Road to Justice

by Glenn Trust

  He said the names like they should mean something to Sole. They didn’t.

  “Who are they? Krieg and Zabala?”

  Stu nodded at the Chevy, fifty feet away. “Krieg and Zabala Trucking. There, it’s printed on the side of the pickup. That’s who we work for.”

  “So Krieg and Zabala don’t want any illegals coming across the border around here.” Sole nodded. “Why?”

  “Why?” Stu said, looking uneasy. “It’s their … policy.”

  “Seems like I keep asking the same question.” Sole sighed. “Why would a trucking company have a policy about illegals swimming the Rio Grande?”

  “Just the way they do business, I suppose.” Stu shrugged. “You know, concerned citizens.”

  “Sounds like a fucked up way to do business, shooting at folks who can’t shoot back.”

  Sole turned to the mesquite a hundred yards away across the river and raised a hand to the side of his mouth so his voice would carry.

  “Usted allí!” he called. “Vete a casa. Obtenga atención médica y no intente cruzar aquí de nuevo. Ve ahora. Nadie disparará.”

  You over there! Go home. Get some medical attention and don’t try to cross here again. Go now. No one will shoot.

  He hoped the Spanish he had been practicing for the last year was understandable.

  The family behind the mesquite huddled together. Sole could see the man talking to the others. He inched away from the tree, testing to find out if anyone was going to fire at them. After moving several feet without a shot ringing out, he motioned to the others. One by one, they scrambled to him, and he pushed them ahead into the brush, where they disappeared. The woman came out last and turned to look at the man who had stopped the shooting.

  “Gracias Señor,” she called out and disappeared behind her children.

  The wounded man gave a short wave and nodded, then dragged himself into the brush behind his family.

  “You don’t know what you done,” Lucky said through gritted teeth. “You shouldn’t a butted in.”

  “Yeah, maybe not. We’ll see.” Sole nodded and stepped forward, holding the rifle out at port arms. “I suppose you want this back now.”

  “Yeah, and when the boss finds out what you done, you’re a dead man.” Lucky sneered. “And I’ll be the one to cut your fuckin’ heart out.”

  “That a fact?” Sole smiled, as he swung the butt of the Winchester, landing a blow that broke Lucky’s jaw and sent him to the ground.

  “Goddamn, you son of a bitch!” Lucky mumbled through a mouth full of blood and loose teeth

  Sole looked down at him as he levered the rounds out of the Winchester, letting them fall on Lucky’s bloody face. He nodded his head in the direction he had come.

  “Couple hundred yards that way is my truck. I’ll take the Winchester with me and leave it where my truck sits now. You can pick it up there.” He nodded at the Krieg and Zabala pickup. “There’s one round left in the chamber of this rifle. I see you coming after me, and I will put a bullet through the skull of whoever is driving. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Stu replied somberly.

  Lucky moaned.

  “Good,” Sole said.

  Now that the issue was resolved, his other senses began to kick in, and he realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before. He looked at Stu. “You seem to be more reasonable than your partner.”

  “Don’t see no reason for there to be trouble between us.” Stu glanced down at his partner, still sprawled in the dirt. “Lucky, he ain’t so bad, sometimes.”

  “Hmm.” Sole shook his head at the man on the ground. “Guess sometimes wasn’t today.”

  “Nope.” Stu grinned for the first time. “He definitely overplayed his hand. Anyway, thanks for not killing us.”

  Sole examined Stu’s face. He realized the gratitude was real. Stu was glad not to be killed out here on the plains, as if that were not an uncommon occurrence. What the hell kind of country have you wandered into, John-boy?

  His stomach growled, reminding him it needed to be fed.

  “Well, Stu, maybe you could tell me where I can grab some breakfast around here. I’m starving.”

  “Not much around,” Stu said, relieved at the sudden change in tone from threatening to put a bullet in his skull to asking about the local cuisine. He pointed to the south. “About fifteen miles down the highway you come to a turn-off. There’s a sign, says Creosote … not official or anything, just something the locals painted on a board and put up.”

  “Creosote,” Sole said. The name conjured up images of railroad ties and telephone poles strung across vast open spaces. Looking around, he figured it fit.

  “Yeah.” Stu nodded. “Not much there, really. A little shithole of a place, but the café serves up decent food.”

  “Thanks, Stu. I’ll give it a try.” Sole turned toward his pickup.

  “Maybe we’ll be seeing you around,” Stu called after him.

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Sole replied over his shoulder.

  The Winchester resting over his forearm, he strode with purpose, his boots kicking up dust with each step. He was hungry. A little gunplay always sharpened his appetite.

  5.

  Business is Good

  “El gringo no confía en mí.” The gringo doesn’t trust me.

  Pepe Lopez folded his arms and sat back annoyed as the bills were counted out on the table.

  “Es negocio.” It’s business. Raul Zabala cast a hard look at the young coyotaje—smuggler of persons. “Tú lo sabes.” You know this.

  “Sí, lo sé, pero después de tanto tiempo trabajando juntos, debemos tener cierta confianza entre nosotros.” Yes, I know, but after so much time working together, we should have some trust between us.

  “I speak Spanish,” Tom Krieg looked up from the stack of bills he was counting. “You might keep that in mind before you mouth off in front of me.”

  “Sorry, Tom,” Pepe said in accented English. “You are right. I should not have said what I said. It’s just that we have been doing this now for two years. I thought you trusted me by now.” A broad smile filled his face. “We are partners, no? I would never cheat you and Raul.”

  “Damn right, you won’t,” Zabala interjected. “That’s because once a month you have to come in for the count to settle up.” He grinned. “Otherwise you would find a way to cheat us. The more we count, the more honest you are.”

  “How can you say that?” Pepe was offended. “I have never cheated you or even thought of cheating you. We have a good thing here. I won’t fuck it up.” He shook his head in dramatic fashion and gave Zabala a hurt look. “That you would think such things of one of your countrymen … it is regrettable.”

  “Let me make something clear for you.” Zabala leaned toward the young man, his eyes narrowed and hard. “I am not your countryman. I am Tejano. My family has been in Tejas since the days of the conquistadors when yours were still Aztec peasants digging in the ground.” He shook a finger in front of Pepe’s face. “Do not think we are the same.”

  “My … apologies,” Pepe stammered. “I meant no offense.”

  “I’m not interested in your apologies.” Zabala waved a hand, dismissing the young smuggler’s words. “We do business together. Nothing more.”

  Tom Krieg ignored the confrontation. With his finger on a line in a ledger book open before him, he made a note. Then he shuffled the stack of bills together on the desk and began counting out a pile.

  “It’s all there, right, Tom?” Pepe asked nervously.

  Krieg ignored him and continued counting. When he was finished, there were two piles on the desk. He pushed the smaller one toward Pepe.

  “That’s yours. We’re square.”

  “Good, good.” Pepe nodded with an enthusiastic smile. “Thank you, Tom. Business is good, no?”

  “Good enough,” Krieg said and turned to a safe behind the desk where he placed the ledger and the cash.

  “That’s what I keep
telling my buddies in Monterrey,” Pepe said rapidly, a nervous grin on his face, trying to make up for his initial comments about trust. “They should do business with you. That’s what I always say. They should come and do …”

  “We’re done,” Krieg interrupted, nodding at the door.

  “Sal de aquí insignificante—get out of here, pipsqueak,” Zabala growled.

  “Yes, yes.” Pepe jumped to his feet, scooping up the pile of cash. He bowed his head. “Yes, I am going. Thank you again, Tom … Raul.”

  Another brief bow of his head and Pepe scurried out of the door.

  “That little pissant thinking we are the same, him and me! Ha!” Zabala laughed, then continued with a nod. “Still, he is right. Business is good, Tom.”

  “Yes, it is.” Tom Krieg looked out of the office window to the K and Z Trucking lot. It was empty except for two refrigerated haulers parked for minor repairs and service. The rest were out picking up cargo or making deliveries. “Business is very good.”

  6.

  Unfinished Business

  Fifteen miles down U.S. 83, Sole found the turnoff to Creosote. As Stu had promised, the sign marking the road that led off to the east was nothing more than a hand-painted piece of wood with a large red arrow pointing to the left under the town’s name.

  He spun the wheel, and the pickup bumped down onto the dirt road that ran in a straight line, disappearing over the horizon. The brush country spread out on both sides, offering an endless vista. There was no sign of a town.

  He settled back. It was as good a road as any this morning and in the last year he had traveled many empty roads. Besides, he was hungry.

  ***

  Since leaving Atlanta, he had spent time in all the southern states except Florida. Florida was in the wrong direction for his purposes. The money from the sale of his house in Georgia was deposited into an account he drew from occasionally when he needed cash, but mostly, he worked itinerant jobs and wandered from city to city, learning the ways of the road and how to survive.

  There was a different world, he discovered, existing in the shadows. The inhabitants of that world did not share the traditional values held by mainstream society.

  What did the word mean, anyway? One person’s tradition was another’s oddity. It was just a matter of perspective.

  There was the non-traditional woman he met on a street corner in Birmingham. If he’d met her as a police officer in Atlanta, he would have at least told her to move on. He might have arrested her, depending on what was going on that day. She propositioned him.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Why? You gay?” she snapped at him.

  “Nope, just looking.”

  “Looking for what?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  And that started a conversation that lasted all night. Her name was Louise, and she took him to her apartment. They talked. He bought food, and she cooked him a meal. They ate it together and talked some more.

  He said little about himself but listened for hours as she talked of her life growing up in a small Mississippi farm town. She ran away from a father who abused her. Selling her body became her road to survival.

  He did not pass judgment. He merely listened. Who was he to judge? What the hell did he know about her life and what she had to do to survive?

  She asked about him, but he said nothing.

  “You got something inside gonna kill you, you keep it bottled up like that,” she said and touched his face gently as they sat on her sofa after dinner. “One day, it’s gonna bust out, like that alien thing bustin’ out of a man’s chest in the movies.”

  They both laughed at that, but he remained silent about his demons.

  She turned on the sofa to look into his eyes, and made a prediction, “When it happens, when that thing busts out, it’s gonna kill you and everyone it touches.”

  She smiled and laughed again, patting his face with her dark, warm, smooth hand. “But not tonight.”

  “Not tonight,” He agreed, nodding.

  They held each other through the night, talking, mostly about life on the streets. After a while she fell asleep, and they stretched out on her sofa, her head on his chest.

  Their time together was a mutual exchange of equal value. Lying with this white man who didn’t want anything from her except to talk and be with someone for a spell, Louise felt truly safe for the first time in a long while. In return, John Sole felt the bond of human closeness for the first time since the terrible day in Atlanta.

  When daylight came, she fixed him breakfast. Then they hugged, and he left.

  There was the non-traditional salvage yard owner outside Memphis who found him asleep in his truck, backed up against the lot’s chain-link fence. He poked him in the cheek with the barrel of a shotgun to wake him.

  “What you doin’ here, fella?”

  “Just sleeping.”

  “Private property. Can’t sleep here. Move on.”

  “Okay,” Sole nodded, trying to shake the grogginess from his head. He fumbled for the key in the ignition.

  Maybe it was because he didn’t argue, or had the look of a man waking from a coma—who knew? People had their own triggers and their own demons—but the man lowered the shotgun and asked a question.

  “Hold on. You got any money?”

  “A little.”

  “Got any way to make money? Got a job?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Want a job?” The man eyed Sole up and down and figured he had better add a disclaimer. “Not anything permanent. Just something to put some cash together so’s you can move on.”

  He was about to say, no thanks, but instead, for some reason he still didn’t understand, he said, “Thanks I could use some work. I’ll pay you some rent to sleep out here in the lot if that’s alright.”

  The man gave him a final appraising stare and stepped back from the truck. “Come on inside. Got coffee and doughnuts in the office. Then I’ll put you to work.”

  For two weeks, Sole wrenched parts off of wrecked cars and piled them up for the old man. He learned the man was a widower of forty-five years. His wife died in a car crash just eighteen months after their wedding. Their unborn child died with her. Since then he had lived alone in a shack behind the jumble of wrecked cars in his lot. Like John Sole, he had no one.

  People came and went, buying used parts for used cars. None ever stayed to chat. No one called him to go out and have a beer. He was alone. Sole understood being alone.

  After two weeks, they shook hands. The man gave him one of his rare smiles.

  “You could stay … if you want,” the old man said, shy almost.

  Sole hated that he had said it. He hated it because we wanted to stay and not break the old man’s heart again, but he couldn’t. He had unfinished business.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t there’s something …” He didn’t know what to say or how to say it to the old man.

  “Never mind.” The old man gave his hand a final pump, turned, and walked away. “Good luck to you.”

  Then he went into the office and closed the door. John Sole got into his pickup and drove away.

  There were a hundred others in the last year, non-traditional people living on their own terms. Each one had a story. Each one lived outside the boundaries of what others would call traditional. Each one taught him something about surviving outside the conventional world.

  ***

  A dusty clutter of small buildings appeared on the horizon. Creosote was even less impressive than its name sounded.

  It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be there long. He would keep moving toward the unfinished business he knew waited for him. After, he might go back to the old man and salvage yard, or somewhere else even. Someplace new, not dirtied by everything that had happened, not cluttered by memories. If he survived.

  7.

  Another Niche

  The Krieg and Zabala families had known each other for more than a hundred years. Sometimes they wor
ked together. Sometimes they were at war, depending on the fortunes of their respective patriarchs at any given time.

  Now, they worked together. Both had ranches that had been in their families for generations. The Zabala deed was from a land grant issued by a Spanish royal commission in the 1700s. Krieg’s claim to his land only extended back to the mid-1800s and the founding of the Republic of Texas. Both families had profited over the years from the turmoil that surrounded the separation of Texas from Mexico.

  Tom and Raul grew up together. They attended the same schools, fought each other over the same girls, drank beer together, and fought some more.

  After their teens, they drifted apart, going off to college, Tom to UT, Austin, Raul to Texas A&M. On their return to their ranches in the south Texas country along the border with Mexico, they decided over beers one night to go into business together.

  At first, their plan was simply to establish themselves independently of their domineering families. They had lived along the border all their lives, and both had extensive contacts on the Mexican side. Raul, in particular, had socialized with many of the Mexican farmers in the northeastern part of the country, or more correctly, with their daughters. Some were wealthy, some were little more than peasants, but the vegetables and tropical fruits they produced were in high demand in the States.

  Mexico had been the largest exporter of fruits and vegetables to the U.S. for years, but Krieg and Zabala Trucking established themselves as importers of only the finest produce for the finest restaurants, hotels, and specialty markets. While Zabala handled the supply side of the business with the farmers, Krieg took on the demand side, building a customer base across Texas.

  Their reputation grew over time. They had found a specialized niche in the import business, and while their trade wasn’t massive, and the market was somewhat limited, it thrived. Chambers of Commerce from El Paso to Brownsville looked upon the young men as exemplars of entrepreneurism and the true Texas spirit of achievement.