The Holy Death

Chapter 36

When Mother offered Elizabeth a private flight to Chihuahua, she did not give many details. Elizabeth assumed that a House as large and powerful as the House of Mexico City would have access to a luxury private jet like a Gulfstream, or Cessna, or Bombardier. She hadn't assumed that the jet would not be as luxurious, or in this case, not even a jet at all. She hesitantly – very hesitantly – boarded the elderly DC-3 and took a seat. It was a seat in the most academic sense only, never having been replaced, repaired, or even cleaned since World War Two. The cushioning was almost non-existent, and when the flight hit turbulence (as it often did), springs in the seat thrust through the cushions and struck Elizabeth in the rear end, which proved to be an unpleasant and unexpected surprise. At least the plane held together and the pilot was competent.

The ancient airliner finally touched down at a small airport just outside of Chihuahua after too long of a flight (for Elizabeth's tastes). She got out of the flying museum and was directed toward a couple tin-roofed quonset huts located next to some old hangars. Sitting out in front of one of those quonset huts was a fat old man with a scraggily beard and sunglasses, wearing a floppy green fishing hat and a Hawaiian shirt over a greasy white wife beater and Bermuda shorts, sipping on a margarita and reclining in a cheap plastic chaise lounge while listening to music on an old Walkman through a set of earbuds. Elizabeth looked at the business card given her by Mother, then approached the stranger.

"Excuse me," She said, "Can you help me?"

The guy pulled out his earphones and looked at Elizabeth -- and he liked looking at Elizabeth.

"Oh, oh yeah, I definitely can help," the man answered. His English was clear, and in fact was in a southern accent.

"Good. I'm looking for someone known as 'the Rat'."

"Well, little lady, it's looks like you found him!"

The old guy stood up and stuck out his hand. Elizabeth hesitantly shook it.

"Name's 'Raton' Ramirez. That's Spanish for rat, case you didn't know."

Elizabeth's lip curled. "Eww. So, why do they call you Raton?"

"Well, fact is, I was born in Boca Raton, Florida. I'm actually Cuban-American. My folks were from Cuba. Came over not long after that asshole Castro took over. But they also call me Raton 'cause I can fly lower than a rat's ass. It's a nickname from my old army days."

"Oh, so you were in the army. Did you see any action?"

"I sure did. Panama, the Gulf War, Somalia, hell, I seen some shit. Done some, too."

"So what are you doing here in Mexico at a less than reputable airport?"

"Payin' the alimony check! Or, actually, avoiding payin' the alimony check. No, flying is my life. It's my thing."

"But why not back in the States?"

"You ever try to get a decent pilot job with a dishonorable discharge?"

"Why did you get a dishonorable discharge?"

"Because some candy-ass West Point graduate with a gold leaf on his lapels got a case of the ass for yours truly. Sumbitch was a shit-for-brains OCS asshole who wanted to make a name for his self. That pencil-pushing limpdick had never been where the bullet meets the bone, you know what I mean? And he had the nerve to climb up my ass after I barely got back from a mission. I lost a good friend that day! And this pretentious shitbird had to get in my face right then. So, I clocked him right in the kisser. He went down hard, and I got time in the stockade. 'Course, it didn't help that I decked the first responding MP. Oh well. Anyway, all that was back when Jesus was a corporal. Water under the bridge, I guess."