* * *
—
HE STAYED UPRIGHT, THOUGH—on point—turning sideways so he had the full benefit of his good right eye. Amé was at the window, gun at high-ready—up by her shoulder—using the muzzle to move the blinds aside a fraction. Danny flanked the door opposite; he was on the left, she was on the right, the door between them. They moved with a certain silent understanding, as if they had been doing this forever—as if an invisible string bound them together. But he ended up with his bad eye toward the wall—the kitchenette at his back—and the rest of the apartment behind him might as well have been the dark side of the moon. Worse, the door pulled open toward him, meaning Amé would be exposed to whatever was on the other side—she’d have to take the first shot.
For a second or two he would truly be blind, completely cut off from her by the arc of the swinging door, making not only his bad eye meaningless, but Danny himself useless. He could shoot through the door if he had to, stitch rounds through the cheap wood at a hard angle, but until he got around the other side and cleared the gap, Amé would be all on her own. The space was no bigger than his outstretched arms, and it would be quick—no more than a fucking eye blink—but it would be enough. There was no way to change their positions now, and she wouldn’t let him anyway. She wasn’t afraid of whatever was on the other side of the door. She wanted to face it first, she always did.
She looked over, raised her chin toward the door.
Ready.
The apartment was dark, but not impenetrable. There was a lamp in the back bedroom that leaked pale blue light into the front, and the window by the kitchen that Danny had been staring out earlier was also lit faintly by the uncertain glow of a farway streetlamp.
A hint of a hint of light.
The crooked blinds by the front door bled their own radiance.
Amé was mainly wrapped in shadows, a single luminous halo around one eye. Light gleamed off her gun, the Saint Michael pendant at her throat.
Then there was that sound again . . . someone shuffling on the top step. Breathing. There was a small landing there and nothing more.
Barely enough for one person to stand.
Danny wanted to give it a second to see if that person standing there knocked. Maybe it was one of the other deputies, or Modelle Greer herself; maybe something had woken the old woman up and she was scared . . . even as Amé settled her weight on the leg curled beneath her and took steady aim at the door’s heart.
She and Danny could shoot holes into that door, the same as someone outside could shoot through it.
Danny held up a fist over his gun hand’s wrist, counting out three silent fingers one by one, and then reached over and unlocked the door.
He pulled it open in one smooth motion and rolled clear.
* * *
—
AMÉ CAME OUT OF HER CROUCH FAST, surprised, holding up a hand to Danny and raising and decocking her Colt with the other. Danny turned into the breach, and saw—despite only one working eye—what had startled her. There wasn’t a man there, but a girl, a very young Hispanic girl, with long dark hair all twisted and knotted by the wind.
Amé said “Shit” in English, and then something else in Spanish that he didn’t catch.
“What the fuck?” Danny said, getting to his feet and aiming his gun away from the girl at the door.
It was everything he’d ever worried about in Nuristan; the sort of dreams he’d had before, that he’d thought were over and done with but had returned. He’d pointed a loaded weapon into the face of a child.
Again.
“¿Quién eres, niña?” Amé asked, slipping her own gun behind her back into her jeans, out of sight, and kneeling to the girl’s height. Danny had no idea how old she was. She was wearing dusty jeans and dirty tennis shoes and a T-shirt with some cartoon character on it, and then another unbuttoned flannel shirt over that. He’d seen a hundred little girls like her on the outskirts of Murfee.
Amé was still talking to her: “Está bien, niña, no vamos a hacer daño. Nos asustaste, eso es todo. ¿No es gracioso?”
Danny put his own gun into his jeans. The girl had to be lost, or someone had sent her specifically for Amé, someone who wanted a Spanish-speaking sheriff’s deputy and didn’t trust anyone else. It had happened before, but never at Amé’s home.
Amé was just reaching out to touch the girl, to pull her through the door, when Danny’s bad eye kicked back on. It flickered—once, twice—and he could finally see clearly.
A man.
Standing at the bottom of the steps far behind the girl, hidden near the trunk of the juniper by the long curved branches and the night itself.
Danny went for his gun again.
It was still warm to the touch from where he’d been holding it.
“Amé . . . hold up, there’s someone else,” Danny had time to say, pointing down the steps with his Colt. She looked over the girl’s dark hair, hand resting on her small, narrow shoulder, and saw the man, too.
The man called up to them, “No quiero hacerle daño.” But his hands were still down at his sides, lost in the blackness pooled around him.
“I don’t understand what the fuck he just said, but do you know him?” Danny asked, keeping his gun steady, moving to put himself between the girl and Amé and the man who watched them both.
Amé stared down at him for a long time, but if she answered one way or another, Danny didn’t hear her.
TWELVE
He switched the matchstick from one corner of his mouth to the other, side to side, relentlessly, watching the pumpjack do its thing. The windows were down on his unmarked Charger—a midnight-black 370-HP Hemi V-8 purchased with federal funds—letting in the night and a generous helping of West Texas grit, a fine dust that had already coated his dashboard. He could smell the metal skin and oily sweat beaded on the pumpjack, a thick stink like the thing itself was on fire. He was parked close enough that he could feel heat coming off it, could reach out and touch it.
He could also feel it in his gut every time it went up and down in long, rumbling strokes, pulling that black liquid out of the very earth. He’d lived in Terrell County his whole life, had seen these things scattered around forever, but they were still a mystery to him. He wasn’t sure exactly how they did what they did, but that’s one reason he’d become a deputy sheriff—so he’d never have to work out on the damn rigs.
Johnnie Machado, Johnnie Macho to his friends and family, glanced down the road. He had a good long eye down 349, a clean and empty line that ran as far as Dryden. It was dark out there, dark all the way, with a thick band of stars above him, but he didn’t know shit about stars or constellations, either. He looked up only when he had to. Otherwise, Johnnie Macho was the sort of man who generally looked straight fucking ahead.
He checked his main phone, tried to make a bet on who’d text him first to bitch at him. Either Zamantha, his wife, or Rae, that nice piece of ass at El Diablo Norte he’d been tapping since June. Rae had gotten mouthy lately—needy—making more and more demands on him, but she wasn’t the problem. The real problem was the goddamn bet he was trying to make with himself about the texting. Johnnie Macho couldn’t avoid a good wager, any wager, on anything, anytime. He bet on the Cowboys and fútbol, on cock- and dogfighting. He bet on high school football games and would even throw money at a friendly dart game between his buddies or someone tossing a wadded-up ball of paper into a goddamn trash can. The thought of putting a little something on the line to make life interesting made his dick hard, and for the last three years he’d made steady use of his open line of credit at the book in Odessa. He was what they called a valued customer . . . VIP repeat business.
And more often than not lately, a goddamn loser.
He’d been on a ferociously bad streak for a year, so bad it boggled the fucking mind. It was like he was cursed. Like all the world’s bad luck
was piled up on his fucking head. He’d doubled down his way into a goddamn hole he couldn’t see out of anymore, deeper than the pumpjack working right next to him. It was a lightless place in the center of the goddamn earth, but still not far enough away from the men he owed. Men who didn’t care who his daddy was, or that he carried a badge and a gun, or that he was a goddamn somebody in this county. The sort of men who had no problem driving out from Odessa one night and filling in that hole he’d dug for himself with a ton of Terrell County dirt, if he didn’t make at least some interest payments on what he owed. That’s why Johnnie Macho never looked up much, because he damn well needed those eyes in the back of his head to see what was coming.
And that’s why he was sitting out here on 349 in the dark, watching the road. He’d had to keep on making bets, spreading them around, so one bad hand could pay off the other, and tonight was one of those side wagers. It hadn’t been placed with that tatted-up Crip bookie in Odessa who kept a sawed-off rifle with a plastic Coke bottle suppressor in the back of his 300M, but instead with those indios down south, even far more serious, if such a thing were possible. These side bets had paid off well, better than any card game or the goddamn Cowboys, but it was a goddamn hard way to live.
But he didn’t have any other choice, either.
He’d bet his life on it.
* * *
—
FINALLY, THERE WERE LIGHTS. The sand-colored Malibu he’d been expecting, gliding down 349 right at the legal limit, not too fast, not too slow. He rolled the matchstick around his dry mouth some more and let the Chevy go past, waiting until it was only taillights—glowing red like the ends of a couple of cigarettes—before he threw the Charger into gear and hit his wigwags.
The night came alive, painted blue and red.
He smoothly chewed up the macadam and got right up on the Malibu’s ass, which was signaling that it was pulling over. It slowed down in a spreading cloud of that West Texas dust and grit, all lit up hellish from Johnnie’s emergency lights, and once it rolled to a stop, he sat behind it for a while, letting the driver and passenger think he was working on his Datalux TM110 tablet (more Fed money)—running their plates or whatever, although he didn’t even have it turned on.
Instead, he was fiddling around with his phone. He guessed Zam was over at her fat sister Amada’s with Johnnie Jr. and Antonio, watching that shitty reality TV show they liked, while Rae was still pulling a double at the club, working that round ass up and down in a way that defied all gravity, all logic. He figured he might have enough time after he wrapped this up to head over there for a few cold ones, maybe slip Rae a couple of fifties, just to shut her up. She’d been on him for some extra spending money for weeks, the same way Zam had been on him about Rae, although his wife didn’t know the girl’s name . . . yet. She’d just heard that Johnnie was keeping time with someone, and threatened to go to Johnnie’s daddy over it, which was not an option. She didn’t care so much about him picking up the occasional piece of ass, but didn’t want him disrespecting her, whatever the hell the difference was. She took her role as the wife of Deputy Johnnie Machado seriously, and the daughter-in-law of Sheriff Chuy Machado even more seriously, because that’s the one that got her all the free meals, movie tickets, and the comped weekly hair-and-nail session at Glamorous.
No goddamn way to live.
Johnnie shook his head and set the phone aside and got out of the Charger into the warm night.
* * *
—
HE APPROACHED THE MALIBU CAUTIOUSLY, just like he’d been taught, his body bladed away and his hand on his service weapon. He wasn’t in uniform, but that didn’t matter. He was going to dump these clothes in the bin behind Rae’s club.
The Malibu’s window was already rolled down and the driver, a young Hispanic male, was waiting for him. He could see the kid was trying to decide whether to speak in English or Spanish.
“Lo siento, yo no pensaba que iba a alta velocidad,” the kid said. Sorry, I didn’t know I was going that fast. “Ni siquiera te vi allí”—I didn’t even see you there—he added, glancing to his passenger, who was a young female in thick, nerdy glasses. She was terrified, staring straight ahead, and might not have been half bad-looking without the glasses. They both looked like they went to UTEP or University of Texas Permian Basin. Johnnie smiled big, one of the good guys just doing his duty, letting them know it was no big deal at all.
“Oh, you weren’t speeding, and you weren’t supposed to see me hidden back there. Hell, I was betting on that,” he said, still all smiles. If the kid was nervous, or even suspicious, and paying close attention to Johnnie’s movements in case the whole thing was about to go bad, his eyes were focused on the wrong thing: Johnnie’s hand hovering over his duty Glock.
Not the smaller throw-down Smith & Wesson that Johnnie had been hiding down low against his leg, pressed against his jeans.
The kid probably never even saw it.
Johnnie brought it up in one quick, smooth motion, firing eight rounds—seven plus one, until the slide locked back—right down into the open window, right into the kid’s face, right through the girl’s glasses. Thick, fresh blood fantailed all over the windshield, and the two of them bucked up and down and made some sort of awful noises or cries and grabbed for each other, before falling in an ugly pile and going very, very still.
It was a goddamn mess.
Johnnie took a long, deep breath, listening to the engine of the idling car and searching the stretch of road for other headlights, before tossing the tape-handled Smith & Wesson into the window with the bodies.
He stood for a moment longer, chewing the matchstick, looking at all the blood.
Usually on a deal like this, he had Ringo or Chavez or Roman or Ortiz with him—other members of the Tejas unit—and someone would start making a shitty joke right about now, but this one was all on him. It meant he didn’t have to divvy up the take, of course, but it also meant he’d committed a double homicide and there was no one else to take the fall, to share the burden. It was a weird, lonely feeling, and a part of him wanted to get the fuck in the Charger and just drive away, not only from the cooling bodies in the car on the highway, or Zam and Rae, or even Terrell County (where he’d always be Chuy Machado’s son, nothing more and nothing less), but from all of goddamn Texas. But that was foolish, betting himself he wouldn’t get much farther than Houston before someone caught up to him. Either his daddy or those gangsters from Odessa, or the indios from Acuña.
Everyone owned a part of his ass nowadays, so all he could do was buy it back, one bloody piece at a time.
So he got that ass into motion, working it like Rae. He tore apart the Malibu’s backseat—trying to steer clear of the blood—finding the four pounds of meth and one pound of heroin the indios had told him would be there. He had a bag in the Charger, and an area scouted out back near the scrub by the pumpjack, where he could dump the dope for a few days until he could come back for it. He also had a man in Del Rio who’d move it for him and cash it out in Dallas. After he got done stuffing the bundles into the bag on the Charger’s hood, with a watchful eye down the road, he checked his main phone, where there were still no messages from either of those two bitches. But his other phone, the red one, was now blinking furiously in the Charger’s center console.
That was the phone—paired up with a small handheld radio—that no one else knew about, not even the other guys on the unit. Because, let’s be honest, there was a part of him that didn’t quite trust those fuckers, either, at least not enough to turn his back on them. Sure, he was their leader, the one with the connections who’d started it all and brought them all in. He’d handpicked them and made the sweet deals they’d all benefited from. But he also knew that Roman was talking shit about him all the time now, and Ringo had been trying to set up his own things on the side. In some ways, every member of the Tejas unit was a gambler, just like him. They were al
l just betting on different things.
That blinking light meant Johnnie had a short message in Spanish, and about thirty minutes to return a call to the man who’d left it, a man whose name he didn’t know. That man—who worked for the indios from Acuña, who answered to an even more important man they all called El Indio—wouldn’t be calling him again about this shit out on the road, so it had to be something else. Something serious. Another piece of his ass. He shook his head and realized that he’d already lost his first bet of the night.
It wasn’t either of his women who’d texted him first.
He was, in fact, the unluckiest goddamn son of a bitch he knew.
Deputy Johnnie Machado went to the trunk of the Charger and grabbed the can of gas he’d stowed there six hours earlier. He walked back toward the Malibu, shaking his head at his run of bad luck, wondering when the fuck it would finally turn.
When would it finally, mercifully end? It had to, right?
When he got to the Malibu, he popped the matchstick out of his mouth—finally time to put it to good use—as he poured gas over the car’s hood.
PART TWO
NARCOMANTA
THIRTEEN
Eddy Lee Rabbit felt like hammered shit.
Eddy wasn’t exactly sure what that meant: “hammered shit.” But he’d grown up hearing it from his old man, and it seemed pretty damn appropriate right now.
Like . . . the way the lights were way too bright, drilling right into the soft parts of his skull. And how his court-appointed lawyer’s teeth were too white, too big for his goddamn head. The same lawyer who was now sitting there doodling on some paper, instead of calling off these two attack-dog deputies. If Eddy didn’t know better (and to be honest, he didn’t), he would have thought his lawyer was in cahoots with them (“cahoots,” another one of his old man’s dumbass words). The three of them seemed determined to jump up and down on him until he admitted to some shit that he actually didn’t do, or at least sure in the hell didn’t remember.
This Side of Night Page 11
