EXTRACT FOR
A Gringo Got Us
(Just Bae)

That guy scared the crap out of me, particularly later when I learned he was Pablo Ramirez, the kingpin who made his money to the dumb-ass rich people in Los Angeles. Anyone who had even the slightest run-in with him regretted it and he made damned certain it never happened again-if they survived their first encounter.

Had I been somewhere else that Sunday morning instead of running around the hills in my old Chevy pickup, I never would have run into him and would not have this story to tell. Believe me, my life would have been completely different.



It was nice, out there that morning, dry as usual in May, and still cool enough to enjoy the sun and the scenery up there among those sagebrush hills. As I tooled along a cowpath, I breasted a hill to see a cloud of dust rise in the distance from an out-of-sight low spot just beyond the next hump in the road. Well, someone else must be out enjoying this spring morning, too, cutting up dust out here in this valley-but at a higher speed.

When I got closer, it turned out to be a hidden gully with its bridge washed away, and not-a-very-new Cadillac convertible that had needed that missing bridge. I don't watch much TV, so I didn't recognize the body lying twenty feet down the gully from the half-rolled car. Just another dumb-ass driver with no seatbelt! But in the dust was a rather dark-Latino guy bleeding from several places, and his neck, arm and right shoulder twisted in directions. The glazed look in his eyes at first made me think he was dead. But after a few seconds, he moved.

I scrambled over, gave the man a quick look, and decided he wouldn't die in the next few seconds, even if my cell phone wouldn't work out here to call for help. Of course it did not. I gave him some water and splashed it on his face. But what else could I do?

"You're not going to die," I said as I elevated his head somewhat, his twisted shoulder and upper arm now positioned more where they should have been. He mumbled something.

"No, you're not going to die. At least not today if I have anything to say about it," the man half mumbled, and passed out.

"I'm going to get help," I said shaking my head trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about. But he groaned again and moved his good hand into his shirt. Okay, now that looked ominous, particularly as he pulled out a black pistol.

"Here," he gasped. "Get rid of this. Please?" In a feeble attempt, he tossed it toward me.

What had I gotten myself into again? I picked it up, carried it to my car and stowed it in my under-the-seat.

"I'm leaving now," I said. "Don't run off while I'm gone. Okay?"

"Just get rid of that so they not find it."