Chapter 40

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Little Fucker wrapped his arms madly about Tony's legs, like the giant squid embracing the Nautilus in its tenacious tentacles.  As Tony picked up the boy and kissed him on the cheek, a little tear flowed down his own.  Marisol walked over to Tony, wiped the tear off with a delicate finger, then kissed her Uncle.

"You came back.  You saved us."

Mike got in on the act, enveloping Tony in an embrace that exceeded the usual bro hug specifications.  "Hey, no groping!" Tony warned.  "Don't try none of that faggy shit on me!"  Then he cuffed Mike affectionately on the back.

When the four finally disentangled themselves, Tony looked down upon the inert lump of his brother.  "Hey bro," he said.  "I guess this is how you wind up when you get too full of yourself."  These words would be Danny Valero's eulogy.

"You crossed the river," Mike said.  "How does it feel?"

"You call that a fucking river?  It felt great.  I never felt so good in my whole fucking life.  Now you three need to get the hell out of here.  I drew you a map to one of Danny's tunnels.  You can use it to cross the border and lay low for a while, until they sort things out over here."

As Tony pulled the map from his pocket, a crumpled envelope followed.  Mike recognized it as the letter the Herr had given him.  "I forgot about that," Tony said.  "What does that old asshole want?"

"How are we going to hide in Mexico if they took my cash?" Mike asked, ignoring the Herr’s letter.

"Your money is back at the garage," said Marisol.  "My uncle, my other uncle, gave it to me. He trusted me to the end.  Surprisingly, this doesn't make me feel guilty right now.  Is that bad?  He exploited me.  He ruined me!"

Marisol made a move like she intended to kick Danny's corpse but Tony held her back.  "Let it go.  He's gone.  You're not ruined.  You're starting over with this buttwipe here, if that makes you feel any better."

"Wait a minute," said Mike.  "You're talking like we're running off to Mexico without you.  You're not leaving us again, you're coming too.  You cross rivers now.  There's no excuse."

"Okay, okay," answered Tony.  "Just let me sit down a minute.  I'm a little tired.  I got a little worked up back there."

Tony lumbered down toward the river, where he sat down in the shade of a stubborn, tenacious cottonwood that refused to be choked out by the tamarisk.  Here he took the Herr's letter out of the envelope. "What does that shriveled up old fart want?" he said, and started to read. His eyes opened wide like Venus flytraps as soon as he beheld the opening line. The Herr’s English frequently mixed with his Teutonic tongue, but although Tony didn’t know German the translation was pretty clear.

My dearest Sohn,

Yes, that ist right und it is time you knew the truth.  All diesem years we have kept this ein secret von dir but I don't know how much time I have left, so I need to tell you.

Tony laughed - his pop even wrote with an accent.  Wait, his pop? 

I love you mein Sohn and I always wanted to be your Vater but could not.  For a while your Muter und Ich had a love affair, but she would not marry me because of some ridiculous vow she made to her Vater on his death bed that she would never marry ein pinche gabacho like me.

Instead, she married that no gut Vargas man whose name you unfortunately carry.  You no longer have to wear that name, you may now anoint yourself with the proud Prussian Junker title of Von Müeller, whose proud Familie blood flows through your veins!

I always tried to do right by you, mein Sohn.  That is why when the cruel world rejected you, I always let you stay with me at the motel.  If I was ein bisschen grouchy mit you it was because I was worried about you.  In my will, I have left everything I have to you.

I love you mein Sohn.  I will see you in heaven, that is if Gott will allow an old Stuka pilot like me to go.  If not, I will fight my way in.

Love,

Your Vater, Josef Von Müeller

Tony stared blank faced at the letter, unaware that Mike was looking over his shoulder.

"We should get out of here," Mike said.

With a flimsy smile, Tony said "I don't care where you bury me, because I don't belong to no place.  Just make sure they put the right fucking name on my grave."  Then Tony Vargas handed the letter over his shoulder to Mike, lay down in the shade of the Cottonwood, and died.

Mike knew right away that Tony had not closed his eyes to take a nap.  All carbon-based organisms understand the finality of death without having to take a pulse or check for breath on a mirror.  Tony had crossed the river and the river had collected his soul, as promised.

There is also a certain sense of fatality among living organisms when they realize that the dead have fulfilled their duties in the world of the living.  The greatest intensity of wailing, weeping, and garment rending is generally reserved for fallen children, or for mothers or fathers who leave behind unattended children.  Perhaps it is callous to say, but the death of Tony Vargas, though a sad affair, was met with respectful resignation, rather than deep grief.  The man had no attachments, absolutely nothing anchoring him to the Earth.  He had done what he had been ordained to do, to put this little cut and paste family on the road to its destiny.

Marisol and Little F had now gathered alongside Mike over the body of their fallen hero.  They all realized what had happened, and understood that it was meant to be.  No attempts at resuscitation were necessary.  Tony Vargas had shot his Earthly load and then, like with those Striggy’s girls he had often entertained, moved on.

Little Fucker rubbed his first tears from his eyes, then as he lifted his fingers from his face beheld a sparkling stream where none had been before, flowing in at right angles to the Gila.  Over on yonder bank of this flow stood his mother, dressed in a spotless, shimmering robe of rich material.  She waved to him with a gleaming smile, the type he had never seen upon her face while she was on this side of the river.  She stood in the shade of a broad-branched tree, beneath which was a well.  Little F knew this was the Terebinth of which she so often spoke.

"Fakhir," she said to him over and over. It was the boy’s name, rendered with its true pronunciation. 

Because he had his eyes fixed across the stream at his mother, Little Fakhir failed to notice that Tony had risen from his body and was walking toward his mother. He moved across the river without seeming to sink in, or even wet his feet.  When he had crossed over, Fakhir’s mother stretched out her robe for him in the shade. Tony nodded his head gravely. Nobody had ever done such a thing for him, before.

"Fakhir," she said to Tony, gesturing toward her son on the other side.

Tony looked over to the point indicated.  "Fakhir?  Fucker?  Oh that's too good!  I can't stand it! No wonder!"  That ridiculous Daffy Duck laugh lit up his face again.

Fakhir walked to the edge of the river, wanting to join them over there, but his mother held up a hand to stop the boy.

“Not yet kid," Tony said.  "Not yet, but soon enough.  Believe me, soon enough."

The woman motioned Tony to recline in the shade of the Terebinth.  "Hey, if this is Muslim heaven where are all the virgins?" he laughed.  "Aren't there supposed to be 40 fucking virgins or something, or did I go to hell?"

As Tony joked and carried on, the woman drew water and washed his weary feet.  The scene gradually began to fade, the veil between the two sides of the river lowering back into place.  Fakhir held up his tiny fingers and waved goodbye.

"Soon enough kid, soon enough,” Tony said again.

"Who's he waving to?" asked Mike.  He thought he knew the answer but it was ridiculous to give voice to it.

"I don't know, but he definitely sees something we don't," said Marisol. She looked down at her Uncle.  "He looks so peaceful.  I wish we could bury him right at this spot.  What do you think he died from?"

"There's no name for it," said Mike.  Then he gathered up his little family, carried Tony Vargas’s vacated earthly vessel with them into one of the gangster trucks, and they got the hell out of the Gadsden Purchase, for good.

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Image: By Giacomo del Po - http://www.artnet.de/Artists/LotDetailPage.aspx?lot_id=176C54067DAB185B, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6797515