Mr. Good

d to stay where I was and wait for Purcell to show up. I started to light another cigarette, then footsteps sounded on the gravel and a man staggered around the side of the trailer. He was clutching his side and when he saw me he said something in Spanish. He was big, at least three hundred pounds, and looked like a bear coming toward me. Then he just stopped and stood there. I could hear his breathing. He sank to his knees like a camel sitting down and fell over.

For about a hundred and fifty dollars I would’ve left. But there weren’t any philanthropists in the vicinity. I went over to him. He had rolled onto his back and when he saw me standing over him he started talking in Spanish. He had a rip in the side of his thin jacket and there were dark stains around it. I took off my denim coat and kneeled down, and when he saw what I was doing he moved his hands and let me use the coat as a compress. Some warm blood soaked into the denim, but not much. He seemed more panicked than anything. He just kept on jabbering.

Then I heard other voices. Two Mexicans were standing a few yards away, at the edge of the light.

"Habla ingles?" I called out.

"No much, no much," the taller of the two said.

I got him to hold the jacket in place and right away he and the injured man started talking, arguing it sounded like. I ran the three blocks to the store where I made a point of buying my coffee every morning because I liked the way the clerk looked. I asked her to call 911.

"Sorry, the phone’s not public," she said.

"Are you kidding?" I said.

She shook her head. "That’s the rule."

"But a guy’s been knifed or something."