Free The Sixteen Burdens by David Khalaf Page B

week, when the first of the actresses went missing. Panchito had no idea who Gray was, or why he was important, but it wasn’t his job to ask questions. It was his job to protect.
    Even if the one you’re protecting is a big crumb.
    Pickford had only meant for him to keep an eye on the boys’ home from afar, but that was as tedious as watching a record spin. So Panchito had decided to infiltrate the home by borrowing a wheelchair from the prop room at United Artists. Pickford wouldn’t be happy when she found out.
    The lights were on in the printing room, and the windows outside were black. Panchito found the little men back to back, tied together around a big leg of one of the heavy work tables. He grabbed a pair of sharp scissors from the cutting table and with dramatic flair brought it against the man who seemed to be the leader, the one with the derby hat and crowded teeth.
    “Who are you working for? I swear on my father’s grave I will slit your throat if you don’t speak.”
    “Kiss off,” the man said. “Who are you, Zorro’s fat son?”
    “I am José Doroteo Arango—”
    “Yeah, we heard you the first time from all the way in here,” the bald man said.
    “You’re bonkers, kid,” the ringleader said. “You and your whole immigrant family.”
    Panchito punched him in the face. A sharp pain shot up Panchito’s wrist and he winced, shaking it out. He had never actually hit anyone before and it smarted something fierce. The ringleader, however, seemed completely unfazed.
    “You’ll pay for that someday, kid.”
    “You’ll pay for offending me and disrespecting my family name.”
    Panchito brought the scissors back to his throat.
    “Now, answer my original question. Or is there an ear you’d rather not have?”
    A police siren blared from somewhere outside. Somewhere close. Panchito muttered a curse in Spanish. He couldn’t let the cops take these men. The investigators would want to know why they were there and what they were looking for. Then they’d start asking questions about Pickford and Gray, and who knows where that might lead.
    Panchito slid underneath the table with the scissors, crawling behind the men. They all tried to crane their necks behind them.
    “Hey donut, what’re you doing under there?”
    Panchito cut the rope that was tied around the table leg, freeing the men. The rope fell loose around their chests, but they still had their hands tied together.
    Panchito crawled back out as they were standing up.
    “Go free,” Panchito said. “You are too weak and inconsequential for me to deal with.”
    The dwarf with a hooked nose took an awkward two-handed swipe at Panchito. It hit him across the cheek but didn’t hurt him very much.
    “Try saying that when our hands are free,” the man said.
    The bald dwarf kneed Panchito in the stomach, and as he doubled over, the one with the derby hat kicked him to the floor.
    Everyone froze when a pounding came from the front door. They heard it open, and Farrell’s nasal voice was directing officers toward the printing room.
    “Let’s scram,” one of them said.
    The three men ran out the back door of the workshop. Panchito willed himself up and stumbled out after them. The men ran straight, toward the tire factory upstream, so Panchito turned right, toward the river. He took only a few steps before slipping and tumbling the rest of the way down the bank. He landed in a pile of rotting garbage that was wet and moldy from the trickle of water running through it.
    Panchito looked back up. In the moonlight he saw the little men hopping a low wall into the grounds of the tire factory.
    One day I’ll be strong, and then you’ll all be sorry.

 
     
     
     
    C HAPTER E LEVEN
     
    T HE CIRCUS TENT in front of Gray looked like a living, breathing beast. It rustled and swelled from the heat of the lights, the steaming popcorn machines, and the breath of a thousand people.
    They had lost Pickford’s Buick in the morass of cars in the dirt