by Glenn Trust
Roger walked to his pickup and pulled from the lot onto Highway 93. They only went a mile or so before he turned onto a dirt road, heading east into the Cerbat Mountains. The landscape became even more barren and empty. He felt at home.
Cyclopic, Arizona does register on some maps—a few—if you search hard enough for the tiny dot that marks its location. As for people, no encyclopedia or atlas indicates any population.
That doesn’t mean there weren’t people there. There were, a few at least, but you had to know where to look for them. Roger led him to a single-wide trailer on a small rise and waited for him to get out of his truck.
“I use it for hunting or just to get the hell away from people for a while,” Roger said, smiling. “Ought to be perfect for a hermit like you.”
Roger showed him around. Water was supplied by a well. Electrical power came from a generator. The toilet, shower, and sinks drained into a septic line and tank that Roger had installed himself. Probably none of it would have passed a building code inspection back in the city, but in Cyclopic there were no codes. If you could do it, you did it.
“How much,” he asked after the tour.
“Not much,” Roger said. “How about ten dollars a week for as long as you work for me at the garage?”
He thought about it for a minute, turning to scan the horizon. The emptiness was there, comforting and distant, holding back all the secrets. He nodded.
“Okay.” He hesitated, then awkwardly put his hand out to shake on the deal.
Roger grinned and shook his hand.
The hermit of Cyclopic had a home. That was how the locals began to refer to him. He was a young man when he became a hermit. Now, an old man, he remained a hermit.
Over the years, he and Roger became close, or at least as close as he could become to anyone. Roger eventually learned that they had both served in Vietnam and that neither wanted to talk much about the experience. War is an ugly thing, and people do ugly things in war, too ugly sometimes to say them out loud.
Some evenings after Roger closed the shop they would drink beers inside the bay. Once in a while, Roger’s wife would insist that he come over for supper, but not too often. She and Roger didn’t want to pressure him. At first, his stay there was tenuous. Roger half-expected that one day he would not show for work, simply gone again on his wandering.
But that didn’t happen. He stayed. The garage and the trailer on the desert hillside became as much a home as he ever expected to have. If he wasn’t happy, at least the emptiness of the place made him comfortable.
They had been working together for twenty-five years when Roger suddenly fell ill. Lung cancer killed him six months later, but not before he deeded the trailer and the property it sat on to the Hermit of Cyclopic.
Twenty more years passed. The hermit remained there in his trailer, working at odd jobs along the highway, changing oil, and sweeping up for the couple that bought the garage after Roger died.
As they often do to those who live solitary lives behind walls of their own making, memories gnawed at him. He began reading the newspapers out of Kingman. Sometimes he drove to the library there and learned how to use the computer and search out names and people. The gnawing grew into an aching need to know, to reconcile with the memories, and face them in the light of day.
And so, the hunt began.
***
Outside the window, the green hills flowing by grew into green mountains covered with a billion trees. He smiled. Grandma was right. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
All In All, Things Went Well
“I have information for you.” Chico Saludo was relieved to finally make this call. He had worried that too much time had passed since the visit from Alejandro Garza.
“That’s good.” Garza’s mild tone gave no hint of a threat. Chico relaxed a bit.
“The person you are looking for seems to have gone to …”
“Not over the phone,” Garza snapped, his tone changing immediately. “Come see me.”
Chico’s voice faltered for a moment. The last thing he wanted to do was be in the same room, alone with Alejandro Garza. Such meetings had a history of dead bodies being disposed of in the South River.
“Yes, of course,” he said, swallowing down the lump of fear that rose in his throat.
***
Chico Saludo’s team of drug dealers and enforcers had been working overtime to find the information the enforcer from Mexico had requested. The sooner he was out of Atlanta, the sooner Chico could close his eyes at night and not worry that Garza would slip into his home and slit his throat while he slept.
It was an unreasonable fear, he knew, but he worked in a business where the unreasonable was often commonplace. Why would Garza kill him, or any of his team spread around the southeast? They produced well for Los Salvajes, always one of the top revenue providers in Bebé Elizondo’s vast network of drug smugglers and dealers. Still, Garza was an unknown entity, a factor in the business equation that could not be predicted.
Would Chico be blamed if he failed to locate the person Garza was seeking? He considered the question and told himself that logically, there would be no reason to blame him. He was loyal to Elizondo, had never betrayed him, and had always carried out cartel orders.
When he said these words to himself, he felt better. Then doubts would creep into his mind and his hand would shake as he sipped his morning coffee, glad to have survived another night. Their business relied as much on controlling others through fear and intimidation as on profits.
It was not inconceivable that an example would be made to encourage others to work harder to find the son of a bitch rat that Garza sought. Chico knew that his position at the top of the local organization made him the ideal example, if Garza chose to make one.
***
Thirty minutes after the call ended, Chico pulled into the parking lot of a budget motel in Atlanta’s west side. With billions of cartel dollars at his disposal, Garza could have stayed in the finest suite in Atlanta, but fine suites and plush accommodations came with advanced and intrusive hotel security. For Garza, invisibility was always critical, especially during this search for the rat.
The motel’s parking lot was cracked and heaving up in sections with weeds growing up through the cracks. Except for the few dilapidated vehicles parked outside a few of the rooms, it would have appeared abandoned. Even so, the vehicles were usually only there for a short time as the drivers visited one of the two prostitutes who used the motel as their place of business.
One clerk worked the days shift and another at night. Maid service was minimal and only on request by a guest. Garza made no requests. Happy to have someone rent the room and happier still not to be asked to provide any service, the motel staff ignored him.
He parked his rental car just outside his first-floor room and spent most of his days communicating with Elizondo or seeing to other business over his phone. Twice a day he took a walk, morning and evening, going for food and coffee at a diner a mile away on a busy intersection.
Chico paused before the room, took a deep breath, and then gave a tentative tap on the door. It opened immediately. Without a word, Garza stepped aside for him to enter.
They stood in the center of the small room. Garza did not offer him a seat. Chico observed that the bed had been neatly made. No personal articles were in sight, and except for the presence of the man before him, the room would have appeared unoccupied.
“What information do you have?” Garza asked.
“The man you seek is in Richmond,” Chico said, then added for clarity, “A city in Virginia.”
“I know where Richmond is. How reliable is the information?”
“We think it is very reliable.” Chico’s voice almost broke in momentary panic.
Would very reliable be satisfactory? He had no choice but to be honest. Being less than candid would only make matters worse if the information displeased Garza.
“Explain,” Garza orde
red.
“As you instructed, I have had my people looking for him. A photo of him in a group was distributed. His face is well known and a person like that has only one way to survive on the street. We were sure he must be involved in our business somewhere but using a different name.”
Chico paused, thinking that Garza may want to speak or ask a question about the efforts to find the rat. He did not.
“As expected, he has been selling drugs in Richmond, buying them from our local contact. He keeps a low profile and, never buys or sells too much, just enough to survive. It is clear he knows we may be looking for him.”
“What name?” Garza said.
“Raul Martinez,” Chico said. “Our man in Richmond is waiting for his next contact with him. Usually, it’s once a week. Rarely more than that.”
“And your contact’s name?”
“Roman Madera.”
Garza nodded. Madera was Saludo’s counterpart in the Mid-Atlantic States.
“Tell him to expect me in the next two days.”
“Yes, of course.”
His report complete, Chico waited for further instructions. Garza made no notes, entered nothing into his cell phone. They stood looking at each other in the middle of the room.
“Is there anything else?”
“You can leave now.” Garza turned away to sit at the small desk across from the bed.
Chico Saludo let himself out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. In his car, driving back to the taqueria that served as cartel headquarters in the city, he reviewed the meeting in his mind.
He walked into the room alive and walked out the same way. He nodded to himself and took a deep breath. All in all, things went well.
Moving in That Direction
It was a busy day for Benjamin Dupart. Sole stood at the entrance to the alley, watching as he came down the stairs and left through Dupart’s front door without a word to his grandfather.
He walked to the end of the block, making no pretense of going to school. Instead, he climbed into an old Chevy Chevelle, waiting for him at the curb. With a little work, it could have been a classic. As it was, the Chevy was just an old car with gray primer paint sprayed over the rust spots.
The car stayed there for several minutes. He could make out two silhouettes, Ben and someone else, sitting in the front seat. Occasionally, an arm would lift, hand extended.
Sole nodded. Good. Sharing an early morning joint to start the day might make them less aware and easier to follow without being detected.
Interference from local police also seemed unlikely. He had noted during his brief stay that police presence in the neighborhood was minimal, responding to calls for assistance mostly. Sole hadn’t seen much proactive enforcement during the daylight hours. He made no judgment about that.
If resources were allocated to other parts of the city to suit the agendas of politicians and the city’s influential, it worked to Sole’s advantage. Whatever the Demonios de la Muerte were up to today would probably be unaffected by police cruisers patrolling the area. He should be able to get an idea of Ben’s movements with the gang and try to come up with a strategy to intervene.
Ten minutes passed before Ben and the driver of the Chevy finished the joint. The car pulled away from the curb, heading north. Sole stepped back into his pickup, pulled slowly from the alley, and followed to the end of the block.
The Chevy was two blocks ahead now, still northbound. A traffic light ahead provided an opportunity to close the distance. The Chevy stopped for the red signal, and Sole pulled in behind a delivery van, two cars behind. It wasn’t a perfect way to follow the car.
He would have preferred to have another vehicle assisting, or even two, rotating the tail every other block or so to avoid detection. Working alone, he was careful not to close on the Chevy too fast. It seemed unlikely that the young driver would be alert enough or experienced enough to pick up a tail, but there was no reason to take chances.
The light changed to green. The delivery van pulled forward and made a left down a side street. Sole waited for it to complete the turn and then closed up again on the Chevy, staying back a hundred yards or so.
***
Inside the Chevy, Joey ‘Keet’ Gonzalez and Ben were oblivious to the pickup following at a discreet distance. Feeling the effects of the joint, they bantered the way teenage boys do.
At a corner, Joey slowed and called out the window to a girl standing at a bus stop.
“¡Oye chica!” Hey girl!
She turned her head, cast a scornful glance at the car with the two leering young men, gang thugs no doubt, and turned away. A man and an older woman standing at the bus stop ignored the calls from the car. Nothing good could come from engaging with the boys, and a lot of bad things might happen.
“Chica!” Joey persisted. “Don’t be like that. I got something for you here. Just come sit on my lap.”
It wasn’t really that funny, but mellowed by the joint, Ben erupted into laughter. The girl turned her back. Laughing, Joey let it go and proceeded down the block.
“I like me some of that,” he said, bobbing his head and grinning at Ben. “How ‘bout you Benny? That’s a sweet piece.”
“Yeah.” Ben nodded. “Sweet and young.”
“We should come by again tomorrow,” Joey said. “I bet she’s there every day. We get her in the car, take her somewhere and get some of that.”
Ben turned to Joey, his brow wrinkled, trying to puzzle out if Joey was suggesting rape. “You mean just take her?”
“Fuck yeah, take her.”
“But …”
“But what? Shit, bro,” Joey said, pounding the wheel and grinning. “We DMs … Demonios de la Muerte.” He looked at Ben. “At least I am.”
“Yeah, but … I mean what if she was your sister or cousin or just a friend?”
“She ain’t. Never seen the bitch before, but I tell you one thing.” Joey nodded, his face serious now. “Gonna see her again. You watch and see if I don’t. You want some, you just come along.”
Ben was quiet. Somewhere inside he still struggled with a conscience that was becoming desensitized. Part of him tried to push away any guilt about talking of rape like they were going to pick up a six-pack at the store. At the same time, he wanted to embrace the euphoria of being a DM the way Joey did.
The idea of being untouchable, safe in his gang brotherhood, oblivious to societal codes about right and wrong enticed and intoxicated him. If the gang approved, anything became acceptable. In the closed circle of gang relations, no other standard for right or wrong existed.
Joey recognized the concern on his face. “Problem is, bro, you ain’t one of us … yet. Slice been askin’ me ‘bout that.”
“He has?” Ben knew this moment had been coming, an invitation to full membership as a DM. He pushed aside the talk about rape. “What’s he been asking?”
“Why you ain’t come in yet,” Joey said.
Ben shrugged. “I guess I was waiting to be invited.”
“Well fuck, bro! You invited. Ain’t you seen the way Slice treats you when he around … like you something special. The man likes you.”
“He does?”
“Fuck, yeah.” Joey nodded. “We gonna take care of some shit, then we gonna go find Slice and set things up.” He looked at Ben for a reaction. “That good with you, bro?”
“It’s all good.” Ben nodded. “Let’s do it.”
***
From behind, Sole watched and pulled to the curb as the Chevy slowed and the driver called out to the girl at the bus stop. He tensed, ready to intervene if they took things farther. They didn’t and after a minute, the Chevy continued up the block.
Sole followed, feeling more confident about the tail. It became clear the driver paid little to no attention to anyone behind.
They continued northbound until they were in a suburban area. The Chevy pulled into a mall parking lot and Ben and the driver got out to head inside. Sole recognized the oth
er immediately. He was the passenger in the van who leaned out the window and hollered, “Fuck you!” at Sole the day Salvadore Estevez was attacked.
Sole found a parking spot a hundred yards away to wait and watch. Following them inside the mall would have made him too easy to spot. They wouldn’t be going anywhere without the car.
An hour passed before they emerged and walked across the lot toward the Chevy. Ben carried a bag. The boy with him said something. Ben laughed and heaved the bag across the parking lot.
It didn’t require any special powers of discernment to know why. Ben wore a new pair of white Converse All-Stars, the DMs shoe of choice that identified them to other gang members. If he wasn’t already a blooded member of the gang, it appeared things were moving in that direction.
The Problem
For three more days he followed Benjamin Dupart. Eventually, Sole relaxed his concerns about being detected. Whatever else they were, the young Demonios de la Muerte were oblivious to the possibility that someone other than the police might be tracking their activities.
It was a sign of their arrogance, but then despots tended to be arrogant. The DMs were the rulers of their turf as certainly as the Romans had controlled their empire, at least until the barbarians stormed the city gates.
Sole knew it was only a matter of time before the barbarians, another gang, stormed the DM gates and the turf boundaries changed again. Until then, as long as they stayed within the blocks controlled by the gang with absolute authority, they could terrorize the community at will, and no one would dare interfere.
“Why don’t you leave her alone for once,” he muttered to himself as he followed the old Chevy past the bus stop. “Keep moving.”
It had become a routine. The Chevy’s driver slowed each day to call out the window to the girl waiting for the bus. The same man and woman waited at the stop, no doubt headed to jobs in the city. None of them spoke to each other or acknowledged the shouts from the Chevy.
