The Heat of the Sun

dabbed his hair with a
handkerchief. He splashed his face. As the door opened he took more movie magazines from the bookcase and cried, ‘Did I ever tell you I adore Jane Russell?’
    The captain advanced with a set of handcuffs.
    ‘I don’t think that’s necessary, do you?’ I said, but regulations were regulations.
    I tucked Trouble’s magazines under my arm and we made our way out to the van, where my guards, squashing out their cigarettes, assumed a military demeanour. Both were large, thickset
fellows, but one, called McPherson, was freckled and fair, while the other, Mendoza, was Latin-dark. Trouble eyed them appraisingly as we approached.
    ‘Not a particularly armoured van,’ he complained, climbing into the back. ‘Aren’t I more dangerous than this? Where are we going, anyway – Alcatraz, like the
Birdman? If only this thing had windows, I could look out at the coast of Big Sur on the way. De-lovely.’
    ‘Look at Jane.’ I handed him his magazines.
    McPherson, revolver at the ready, climbed in beside Trouble; Mendoza gestured to me to sit in front with him. I was not pleased; he was surly, and my efforts at conversation met with little
success.
    San Diego, I observed as we moved off, was surprisingly pretty. His face remained stony. Lovely day, I tried again – de -lovely, even. You’re from Mendoza, Mexico – I
mean Mexico, Mendoza? Ha-ha. Silly me. Funny, to think it’s just a few miles away.
    Only when I offered Mendoza a cigarette did I get more than a grunt out of him. Smoothly, we swung around the curving coast; the wheel spun through his dextrous, dark hands and I grew sleepy.
The cabin was stifling. My shirt stuck to the seat. A fly buzzed between dashboard and windshield, stopped for a while, crawled, and buzzed again. Through the panel behind us, Trouble and McPherson
murmured, sometimes exclaimed. I think they were playing cards.
    I woke suddenly, as if someone had jolted me. No one had. The sun glared blindingly through the windshield. We had stopped. Still the fly buzzed, but the driver’s seat was empty and the
door was ajar.
    ‘Mendoza?’ I said.
    He stood by the roadside, pissing; the thick stream gurgled into the sand. Casually, he buttoned his fly, then mooched around the hood to the passenger side, yanked open my door, and jerked his
head for me to get out.
    The revolver flashed as he jabbed it towards me. ‘Mendoza, what is this?’
    ‘Hands up.’ He waved me away from the van. ‘Further; that’s right.’
    I had failed to retrieve my ashplant and lurched, stumbled. Sand, rocks, and scrubby desert plants stretched in all directions. Mendoza must have veered some way from our route. Buzzards hovered
in the cloudless sky.
    ‘Are we over the border, Mendoza? What do you want?’
    He thumped the side of the van. ‘McPherson!’
    A lazy bellowing came from within.
    ‘Radiator’s blown!’ Mendoza called. ‘Wake up!’
    Perhaps I should have warned McPherson, but I did not understand what was happening until it was too late. I assumed that the pair of them were in on this. I was wrong. Curses sounded from
within; the van rocked on its springs; McPherson stepped out, scratching his head—
    The shot cracked against the bright day. Buzzards scattered.
    ‘Sorry, friend. Had to be done.’ Mendoza tucked the revolver into his belt, crossed himself, then dragged McPherson from the road. Nearby rose a shelf of rock with green-blue scrubby
vegetation sprouting up behind: a convenient place to conceal a corpse. I eyed the buzzards. After taking McPherson’s gun and the money from his wallet, Mendoza returned to the van and
ushered a bewildered Trouble, blinking, into the sun.
    ‘Mendoza, why?’ I said.
    He gave no answer, only digging into his pocket, producing a key and releasing Trouble’s cuffs. Blankly, I watched as he told the astonished Trouble that the van was now his. ‘The
keys are in the ignition. And those friends of yours must be getting impatient.’
    ‘Sharpless, did you plan this?’ Trouble said.
    I shook my head. ‘Who are you, Mendoza? Tell us!’
    He spat in the dust. ‘You don’t know me,’ he said, ‘but I’ve seen you both before. I’ve done a bit of work for Senator Pinkerton over the years.’ He
mimed the action of a man with a rifle, lining up a target in his sights. ‘Damned uncomfortable, crouching among those rocks.’
    ‘You’re the sniper?’ said Trouble. ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘You don’t need to,