18
Hello Ramon, Good-bye Ramon
Except for his tendency to severely damage
his aircraft and injure passengers, Ramon was considered a decent
pilot by rural Mexican standards. And he owned his own business, he
quickly pointed out to the three gringos. He owed no one. “Nada,
fucking nada.” Then he hit them up for a beer.
He had seen these types before. CIA was written all
over them. From the license plate of their rental car to the
ridiculous clothes the big gringo wore, it was obvious they had
just driven up from Mexico City and were ripe for the plucking. The
smaller gringo, the one who sounded like he was from Texas, would
be the one to talk to about money, since the big gringo was drunk
and hostile. The third gringo was an undercover drug agent, Ramon
figured. Long red hair, ponytail, always smoking a joint, talking
loco. And the dog. Why would these government gringos bring along
this crazy dog? No matter, Ramon thought. It was always the same
with these stupid Nortes. Always looking for something. If
they wanted to find a gringo, a Colombiano and another dog
wandering around in the jungle, it would cost them. Muchos
pesos. Muchos.
As Ramon was thinking these thoughts, Robert
shattered his tequila bottle across Ramon’s forehead.
Ramon woke up, bound and gagged, in his hangar, his
old twin-engine Beechcraft missing. He never saw it again.81
As you sit there and read this book,
subatomic particles are passing through your body at the rate of
several per minute.
—James S. Trefil