by Gale Borger
Rob slid smack into the giant’s legs, but the giant never wavered. Rob bounced off the giant and landed on his back at the giant’s feet.
The giant picked him up by the tee shirt and tossed the wheezing Rob aside with one hand. He straightened, folded his hands in front, and stared straight ahead once more.
J.J. grabbed my wrist to stop me when I started toward Rob. He gestured toward the stone giant by the door. From behind the giant strolled an elegantly dressed man. He slowly stepped into the light, fiddling with his cuffs and taking in his surroundings with an air of disdainful nonchalance. His black hair gleamed in the light, and his dark eyes were fixed on us.
He moved gracefully across the rubber floor to where we stood. He looked down his nose at us as if we were fly specks on a window. I felt my hackles rise as his dead black gaze slithered up my body.
Hands on hips, I spoke. “Martinez, I presume?”
The man sniffed and turned his profile to me. “American women do not know their place.” With lightning speed he whipped a hand out and blasted me across the face.
I went down hard, smacking my head on the floor. My bottle of Luminol went flying, broke apart, and splashed up the pant leg of Martinez’s expensive suit. “Clod! Stupido!” He shook his leg to rid himself of the liquid. J.J. never moved a muscle; neither did the gargantuan statue by the door.
I picked myself up, my cheek burning and my eyes watering. I stumbled sideways and collapsed on a bale of hay. Through my tears I eyed the giant in the doorway. Did the man ever even blink? I rolled my head to make sure it was still attached to my neck and tried to focus on the conversation between J.J. and Martinez. When the ringing in my ears subsided, I rose and stepped close enough to hear what they were saying.
In a dead calm voice Martinez said, “I want Montoya, and I want him now.”
J.J. played the big dumb cowboy, exactly what Martinez expected him to be. He pushed his cowboy hat up with one hand and rubbed the back of his neck with the other.
“I am afraid to tell you this, Mr. Martinez, but we found your boy buried out back of the neighbor’s place, along with one of your horses.”
Montoya looked down his nose. “Let us not toy with each other, Sheriff Green. You know as well as I that the dead man is not Montoya, but a traitorous thief. A man named Huerta who was stupid enough to steal from me.”
J.J. twirled his hat in his hand. “Well, that’s where you’re wrong amigo. I mean, he is dead and all, but that Huerta fellow never stole from you. All that time you had your boys torture him? He was telling you the truth from the beginning. Huerta grabbed the wrong case from the truck. I have the case with your note, your money, your fingerprints, and your little bomb.”
“You lie, policeman.” Martinez pulled out a gun and trained it on J.J.‘s chest. “That case held 15 million dollars of my Columbian money. The Columbians came looking for it in Fort Worth. Huerta ran with it and came here. I was afraid they would come after me if the mares and the drugs were not delivered. The Columbians blamed my operation for the bad bag that leaked and killed my horse though it was their defective bag.
“I had to clean up after their bumbling in Fort Worth, and I lost a champion mare in the process. Instead of terminating Montoya in Texas, I sent Montoya with the mares to Chicago. That imbecile followed my men here and went running to you. Too many loose ends, Sheriff Green, and now the two of you. I am tired of this mess. Sometimes I think I am the only one with a brain in this world.”
Martinez stepped closer to J.J. and I began to sweat. I wondered how long J.J. could keep him talking. I also wondered how the hell long Bob was going to wait before the Calvary came-a-runnin’. I inched my hand along my leg and under my sweatshirt. I touched the butt of my revolver and left my hand there. I could barely see the stone statue in my peripheral vision, but I knew he was still there.
J.J. kept his hat in his left hand and dangled it by his side. “What about Carole Graff, where does she fit in? She was neither running drugs nor was she a murderer.”
“Ah, Carole. She was ready to bend the law when it came to her plants, but she witnessed an unfortunate event and had to be terminated. She was useful, but expendable. She was yet another unfortunate loose end which had to be, how would you say it? Snipped.”
I was really pissed now and drew his attention toward me so J.J. could get into position. “Unfortunate event? Which one did she witness? The murder of Huerta or the murder of the horse buried behind the neighbor’s barn? Maybe she saw both, and to you she was just a ‘loose end’ so you murdered her. You’re just another arrogant asshole who thinks he’s above the law.”
Martinez swung his hand again and J.J. caught it in mid-air. “Can’t let you do that, amigo, she’s my woman. If anyone slaps her around, it’s going to be me–you understand I’m sure.”
“She needs to be taught her place.”
J.J. let Martinez’s hand down slowly. Martinez glared at me. I could feel the hatred pouring off of him. I saw the man blocking the door lower his hand from his chest and realized he had reached for a weapon.
Whew Buzz, close call that time. Where the hell was Bob? How long did they expect us to keep this psychopath talking?
Outwardly calm, Martinez turned to J.J. “Using the mares to transport the drugs was a stroke of genius,” he bragged. “And this,” he stretched his arms to encompass the barn, “was another stroke of brilliance. I call this place, The Martinez Research and Development Center.” He chuckled at his own cleverness. “The stupid Columbians will never suspect I use their own drugs to produce designers and then sell back to them at quadruple the price.” His chest puffed out and he bounced on the balls of his feet, reveling in his own self importance.
J.J. held his cowboy hat in his left hand and discretely slid his handgun from inside the hat with his right. He never took his eyes off Martinez as he held his hat in front of his right hand. He was about to make his move when the statue blocking the door turned toward my right. J.J. froze.
Martinez was still basking in his own glory when the shadows to my right also shifted. I almost collapsed with relief that Bob was finally here. Instead a small, handsome Latino-looking man flanked by two other men with dark complexions materialized. I had a sinking feeling this might be the ‘Columbian Connection’, Martinez was bragging about duping, and J.J. and I were in the crossfire of what was about to become a Latino bloodbath.
Dressed in conservative Armani with an overcoat around his shoulders, the man bowed slightly to me and to J.J. “Emilio Escobar,” he said in a cultured voice. “I am the ‘Stupid Columbian’ who cannot tell when a minor employee,” he slid his eyes toward Martinez, “is stealing from me.”
Martinez blanched and stepped back. He said nothing, but seemed to shrink in his shoes, breathing shallowly. Rob stirred on the floor but didn’t get up. The statue didn’t move a muscle.
Striding slowly forward in deadly determination Escobar backhanded Martinez. The diamond on his pinkie left a red slash across Martinez’s jaw. Martinez stood motionless while blood dripped onto his suit.
“Eduardo,” Escobar calmly said. “You leave a bloody trail across the United States. You get sloppy with the transport of merchandise. You murder women. You leave witnesses alive to spread tales to law enforcement officers in-in…” He waved a hand in a circular motion and looked around the room. “This place, what was it? Your research and development laboratory?” He spit on the floor. “You are a peasant.”
Martinez began to shake.
“I should not have to come to the States to clean up after you, Eduardo.” He smiled a slow, evil smile. “As of this moment, I am terminating our relationship.”
The silence was so thick I could feel it settle around my shoulders. Recognition from a late night CNN broadcast struck me between the eyes. “Wait a minute. Escobar. Emilio Escobar, son of the late Pablo Escobar, the world’s richest drug trafficker?” I looked at Martinez. “Is this who you are calling ‘stupid’? You are dumber than y
ou look, buddy.”
I could see Martinez boiling with rage, but he kept silent. With guns pointed toward his head, I guess he didn’t have much of a choice.
Escobar allowed himself a small smile. “You have heard of me.” He bowed slightly. “Yes, I am Emilio Escobar.”
Out of the dark a voice said, “Emilio Escobar, born January 1, 1969. Grew up in Medellin, Columbia, until November, 1993 when his mother fled to Germany.” FBI Bob stepped into the barn from the opposite end of the statue.
Flanked by two FBI agents with automatic weapons held high, Bob stepped-and-dragged his feet up the aisle in beautiful S.W.A.T. formation. “MBA from MIT, picked up the scraps of his father’s enterprise and once again turned it into a major player in the world drug trade.”
Escobar did not move. With deadly calm he said to Martinez, “More loose ends, Eduardo? I am more than disappointed. You will die tonight.”
Bob stepped up behind Escobar. “No more dying tonight, Mr. Escobar. FBI. By the power vested in me by the United States of America, you are under arrest.”
Escobar sighed, shrugged, and gave me a half-smile. “I guess I was not so smart this time, eh?”
Ian stepped out of a stall to Martinez’s left and drew his weapon. “FBI, Mr. Martinez. By the power vested in me by the United Sssss–” Ian slid to the ground as Rob Graff knocked him on the head above the ear with the butt of a semi-automatic.
Using the distraction to his advantage, Martinez lifted his weapon to fire at J.J. I barely acknowledged the fact before I flew through the air.
I stumbled forward and barreled into Martinez with a low tackle, hitting him head first in the scrotum.
I heard him squeak. My forward momentum sent us both flying into the front of a stall.
Rob followed us with his weapon trained on me. The statue suddenly came to life. With impossible speed for such a huge man, he kicked Rob’s knee and drew a weapon on Martinez, who was now on the floor heaving in great gulps of air, crying and clutching his testicles. “DEA. Martinez, game’s over.” Over his shoulder he said, “You can come on out now, Greg.”
A profoundly confused Martinez shook his head and shouted as he recognized his hit man, “Greg who? Gutierrez, what the hell are you doing?”
Gutierrez gave Martinez that same smirk he had given him at the hotel in Chicago. “Waiting a hell of a lot longer than I wanted to, but I finally get to nail your drug-dealing ass, Martinez. I should have let Escobar have you.”
Escobar calmly observed Martinez and shook his head. “There will be a time. Unfortunately it is not tonight.” He hitched his coat on his arm and turned his back on all of us. Glenn Graff limped out from behind the statue called Gutierrez. J.J. and I looked on as he slowly made his way around Gutierrez. Arm in a sling and both eyes blackened, he looked at Rob sobbing on the ground, holding his ruined knee.
“Robert, I am ashamed to call you my son. You stand for the very thing I’ve spent my life fighting. You sold your own father out, and got Carole murdered for what? Drug money.”
With tears in his eyes, a weary Glenn Graff held up an I.D. “Greg Henry, DEA. Carole was my sister, and also DEA. Sorry I lied to you J.J., but we’ve been undercover for more than four years now working this case.”
J.J. sighed and looked at the FBI agents. “So much for cooperation between agencies.”
Ian and Bob both said, “Shit.”
Glenn (or Greg–did anyone go by their real name anymore?) limped past the hulking Gutierrez and leaned heavily on a stall door. “I’ve been in Mexico, tracking that research group Carole was mixed up in. Turns out the benefactor was Martinez, here. Under the guise of a man named Delgado, he funded the group that instigated the exportation of the Mexican poppy, as well as the cactus seeds.” He looked at the floor and shook his head.
“They’ve been doing it for a few years now. I got hooked up with them when kids started dropping dead after using the new designer drug they call Totaled. Once the lab boys identified the toxin, the drug was broken down and traced to the Mexican research group.”
I broke in. “But how did you connect Martinez to transport of the drugs?”
“Inadvertently, I happened upon the drop off point where the Columbian fishing boats drop the cocaine destined for the United States on the Rio Bravo del Norte at Nuevo Laredo.
“The drop off point just happens to be on a remote section of a huge ranch called Ranchero del Sol. The ranch is owned by none other than our own Eduardo Martinez. Martinez thought he lured Carole into the scam by dangling the Mammillaria luethyi project in front of her, when in fact, it was the perfect cover for us.”
He turned again to Rob. “Until one of us sold out the other to Martinez. You didn’t expect me to come back alive, did you, Rob?” He lowered his head in grief for the loss of his sister and his son. He sniffed and raised his head. “Well, have a nice life in prison, kid.” Rob wisely stayed where he was, moaning and rocking back and forth, holding his knee.
Greg turned sad eyes toward us. “Buzz, when you pulled Carole out from under your mom’s house, you opened up a can of worms the size of Cincinnati.”
“Enough of this! Gutierrez, do your job,” Martinez yelled, taking the moment of distraction to grab the front of my tee shirt and yank. He spun me around, grabbed my hair, and put a gun to my head.
A million thoughts spun through my head in those few seconds. Oh shit, I don’t want to die now. How did this thing suddenly go so FUBAR? I’m retired for God’s sake! Where the hell is Bob? Who’s going to feed my dogs? Damn I should have slept with J.J.!
I choked back the hysteria and looked at J.J. I caught his intense stare. He closed his eyes and I suddenly got it. I abruptly went limp in Martinez’s arms. He grunted and staggered. He had a hell of a time holding my happy ass up and maintaining a grip on my hair and his gun.
I was about at the end of my tolerance of pain when there was a loud commotion at the door. I heard loud metallic clacking and the unmistakable sound of pump-action shotguns all around. Though Martinez still had his gun on me, J.J. had his gun on Martinez. Gutierrez also had a gun on Martinez from behind.
Martinez looked up, looked around the area, and slowly moved his weapon away from my head. I cracked open an eye but didn’t move because Martinez still had me by the hair. We stood like that when the barn door was nosily dragged open.
Gutierrez spun and had his gun on the door. The Columbians had their guns on Gutierrez. Rob reached for his gun and Greg stepped on his hand and held his gun on him. The FBI still had their weapons trained on Escobar, and six DEA agents slid down ropes out of the rafters. I vaguely heard Mag’s voice say, “Holy shit, is Santa Claus coming down the chimney too? He’s the only one not here!”
The DEA guys slid to a stop. Three had their weapons on Escobar and his cohorts; three on Martinez. No one moved. No one spoke.
Martinez suddenly went into action and his gun hand rose toward me again. A hollow thunk followed by the clear ringing of middle C echoed through the barn. Martinez stiffened and his grasp on my hair loosened.
I was yanked off my feet and out of the way as Martinez fell face first onto the barn floor.
The Columbians stared open mouthed first at Martinez, and then at an elated Alejandro. He stood behind Martinez, with a large manure shovel in his hands. He smiled as though he had just broken Barry Bond’s home run record. Beside him stood his batting coach Mag, ‘The Maggot’ Miller, arm around him and proud as a peacock. I turned toward the barn door where the commotion took place, and saw Ted Puetz standing there with his weapon at his side, his mouth hanging open, eyes the size of saucers, and a puddle forming around his shoes.
Ian was still knocked out in the stall. Moe was the only one who did what he was told to do. He strolled through the door with the agent from the command post.
The next few hours were a blur of activity. Federal agents argued over who took custody of whom and ambulances arrived to take Ian and Rob off to the hospital. I yelled at Mag and Alejan
dro for disobeying orders, and J.J. yelled at me for putting myself in the line of fire. Then he yelled at Moe for not stopping Mag, and Mag for not stopping Alejandro, then yelled at Mag again for giving Alejandro the shovel and the idea.
Feeling better now that he had vented his spleen, J.J. wandered off to referee the Who Has More Clout game between the FBI and the DEA.
The Luminol tests were completed, and the blood evidence was collected for the prosecution of Martinez. Escobar stood stoically, awaiting his fate. Martinez ranted and pleaded not to placed anywhere near the Columbians. It wouldn’t matter because Martinez would be a dead man if they housed him in White Bass Lake or Timbuktu.
No one saw Ted leave, but it was a great story and I couldn’t wait to tell Sal. And Dad. He’d probably use it as blackmail against Ted in order to get his truck fixed.
Mag said it best when she pointed out that tonight gave new meaning to scaring the piss out of Ted. “Why was he even here, I wonder? How did he know we were here?”
J.J. shrugged. “Maybe he listens to our frequency and heard me call Curly and tell him we’d be here. Maybe he was at his mom’s, listening to her scanner.”
There was a collective “Ahhh,” as we all realized what must have happened.
The hour was late when we finally parted company. J.J. and I had Moe and Alejandro in my car. They dropped me at home and Moe at the police station. Alejandro stayed the night with J.J., with the promise that he would start looking for a place of his own in the morning. Mag went to the hospital to sit by Ian.
My dogs met me at the door with great enthusiasm, and we trooped out to the back yard for a pit stop. I sat on the swing, absently throwing the ball to Wes. The floodlights near the back door illuminated most of the yard, so I could watch Wes bring the ball back to Hill. I thought about the paths we took in life, and why we chose to take certain routes rather than others.
I thought about Rob and wondered what had led him to make the decisions he made. Wes trotted up and laid his massive head on my lap. I rubbed his ears, called for Hilary, and we all went back inside.
