Fernando shook his head. He turned aside.

More even than anger, Fernando felt disgust for the man. For any so-called man who conducted himself in such a fashion as this. Who’d dug himself in so deep with his gross missteps that he could no longer crawl back out on his own strength. Who instead must look to others to save him like some repugnant damsel in distress.

It was shameful and deplorable. Better suited to Alfonso than a cowboy hat and boots were a wig and a dress. As Fernando contemplated this repulsive image of ineptitude, he heard a snivel behind him. His contempt intensified.

But as he turned back and saw the jefe gazing up at him in teary, childlike appeal, his disgust mellowed to a sort of pitying revulsion. Fernando’s eyes cooled upon him, considering.

“What do you have?”

The jefe blinked. “Nothing. I told you, all the money I had I—”

“I meant, what things do you have? What possessions of yours are of any value whatsoever?”

Alfonso hesitated. “Well…”

Fernando took stock of the jefe’s worldly possessions. There were a few of some worth—a pistol, a hunting knife, some odd pieces of jewelry. Other items of lesser value which Fernando totaled up in his head against the outstanding debts that were owed.

“What about the trailer?” Fernando asked. “Do you own it?”

The jefe’s face fell.

While he sulked, Fernando sorted through the scattered invoices. He organized them and prioritized them. He set aside those which could wait, and those which could not, and of these, which were negotiable and which must be paid in full.

“Your name is dirt,” Fernando said to his hapless employer, “and your word is less than dirt. Even if you paid your debts back with interest, some of these vendors would surely wash their hands of you. But I’ll go and speak to them, and see if I can smooth things over on your behalf.” As the jefe perked, Fernando said, “You’re still short, though.”

Fernando’s eyes flicked to the silver-and-turquoise bolo clasp, glittering in its bristly thatch of chest hair. The jefe clutched the clasp to his heart with a pained look. Fernando cut his eyes away. He straightened from the desk.

“Keep it,” he said, starting toward the door with a sack of pawnable goods slung over his shoulder. “I’ll forfeit my wages this time. Just pay Chico and the others.”

The jefe’s small piggish eyes welled with fresh tears. Falling to his knees, he clasped Fernando by the arm.

“Bless you, Fernando. I owe you.”

Fernando shook him off. “You don’t owe me.”

The jefe gazed up at him, tearfully puzzled. Fernando’s glance skewered him where he knelt.

“Since I’ll be dealing with the vendors from now on, the patrón’s payment to you comes straight to me. I’ve seen how much it is, so I’ll know if you’re shorting me.” Fernando smiled down at him coldly. “Comprende, Alfonso? Until this job is done, I own you.”

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La Gorgona © CS Dark Fantasy