Desperado

by Manuel Ramos

  My cell phone buzzed and vibrated. The readout said “unknown.” I flipped open the phone and said hello.

  “I understand you’re looking for Misti Ortiz.”

  Not the same voice I had talked to earlier.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Can you help me?”

  “This is Gus Corral, right?”

  I almost dropped the phone. Hiding out suddenly sounded like a pretty good idea—Max and Corrine were right, again.

  “That doesn’t matter,” I said, trying to sound in control. “I don’t want any trouble. I just want to talk with Misti Ortiz about a friend. Maybe she can help me. I hope so, anyway.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “You can’t talk with Misti. You shouldn’t have this number. I’ll deal with that. But you can tell me whatever you want. I can answer all your questions.”

  “You sure? This is personal.”

  I heard a staccato, hiccup-sounding laugh. “I know all about Misti’s personal bullshit, Gus. Don’t you worry about that. You talk with me about anything relating to Misti.”

  “Not sure I can do that.”

  “Sure you can, Gus. Be surprised what you can do when you get incentive. But we can’t do it on the phone. I don’t like phones.” Another pause. “I heard a little bit about you, güey. Need to put a face with a name, know what I mean? How about tonight, Gus? Come around to my club, about ten. Okay?”

  “What club? Who do I ask for?”

  That ugly laugh again. “The Midnite Oasis, where else? Tell the guy at the door that you’re there to see Carne. Talk to the big guy with the bald head. He’ll know what to do.”

  I heard a click and the phone call was over.

  I called Corrine and told her what happened, that I was going to the club. She said some not very nice things about my brain power, but she resigned herself to my foolishness. Then I rang up Shoe and invited him to meet me at the Oasis around ten-thirty and to bring along Ice if he could find him. Shoe whooped and hollered, “Finally, a party!” Then he said how he hoped he could afford it.

  I gave him a quick rundown about my late night visitor and my pedo with Jerome, which he took in stride by saying, “No shit? You know, I never liked that guy.” I didn’t say anything about my appointment with Lorenzo Ortiz. I should have felt guilty about not telling Shoe everything that was going on and for getting him into a potentially dicey situation, but, know what, I didn’t. Not even a little quiver of concern for the guy who never let go of his crush on my ex-wife.

  I snagged a carnitas burrito from the roach coach parked at the end of the block and chased it with two beers from my back-room cooler. The day sped by, faster than I wanted. I’m not sure what all I did except to get uptight again. I piddled around the store, walked around the block a few times, stared at sentences in a paperback. The digital clock flashed 9:15; darkness had fallen and I could no longer see the words on the page. I then chugged another beer and prepared for the biggest, glitziest and most expensive strip bar in town. I thought that if my meeting with Ortiz went the way I hoped it would, I would stay at the club with Shoe and Ice and spend some of my hard-earned and scarce money. If the meeting didn’t go as planned, then Shoe and Ice could pick up the pieces, literally. A late night meeting with a guy whose nickname was the Butcher—what could go wrong?

  A few years before, I was a regular at one of the strip dives just north of the county line. I gave that up, especially when money became a thing of the past. The club scene aged quickly and I found it less titillating each time I went back. I’d never ventured into the Midnight Oasis, but I’d heard about it. The best women, the best steaks, the best shows. Drinks pricier than the typical strip club mark-up. A twenty-five dollar admission and three drink minimum. Stories circulated about the back rooms, the VIP rooms, where anything and everything could happen, for a fee.

  Lorenzo Ortiz had called it his club.

  The Midnite Oasis throbbed like a neon bruise in the heart of LoDo, several blocks in lower downtown that served as Denver’s boozing and partying Mecca for the suburban kids out for a thrill and the city kids looking to have fun at the expense of the suburban brats. That was my impression of LoDo. I didn’t hang out there, even when I had enough income to splurge on drinking binges in sport bars and tiny dinners at trendy restaurants. But that was just me. The place attracted the Convention Center crowd as well as the tourists who stayed in the high-rise central hotels, which meant that the men in the audience, and a few women, had excess money to throw at near-naked, gyrating bodies while they drank expensive drinks.

  I scrounged my back room for bills and coins, looked in my clothes drawers and under my cot, shook the Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck banks I had borrowed from Sylvia’s inventory, and I came up with almost a hundred dollars. That wouldn’t last long at the Midnite Oasis—enough for the required drinks and a few tips to the ladies, and then Shoe, Ice and yours truly would move on.

  I locked up and exited through the back door. My car waited in the alley in the lone parking spot that came with the building. I dug out my keys and started to unlock the car. A pair of large hands clenched each of my elbows. I struggled to get loose but another hand covered my mouth. They doubled me over and I could not make any sound except a weak gasp for breath. They dragged me a few feet and then dumped me in the back seat of a car that smelled new. The leather seats were warm, almost hot to the touch.

  Two brown bears sat at my sides. The rough-looking Mexicans dressed in dark shirts and black or tan cowboy hats. One of them said, “Be cool. Mr. Ortiz sent us to escort you to the meeting. Personal service, just for you.”

  I recognized the voice of the man who answered when I called the phone number Jerome gave me.

  “I don’t need the company. I got my own ride.”

  The car started and turned north when we came out of the alley. I thought I saw the cops’ car, but it stayed parked on Thirty-Second. Reese and Robbins had not seen my sudden change of plans.

  We drove away from downtown, further north. Street signs flashed by—Clay, Federal, Forty-Sixth, Fiftieth. I slumped into the seat and watched the night.

  A few minutes into the ride, I said, “Lorenzo told me to meet him at the Midnite Oasis. You know the way? You lost?”

  Again, silence.

  “There are people expecting me at the Oasis. They’ll know something’s wrong if I don’t show up.”

  The two guys squirmed in their seats. The one who had spoken before said, “You shouldn’t have done that. Mr. Ortiz thought better about meeting at the Oasis. He can’t be too careful, not with all his responsibilities. He’s waiting for you at another place, quieter, less crowded.” He stopped for a second, as though he was thinking over what he should say. “He might ask you to call your friends, so they don’t worry, güey. Carne is like that, considerate.”

  The other guy in the back laughed so hard that he made the leather squeak. A black tattoo ringed his neck. It looked like a machete but I couldn’t see for sure, and I didn’t want to stare.

  Several minutes passed. Total silence in the car. The men did not speak, no music played on the radio, and noise did not filter in from the outside. The smooth ride enhanced the quiet.

  We turned into the parking lot of a Mexican restaurant near the Boulder turnpike in the city of Westminster. Casa de Mexico. I’d seen it many times but had never stopped—a large hacienda-looking building with a blue and orange tile roof, turquoise window frames, a red door, usually surrounded by pickups, sleek sedans and mini-vans.

  The area where the restaurant was located contained brick ranch houses, strip mall businesses and schools with rolling lawns and asphalt playgrounds. A major highway ran next to sound-blocking fences that kept the houses semi-protected from the traffic. The streets extended from Denver and had the same names.

  The driver took us to the back of the restaurant. He switched off the ignition and we sat in semi-darkness. No other cars were parked in the back and a six-foot fence blocked any view fr
om the street. The restaurant gave off a glare of blue and yellow light that made the faces of the men who held me look like cartoon figures drawn in black and white.

  I didn’t see the man who had broken into the store. He wasn’t one of the men in the back. When the driver turned around, I saw that he was clean-shaven with a light complexion, nothing like the guy who waved a gun at my empty cot.

  A door opened and a band of light cut across me and my two guards. The men noticeably stiffened.

  “Aquí viene,” said the only man who had spoken to me. “Estén listos para algo con este tonto,” he told his partners to get ready.

  Lorenzo Ortiz climbed into the front. He turned around and looked at me. The meager light didn’t reveal much but I could see that Ortiz had dark skin and a healthy head of hair. Hair cream reflected what light there was. His cologne filled the car with the scent of limes. His face had a definite resemblance to the photo of Misti Ortiz.

  The three of us in the back crammed together. The other two were hefty guys with long legs and big feet and we couldn’t move without banging into each other.

  “I was looking forward to spending time at your club,” I said. “This ain’t quite the same.”

  “Yeah, maybe some other time,” Ortiz said. “Right now, I need to know a few things. The sooner I know them, the earlier we call it a night. I’d rather be knockin’ around with honeys than all these hairy men, entiendes?” His men laughed. “Who gave you the number you called today? What do you want with Misti?”

  Lorenzo spoke quickly, slurring his words. He could have been high, or lazy. His thick accent made it all that more difficult for me to understand him, but I got the drift of what he said.

  “Artie Baca gave me the number. When we talked about Misti. He said that was how he got hold of her when he wanted to . . . uh . . . visit. He thought I should have it, in case, he said. I never understood in case of what.”

  “Motherfucker,” Lorenzo said.

  He climbed halfway into the back and grabbed my left ear. He yanked me to him and slapped me, twice.

  “You’re lying, man. No way Baca had that number. Misti wouldn’t give it to him. No way.”

  He acted as though he was going to hit me again. The men at my side grabbed my arms, doing their jobs, I guess. Lorenzo sat back in his leather bucket seat and the men released their grips.

  “Yeah, you’re lying, but that was good, what you said. Either you’re smarter than everyone says, or someone is coaching you. It don’t matter. Really. I’ll find out who leaked that number. There’s only a few who know it. It won’t take long to connect the dots.”

  He turned around and faced the front of the car. “Now, what’s this about Misti? What could you possibly want to speak to my dear sweet sister about? Mi querida hermanita. Little Angel I call her. She’s just a kid, Gus. I could get the wrong idea, entiendes?”

  I had to be careful how I worded what I needed to say. I didn’t want to give Ortiz the wrong impression about me and my involvement with Artie, but I also didn’t want to sound as though I knew too much.

  “I wanted to make sure Misti understood that Artie and I didn’t have any connection, and that I don’t know why he came to me for help with the . . . uh . . . the payment. Truthfully, I was trying to protect my ass after I heard about Artie. That’s all. I didn’t want her or you to get the wrong idea, in case you decided you had to do something. . . . ”

  The man to my right snickered.

  Lorenzo said, “You got a strange way of protecting your ass, amigo. Look around. You think I don’t own your ass right now? You think you’re walking away from this?”

  “Yeah, I see what you mean. But, I don’t know anything. I don’t have any reason to care about Artie Baca or what happened to him. That’s the truth.”

  Lorenzo still hadn’t turned back to look at me.

  “It’s all good, eh, Gus? You’re throwing around a lot of accusations, man. You mentioned a payment, like that should mean something to me. That what you’re getting at? Do you think I deal in penny ante shit like blackmail?”

  He paused and his men shifted in their seats, which I took to mean that they were readying themselves in case Lorenzo drew a gun and let me have it right then.

  “But know what really bothers me, really burns me?” Now he turned. “It’s like you’re saying I can’t take care of my sister. That if a pervert like Artie Baca was fooling around with my underage sister, you think I failed to do something about that? Are you trying to say I can’t protect my sister, my own flesh and blood? Are you saying I’m some kind of puto who can’t handle his family business?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. I figure you do what you have to do. I’m only saying that you don’t have any cause to worry about me. I don’t know anything.”

  “Pobrecito Gus. For someone who don’t know nothing, you go on and on. Bringing up blackmail, that was a mistake. Making it look like I’m into that, and maybe what happened to Baca? How does that sound to you, Gus? Like someone who doesn’t know shit, or someone who knows just enough to be a pain in the ass?”

  He said something in Spanish but I didn’t hear him clearly. The door on the right side opened and Lorenzo’s men dragged me out. They held me on the ground while Lorenzo stood over me.

  “I’ll do whatever I need to do for Misti,” he said. “Don’t worry about that, Gus. I think Baca knows that too.” He walked away.

  His men twisted duct tape around my mouth and I readied myself. Lorenzo stopped and hollered back at me. “Keep out of my business, Gus. Shut up about Baca. Stay away from my sister.”

  The beating started when his laughter bounced off the fence.

  Lorenzo’s men were quick but effective. If anyone from the restaurant heard or saw anything they kept it to themselves. I kicked the dirt and when my arms were loose, I tried to fight back, but my struggles were useless. I was semi-conscious when they finally dumped me in an alfalfa field along Lowell Boulevard, not too far from Regis University. One of them said he couldn’t understand why Carne liked me. In other words, why was I still alive?

  I tried to stand up and walk but that didn’t turn out well. I threw up, teetered back and forth, and banged my knee on a rock, although another jolt to my body didn’t mean anything. Nausea overcame me and I collapsed.

  I slept in the field oblivious of the bugs and animals and anything else that sniffed me that night.

  I didn’t have nightmares about Carne and Artie and Jerome, didn’t feel any pain, didn’t cry in the dark. Not me.

  12

  When I finally woke up, dried blood covered my face, my ribs felt tender to the touch, and my shoulders burned like they were out of joint. I had a headache more intense than any hangover I ever suffered. But I felt good. In pain, yes, but good about everything else. Ortiz hadn’t killed me. Big Fear Number One disappeared. Although he didn’t come out and directly admit it, Ortiz made sure I and his crew knew that he could have killed Artie for messing around with his underage sister, so right there it all fell in place, like the puzzle pieces snapped together and a coherent, if messy, picture formed. My plan, such as it was, stood up to the first test.

  I had a handle on the who and why, and that’s all I really wanted. If Ortiz wasn’t interested in eliminating me, then I could get back to my so-called normal life without waiting for more surprise visitors.

  I sat cross-legged in the dirt. I soaked up the morning sun while I stared at the mountains off to the west. An early breeze cooled my dirty feverish skin. I thought that my gamble of talking with Ortiz had paid off even though his men had beaten me into a stupor and discarded me like a bag of trash along the highway. It was over, whatever it was. The second test of my plan required the cops. I could leave the loose ends to the police. I had to gamble that they were smart enough to pick up Ortiz’s trail and follow through.

  Morning traffic rushed over Lowell. The sun heated my back. Slivers of light bounced off windshields and street signs. My mind played tricks on me,
the result of the aftershock from the previous night’s activities, or hunger and thirst and a slight concussion.

  Hazy blue mountains swayed in the early light, flat clouds raced across the sky faster than I had ever seen, and about ten yards from me a line of chattering quail moved as one through the knee-high grass and weeds. I hadn’t ever felt like that before, but then I had never been threatened by a high-ranking gangster and treated to a coordinated attack by a trio of professional thugs, all in one night.

  I couldn’t reach a nagging itch in the center of my back and the more I tried to scratch, the more I grasped that at least one detail didn’t quite add up. The man who broke into my room hadn’t been part of the team that snatched me, then worked me over. But he must have been Ortiz’s guy. I guessed he’d been sent to pick me up but had missed me. When I called Ortiz I walked into that talk all on my own. Ortiz must have punished his soldier for not doing his job. He could have sent the man to another city or state, banished for incompetence. The guy might have been permanently removed from the club by Ortiz. The nickname “Butcher” had to mean something.

  Not my problem. I thought Ortiz would say something, but he had no reason to admit the break-in by one of his men.

  I still had my wallet and some of the one hundred dollars. The change dropped from my pockets somewhere in the hectic night. Ortiz and his men had ignored my embarrassing life savings. I found my cell phone half-buried in the dirt. The battery indicator was low but I gave it a shot and called Corrine.

  My sisters thought the worst when I didn’t return to the shop that Saturday night and they couldn’t find me Sunday morning. Corrine called several of her friends but no one had any ideas. They all backed off when she mentioned Lorenzo Ortiz.

  “That guy is spooky,” she said. “Men I’ve known for years, hard-asses and usually solid, clam up when I mention his name. Women I used to hang with didn’t want to talk to me. This Ortiz has been building up quite a rep. News to me. No one wants to be involved with anything he touched. I really started to worry about you.”