Agua Fantasma
Paul Ryan O'Connor
Paul Ryan O’Connor is a frequent contributor to Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, where his debut short story, “Teddy’s Favorite Thing,” was voted a 2023 Readers Choice Award and nominated for a Derringer by the Short Mystery Fiction Society. He has also been published by Mystery Magazine and Shotgun Honey. He is an active member of the Mystery Writers of America, and lives with his family and a borrowed dog in Carlsbad, California, where he perpetually re-writes his first novel. Visit him online at www.paulryanoconnor.com.
The guy with the jack-o’-lantern smile had more teeth than IQ points. But with the business end of his shotgun aimed at me, I was the dummy.
“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em.”
No problem with that. I didn’t have a gun. It was the map I worried about.
“What’s the idea, pointing that at me?”
“You’re on my land,” he growled. “That barbed wire you crossed didn’t cut itself.”
I considered the surrounding weed-dotted desert and wondered at anyone claiming it. Maybe he sublet from Satan.
“Turn around,” the old man ordered, then pressed his shotgun against my spine. He patted me down like it was something he’d done before, and often. He ignored the map sticking from my pocket.
When I turned back he’d lowered his gun and was biting off a chunk of chewing tobacco. I’d earned the benefit of the doubt.
I didn’t deserve it.
“You’re gonna need a tow,” he said, squatting in front of my ‘32 Ford. Water from my holed radiator drained onto the rocky trail.
He hooked a thumb toward his truck.
“Won’t be free,” he said.
I shrugged.
He cabled my car to his truck and we rode side-by-side in the cab, the shotgun in his lap, angled roughly my way. I gritted my teeth at every bump.
“Your registration said Los Angeles,” he said, then spit tobacco out his window and made it, mostly. “What brings you to Agua Fantasma?”
A Spanish treasure map to a river of gold beneath the Mojave desert, I thought, mumbling something about getting lost.
“Saw a shovel in your car,” he said. “Prospecting?”
I heard the smile in his voice.
Go ahead and laugh, you jack-o’-lantern. I had it coming.
I’d found the treasure map behind the endpaper of a rummage sale bible. Desperate from nine months without work – later we called that time the Great Depression, but I didn’t see what was so great about it – I convinced myself it would be easy to go where X marked the spot and put a spade in the ground.
What a sucker.
Near sunset we crested a rise and bounced into a yard dotted with wrecked cars. The old man’s lean-to was built from scavenged lumber, with coyote skulls on the walls. It was a good place to get murdered, but I relaxed when he introduced his wife, a mousy Mexican woman named Lucía. She regarded me with friendly eyes that signaled her husband often brought home strays.
The old man said he’d scrounge parts for my car from his wrecking yard, but it was too dark to start. Lucía set a little table and served beans and tea, whispering to me to save the bags for her crafts. More likely she wanted them to steep another dozen cups of tea. But times were tough and I was grateful for the meal.
Dinner was mostly silent aside from the old man complaining Roosevelt was packing the courts. But after dinner he brought out a bottle and we tied one on.
“You ever hear of the Silver Lake Cutoff?” the old man asked. “Highway was supposed to run through here, Los Angeles to Las Vegas, but then they built the cutoff.”
He belched and I smelled Lucía’s beans.
“Broke my daddy’s heart,” the man said. “He never had any luck. First he bought this place, believing the Agua part of Agua Fantasma. Then he hung on figurin’ he could make a living from the highway. One thing leadin’ to another and none of it amountin’ to nothin’. That’s what he left me. No water, no highway, no nothin’.”
There was more grousing before he staggered off to bed. By the end I was drunk enough to feel a kinship with the guy. Two suckers, each dealt a bad hand.
I woke to the old man passing me an itemized repair bill. It even included Lucía’s beans. There was no credit for saving her tea bags, but there was a big number at the bottom.
“You don’t have it, do you?” he said.
I frowned, and shook my head.
“Give me what you have,” he grumbled.
I passed over a couple sad bills.
“I should call the sheriff,” the old man said. “But my missus likes you, so I’ll make you a deal instead.” He brought out a cardboard carton, packed with books. “You can even call it a partnership. For every soul you save, I’ll mail ya a dollar. Spread these around when you get back to the city.”
The carton was filled with old family bibles, like the one I’d found in that rummage sale. I didn’t need to open one to know the artfully-torn endpapers would conceal fake Spanish treasure maps pointing toward Agua Fantasma, aged by crafty dabs from Lucía’s leftover tea bags.
He stuck his hand out and gave me his jack-o’-lantern grin. I sighed, then shook on it. Lucía gave me a peck on the cheek before I loaded the box in my Ford. I watched the two of them in my mirror, waving goodbye as I pulled away.
It was a good swindle, luring suckers to the desert, then emptying their pockets. It was an old man’s revenge for the highway deal that wrecked his father’s fortune. I’d fallen for it and I was eager to stick it to the next guy. I laughed.
But by the time I was halfway home I thought it wasn’t so funny after all, getting a shotgun in my face and losing my last buck. Maybe it would go worse for the next guy, or worse for Lucía.
Maybe you can’t beat the cards you’re dealt, but you don’t have to dump them on another sucker. It’s got to stop someplace.
I burned the books in a ditch.
Back in my car, I looked in the rear-view mirror and counted my teeth. Thirty-two, wisdom teeth included, with no gaps.
Laps ahead of that jack-o’-lantern.
I smiled. A fella had to start someplace.
“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em.”
No problem with that. I didn’t have a gun. It was the map I worried about.
“What’s the idea, pointing that at me?”
“You’re on my land,” he growled. “That barbed wire you crossed didn’t cut itself.”
I considered the surrounding weed-dotted desert and wondered at anyone claiming it. Maybe he sublet from Satan.
“Turn around,” the old man ordered, then pressed his shotgun against my spine. He patted me down like it was something he’d done before, and often. He ignored the map sticking from my pocket.
When I turned back he’d lowered his gun and was biting off a chunk of chewing tobacco. I’d earned the benefit of the doubt.
I didn’t deserve it.
“You’re gonna need a tow,” he said, squatting in front of my ‘32 Ford. Water from my holed radiator drained onto the rocky trail.
He hooked a thumb toward his truck.
“Won’t be free,” he said.
I shrugged.
He cabled my car to his truck and we rode side-by-side in the cab, the shotgun in his lap, angled roughly my way. I gritted my teeth at every bump.
“Your registration said Los Angeles,” he said, then spit tobacco out his window and made it, mostly. “What brings you to Agua Fantasma?”
A Spanish treasure map to a river of gold beneath the Mojave desert, I thought, mumbling something about getting lost.
“Saw a shovel in your car,” he said. “Prospecting?”
I heard the smile in his voice.
Go ahead and laugh, you jack-o’-lantern. I had it coming.
I’d found the treasure map behind the endpaper of a rummage sale bible. Desperate from nine months without work – later we called that time the Great Depression, but I didn’t see what was so great about it – I convinced myself it would be easy to go where X marked the spot and put a spade in the ground.
What a sucker.
Near sunset we crested a rise and bounced into a yard dotted with wrecked cars. The old man’s lean-to was built from scavenged lumber, with coyote skulls on the walls. It was a good place to get murdered, but I relaxed when he introduced his wife, a mousy Mexican woman named Lucía. She regarded me with friendly eyes that signaled her husband often brought home strays.
The old man said he’d scrounge parts for my car from his wrecking yard, but it was too dark to start. Lucía set a little table and served beans and tea, whispering to me to save the bags for her crafts. More likely she wanted them to steep another dozen cups of tea. But times were tough and I was grateful for the meal.
Dinner was mostly silent aside from the old man complaining Roosevelt was packing the courts. But after dinner he brought out a bottle and we tied one on.
“You ever hear of the Silver Lake Cutoff?” the old man asked. “Highway was supposed to run through here, Los Angeles to Las Vegas, but then they built the cutoff.”
He belched and I smelled Lucía’s beans.
“Broke my daddy’s heart,” the man said. “He never had any luck. First he bought this place, believing the Agua part of Agua Fantasma. Then he hung on figurin’ he could make a living from the highway. One thing leadin’ to another and none of it amountin’ to nothin’. That’s what he left me. No water, no highway, no nothin’.”
There was more grousing before he staggered off to bed. By the end I was drunk enough to feel a kinship with the guy. Two suckers, each dealt a bad hand.
I woke to the old man passing me an itemized repair bill. It even included Lucía’s beans. There was no credit for saving her tea bags, but there was a big number at the bottom.
“You don’t have it, do you?” he said.
I frowned, and shook my head.
“Give me what you have,” he grumbled.
I passed over a couple sad bills.
“I should call the sheriff,” the old man said. “But my missus likes you, so I’ll make you a deal instead.” He brought out a cardboard carton, packed with books. “You can even call it a partnership. For every soul you save, I’ll mail ya a dollar. Spread these around when you get back to the city.”
The carton was filled with old family bibles, like the one I’d found in that rummage sale. I didn’t need to open one to know the artfully-torn endpapers would conceal fake Spanish treasure maps pointing toward Agua Fantasma, aged by crafty dabs from Lucía’s leftover tea bags.
He stuck his hand out and gave me his jack-o’-lantern grin. I sighed, then shook on it. Lucía gave me a peck on the cheek before I loaded the box in my Ford. I watched the two of them in my mirror, waving goodbye as I pulled away.
It was a good swindle, luring suckers to the desert, then emptying their pockets. It was an old man’s revenge for the highway deal that wrecked his father’s fortune. I’d fallen for it and I was eager to stick it to the next guy. I laughed.
But by the time I was halfway home I thought it wasn’t so funny after all, getting a shotgun in my face and losing my last buck. Maybe it would go worse for the next guy, or worse for Lucía.
Maybe you can’t beat the cards you’re dealt, but you don’t have to dump them on another sucker. It’s got to stop someplace.
I burned the books in a ditch.
Back in my car, I looked in the rear-view mirror and counted my teeth. Thirty-two, wisdom teeth included, with no gaps.
Laps ahead of that jack-o’-lantern.
I smiled. A fella had to start someplace.