NINETEEN
MALLON STOOD ON THE COMPOUND’S roof deck and poured out a Ball jar full of Cody Branch’s piss. Tonight would be rough. Branch was drinking himself into insanity. Mallon could smell the craziness in the air, like something was on fire high in the atmosphere. He looked over the city. The lights seemed ready to rise off the ground and enter orbit. It would be a good start, he thought. No one would complain if the whole city blew away in the wind.
“Come on, girl,” Branch hollered. “Don’t sip it. Just bring it back now.”
Mallon looked down at the trees below the house, wondering if the grass had died. Six months ago, Branch asked for his usual bottle of brandy plus a large jar. Over the past couple months, he must have dumped ten gallons of piss over the side.
Mallon figured Branch would pass out within the hour. He placed the jar to Branch’s right, then re-filled the jar to his left with brandy. At some point, Mallon was sure the drunk would get confused and drink out of the wrong one. He took a seat in a chair behind Branch.
“You’re like a goddamned hound dog sometimes, you know that? Setting there watching the trees. What is there to see?”
Mallon never responded because there was nothing to say. Once, he had responded to a lieutenant in Anbar Province, then spent the afternoon sweeping the highway ahead of the lieutenant’s Humvee by himself. For hours, Mallon was out in the open, poking dead dogs and piles of trash, trying to spot the wires before they tripped. It was a job they used to pay the locals twenty bucks to do, and half the time there was no one left to pay out. Mallon swore he lost ten pounds of sweat on that walk. He looked so hard his eyes dried out and blinking hurt. He could see the individual fleas, desperate for one more pulse of life, bouncing off the muzzles of dead dogs. He could see his legs getting blown off or fire chewing up his face. He could see a crying ten-year-old who had been tracking Mallon for months, slipping in and out of the shadows, desperate to pay Mallon back for a destroyed house and a fried family.
Later, when he was in his bunk and his throat had cracked and his legs kept beating time on their own, he heard that stretch of highway had been cleared a few hours earlier. Mallon never found out if the lieutenant had known that, but the lesson stuck.
“These past days were like something from the Book of Fucking Revelations.” Branch coughed from deep in his chest and spat on the ground next to him.
Mallon folded his hands in his lap and leaned his head back to scan the sky for satellites.
Branch picked up a thread of conversation from an hour earlier. “Then he said, he ‘didn’t think so.’ You believe we hired someone like that? The world is an imperiled place. Imperiled. Yes. Yes, sir.”
Branch had always been tough, but the past six months were different. His anxieties were edging up day by day, and Mallon had trouble keeping perspective. Branch’s anger was seeping into his own pores, changing him. He had wanted to hurt that little guy from DC. He saw him tonight at the gallery and he still wanted to hurt him. It would have been so easy. All because of a wasted night at the airport and because Branch’s paranoia had infected him.
Unless Mallon was right to be suspicious. He had no idea anymore.
“Not that you care. You get paid, that’s all you want, that’s all everyone wants.” Branch’s voice had taken on a swollen quality. “But, I’m serious. . . . When did you last speak? Was I there?”
“I speak when you ask me to.”
Branch’s laugh started in his throat, then moved up to his nose and into a cough. “That’s good. That’s a trained response. ‘I speak when you ask me to.’ Well, now I’m asking you to speak. Speak to me about my wife.”
Mallon had spotted a second satellite when he brought his head back down. “She’s been following her usual patterns. Visiting those friends of hers off Cerrillos Road. The shops. The drives west of town have continued, but they seem aimless.”
“Seem?”
Mallon was concerned about the stop in Española, but he decided not to say anything.
Once did not make a pattern, and only deviations from patterns were worth reporting.
“You not going to answer my question?” Branch turned around in his chair. Something he almost never did.
“I trust her,” Mallon said.
“You do?”
“I do.”
“Well, she had something on her mind tonight, that’s for sure.” Branch laughed and poured himself more brandy. “But it was her night, so I’m probably just being an asshole. I should go wish her goodnight.”
Branch looked out on the city and then slumped his shoulders. Mallon could see the darkness creep up on him. It looked painful.
Mallon thought of his own home, which he had not seen for days. The cot in the guardroom was closer, easier. He pulled out his notebook and made a note of the time and the number of brandies Branch consumed. He flipped through the previous pages. It all looked in order. No, yesterday they went to the campaign office at 6:30, not 7. Mallon made the edit and slipped the notebook back into his pocket.
Branch picked up another thread of his anger. “They are determined to make us bleed. All of them. Every single one. The Apaches are the latest and the messiest. But they’re all circling vultures who don’t even know what they’re circling, but they know they want it.” Branch raised one finger in the air. “That’s our secret weapon, yes? Knowledge is money and strength.”
Branch set his empty glass down and tipped it over.
“I trust Diana,” Branch said. “I trust . . . you, God help me. I trust my dick when it works, and . . . that’ll have to be good enough.”
Branch stood up. He put his hands on his hips while his balance evened out. Mallon stood ready with a bracing hand.
“We need to be ready. There’s going to be too much attention on us now that these Apaches are causing trouble. Look at their lawyer. Where does he go? Who are his other clients? Does he have secrets? Of course he has secrets. What are they? If he’s rotten, find out how. If he’s picking up girls on Central, I need to know what hair color he likes. You. Not one of the kids. You take the lead on this.”
“Sir, we’re already stretched very thin, and I worry . . .”
“Hire more people.”
“Yes, sir.”
Branch looked back at Mallon. “Do you think my wife will be in our bed tonight? Or will she be in that guest bedroom again?”
Mallon stayed silent.
Branch stumbled ahead of Mallon, who stayed a step behind him, hands out, just in case.
FRIDAY
TWENTY
ROSE LEFT BEFORE the sun came up. She laughed at Gabe’s air mattress and said she would rather nap on the couch for a few hours. The leather still smelled like her sweat. Gabe drifted in and out of a light doze. After a couple hours, guilt pulled him up. He would rather wallow around in his memories than work on earning Micah’s money.
When Gabe stood up, the pain in his ankle blasted everything away. He dropped back on the couch. The ankle—a horse had stepped on it years earlier—hurt most mornings and before it snowed, but not like this. Now, it felt bruised deep inside.
The night with Rose had been surprising. He forgot about cancer and his disinterested son. But now the sun was up and he was sweating. He was so far from having enough money.
Gabe fiddled with his class ring. Do something. That was the lesson he learned at The Pig. He pushed himself back to his feet. This time, his ankle held up. He grabbed his keys.
Gabe parked in front of the pawnshop. Andrés would give him a good deal. They had gone to school together, closed down countless bars countless times, and that better be worth something. Before walking into the store, Gabe heard a muffled, electric ding come from his saddlebags. Smokey’s phone.
He ignored it. No reason to look at that phone unless he was going to throw the damn thing away. Or sell it. Gabe unsnapped the bag. He would sell it to Andrés. But the phone was scratched and worn; even Gabe could tell it was ancient, some hand-me-down f
rom an older brother. There were a dozen missed calls: Mom Cell, Home, Karlee, Hunter. Kid names that made Gabe sick. There were three texts from someone named Wilson. The latest one caught Gabe’s eye: You get the shit? Can your cowboy hook me up too?
Cowboy? Gabe was okay with that.
No, Gabe stopped himself from replying. He threw the phone back in the bag.
In the shop, the first thing Gabe saw was a mountain of high school rings in a plastic tub.
He smiled at Andrés, who started shaking his head before Gabe had the ring off his finger.
“Okay, Luna, listen up. Some of you dudes chose cheap-ass bands with cheap-ass stones. That’s a fact. Maybe your parents were cheap, maybe you were cheap. I don’t know, I don’t care.”
“Uh-uh, nope, not this one,” Gabe said. “No, sir. This is the real deal right here, brother.”
Gabe had saved for his ring. He and Lou worked themselves to nubs bailing hay for the nearby ranches. It was hateful work. The backaches started early and lasted for days. The bailing wire dug into his palms, even through the leather gloves, leaving deep, red grooves in the skin.
Andrés pulled out a little tray with some tools and a few bottles of liquid. He held the ring against the light.
“Andrés, you’re full of shit, man. This isn’t an antique show. That’s gold—with an emerald. I saved up.”
He grunted. “Can I test the band?”
Gabe shrugged. Andrés dropped some liquid on the ring and then rubbed it against a stone bolted into the counter. His eyebrows went up.
“Okay, you got real gold here, 10k it looks like.”
“Hell, yeah. I told you that shit was real.”
Adrenalin beat through Gabe. If he could get four or five hundred for this ring, then he’d be set. “Thirty years old, that’s nearly an antique right there.”
“Hang on, Luna, slow down. If the stone’s legit, I can give you even more, but I need your permission to test it.”
“Sure, whatever, let’s do it.”
Andrés pulled out a pair of heavy-looking tweezers from his tray, grabbed the sides of the ring and squeezed out the stone. It slipped out easily, leaving a neutered space in the band.
“Whoa.” Gabe reached for the ring.
“You said I could test it, cabrón.”
“I didn’t say you could fuck it up.”
“Cálmate, it’s not fucked up. I can get it back in there when I’m through.” Andrés raised his eyebrows. “Probably.”
Andrés held the stone up to the light and rubbed it between his fingers. Gabe cleaned that ring every month with a cloth and some jewelry polish he had slipped from Helen’s boxes before she moved out. Now it looked tiny, cheap, and there was something obscene about the way Andrés was handling the jewel.
“Okay, like I thought. This ain’t emerald. It’s hardened glass.”
“Bullshit.”
Andrés didn’t move or say anything.
“No, uh-uh,” Gabe said, “I filled out the order form myself. I remember. Emerald. Gold band.”
“Maybe ‘emerald-style.’ Those catalogs confuse you on purpose.”
“I worked my ass off. That’s a goddamned emerald.”
Andrés exhaled. His patience had run out. Gabe was no longer a friend, just another asshole trying to scrape together some cash.
“I’ve got emeralds here. I can show you the difference.”
He offered the eye-piece and the stone.
Gabe waved him off. “What does this mean?”
“It means you can pawn this and I’ll give you fifteen dollars. Or you can sell it to me and I’ll give you seventy-five.”
“Andrés, you’re . . . I remember the order form. I remember watching my dad fill everything out. I gave him the cash.”
“Just because he ripped you off doesn’t mean you can rip me off.” Andrés stepped back, done humoring Gabe. “Those are the numbers. You know I get two of these a week? Some older and nicer than this. Most people walk out with shit.”
“Seventy-five?”
“That’s too much.” Andrés pointed to the tub of class rings, all tinged mossy green. “Those fuckers didn’t even have precious metal. Take them with you. Wear one of those instead. Wear ten. I give them out on Halloween.”
“Why do you want to buy it then? Must have someone who’ll take it.”
“Don’t be fucking stupid, Luna. I’m going to melt this down out back. It’ll be earrings in LA in a month.”
Gabe pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his thumb and finger into the corners of his eyes. It was not enough. Not for that ring. The stone and the setting lay on Andrés’ counter, broken apart.
Gabe looked at the bin of other class rings. Would he even be around to help Micah pick out his own?
He pointed at the bin. “You got one in there from my year?”
In the parking lot, Gabe pulled out the kid’s phone. He texted Wilson back—fast, before he stopped himself: Dude hooked me up. He’ll meet you in front of The Pig tomorrow at noon. 400 for 2 ounces. Worth it.
It felt like someone else typed the message. Helen needed a grand. If he sold some weed to this other kid, he would be closing in on eight hundred. Gabe looked around the parking lot, worried someone had seen him. But what would they have even seen?
TWENTY-ONE
STEPPING INTO HIS CAR, Charles knew it was all over for him. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the mountains behind the house. Her mountains. Her house. Charles sighed. Her husband’s rearview mirror.
He gritted his teeth. Olivia had been close enough for him to smell, to almost taste. The whole encounter felt gauzy, dreamlike, and he kept seeing the way her body had moved under that dress.
Addie would find out if anything happened. Mr. Branch and Salazar would find out, and his future would consist of a used Corolla and a pity job at his mom’s bank. Charles pulled into the office parking lot. Olivia had been so close.
Today was the meeting with the Apaches. He tried to box Olivia up and put out the sparks she had fired up in his chest. This meeting could fully ground Charles in Branch’s organization. Salazar had given Charles clear orders: listen, acknowledge any concerns, get a dollar amount. Mr. Branch invited him to the party, and last night Mrs. Branch confirmed it could make his future. He bounced into the office with an energy that even Jordan would admire.
Charles spent the morning with Jordan and Salazar. They rehearsed talking points and rejoinders, polished the historical details, anticipated the amount of money Branch would have to spend. It felt like a war council, and Charles buzzed. Jordan panicked when the Apaches showed up half an hour early. The cubicle dwellers sprang into action, offering water and chairs.
It was the same five men from the building site. Four Apaches and their lawyer, who wore a white suit that made him look like a thick, decorative candle. His face was hidden by a wild beard. Everyone else wore the same clothes they’d worn the previous day: two were in suits, two were in flannel, long-sleeve shirts buttoned to the collar. Had they coordinated looking professional and down-home at the same time? It would photograph well.
Hawley came to mind. Every negative press hit, every hitch in a candidate’s step and gaffe out of their mouth became an occasion to yell, threaten and spit.
Charles had never mastered that blistering art of political motivation through anger. Hawley would have charged into this meeting laughing at the Apache’s claims to ownership. He would have stayed standing, and the meeting would have lasted ten minutes. Hawley would have won.
Charles sat down at the middle of the table, the man in the white suit directly across from him. Jordan sat at Charles’ side, but Salazar took a seat towards the end of the table, the kind of spot reserved for a note taker or an assistant.
The lawyer opened a briefcase and pulled out five copies of a thick, bound document.
He looked at Salazar and Jordan, but focused on Charles. “My name is Rey Baca. I’ve been brought on by the San Miguel Apaches to ma
ke sure their interests are looked after in this case.”
“Well, I have a question already,” Salazar said.
The lawyer lowered his eyebrows and craned his neck over to look at her.
“I’m familiar with all the pueblos and tribes in the state,” she continued. “I’ve visited every single one, multiple times and have represented several of them in legal matters. I must admit, and this is quite embarrassing, I have never heard of the ‘San Miguel Apaches.’”
Just as Rey opened his mouth, Salazar continued. “I’m sorry to interrupt but this is a related question. Do the San Miguel, a tribe we’ve been working with and that has no historical connection or shared customs with the Apache Nation, realize you even exist?”
Rey cracked a polite smile, then turned back to Charles. “The San Miguel Pueblo has received a copy of these documents, and we’re meeting with them tomorrow.”
“So, the answer is no. No one has heard of you, or your tribe, until . . . yesterday?”
Charles’ control of the meeting had slid towards Salazar before he said a word.
“Ma’am, I am not a member of the tribe,” Rey said. “I’ve been brought on to make sure their interests are looked after.”
“Maybe, let’s start at the beginning,” Charles said. “You’re a new tribe?”
It immediately felt like the wrong question. The men on the other side of the table shifted uneasily, and Jordan shot him a glance.
Rey opened the bound document to the first page. “They are an ancient people. It’s all explained in our brief. When the United States government, in violation of dozens of treaties with First Nations people, relocated Apaches, and others, to Oklahoma, Arizona and so on, there were dozens of small tribes and sub-tribes erased from history through assimilation and extermination. It is our contention that these men here, and nearly one hundred other descendants throughout Oklahoma, Arizona, Texas and New Mexico, are entitled to official tribal recognition by the United States government. It is also their contention, based on a vast oral tradition and a series of letters written during and after the forced relocation, that their ancestral homeland is on what has erroneously been labeled San Miguel land.”
Trust Me Page 14
