According to Purcell’s translation: the two Mexicans who had stayed were from the same town in Mexico as the injured man, and the older one was his uncle or cousin or something. Two days ago the tall Mexican had heard that the injured man—who looked at least thirty—had gotten someone’s teenage daughter pregnant. The tall Mexican wasn’t sure who the girl was, but he’d heard there’d been a blow up with her father.
"I didn’t think there was anybody left who cared about that," Purcell said. He took out a pack of Juicy Fruit and put a stick in his mouth. He stared down at the man, his face a brown study. I crossed my arms and hugged myself. I was freezing.
"This has implications," Purcell said.
"We should probably call an ambulance," I said.
"We might do that," he said. "But we’ve got to move him off this property first."
I didn’t say anything, but Purcell jerked his head around like I had.
"Just because this pussel-gut decides to tap some Mexican cheerleader, I should have to pay double and triple on my liability insurance? And as for the police," he said, "what’d you think: Columbo’s gonna show up here at dawn?" He pulled a wallet-on-a-chain out of his back pocket and started speaking Spanish again. When he finished all three Mexicans nodded. The old one wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Then Purcell took out two fifty-dollar bills and handed one to each of the two squatting men. They both spoke to the injured man, patted him on the shoulder, then stood up and left. Purcell bent over the injured man and slipped two bills into his pants pocket. He spoke to him and the man answered. Purcell replied, his vo