sweeps back low. Its bay door thrusts open and MILITARY SNIPER in a harness leans out, leveling his assault rifle. He's wearing an Army-green ski mask.
The military is getting out of hand in Mexico. This is how they try to stop the immigration problem. It's their answer to everything.
Sniper opens fire on the people fleeing, squeezing off shot after shot.
This is a ruthless country. The weak do not survive.
Even retired drug lords are ruthless. Look at El Biblio. He hated the last John Grisham novel so much, he put a bounty on the author’s head. God knows what he's going to do it. I don't want to know.
El Biblio cut off his lieutenant's fingers when he caught him reading "The Da Vinci Code". Cut off each of the fingers on his right hand so he couldn't turn the pages. Each one snipped off with a pair of pruning shears.
Did he cut off the thumb? Not sure. But this is a bad man. He used to control sixty-three percent of the methamphetamine trade in Northern Mexico, but now he's semiretired on his hacienda. Tending to his roses and his books.
Imagine putting a million dollar bounty on John Grisham's head so he'd never write again. I was lucky he was already dead. I wouldn't want to be the man to kill John Grisham.
Although in this country, finding someone to kill somebody costs a lot less than a million dollars. You can have someone killed for thirty dollars and a bottle of tequila.
Or you can always call the military.
The helicopter heads to the horizon, its recorded warning waning with the distance.
I don't want to think whether any of those poor Mexicans were hit. I can't hear any moaning, so I guess no one is bleeding to death. Maybe they're too scared to cry out. I would be.
I slip the photo of my daughter into my shirt pocket. Stand up and dust myself off.
I never finished college. I was one of those geeky young men studying mathematics. The beauty of numbers, the love of logic. I dropped out in my final year.