Road to Justice

by Glenn Trust

  Mario took the card, turning it over in his hand, examining both sides. “Just this card? This is all I need?”

  “That is all you need.” The brown one smiled. “That and you must make more contacts, spread the word, bring more people to us.”

  “More people, but how?” He shook his head. “I know of those who want to cross the border, but not so many.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short.” The brown one laughed. “You will do fine. You just need to get out and work. Remember riches do not come for the idle. We will make you rich, but you will work for it.”

  “I am not sure where to start, señor.”

  “I suggest you give it some thought on the way back to Torreón. By next week we will expect ten who are ready to cross and who have paid their money to you. We will contact you, and you will bring the money and people to the place we say. Once a month, we will settle the accounts, and you will receive your share, one thousand apiece.”

  “But …”

  “No buts. Should you decline our offer …” the brown one raised his hands shrugging. “Well, as I said. We cannot have you competing against us. You either work with us, or your father who works in the car factory will wonder where you have disappeared to. Comprende?”

  Mario nodded. “Comprendo.”

  “Bueno. Take him home so he can become a rich man.”

  The three men from the van approached. The hood was placed over his head, and he was bound once more and stuffed in the compartment under the van floor. They used a different crossing to go back to Torreón.

  In the office, Raul Zabala leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, relaxing. “That went well, don’t you think?”

  Tom Krieg smiled at his partner. Networking was Raul’s favorite part of their operation.

  9.

  Welcome to Creosote

  A dust devil spun down the middle of the dirt road, its forty-mile-an-hour whirlwind sucking up sand and every bit of debris in its path. Twenty feet away from the mini-tornado, a pile of old newspapers stacked by a building lay undisturbed by its passing.

  John Sole was in its path. With one hand on the steering wheel, he cranked the driver’s window on the old pickup as fast as he could. It was too late.

  Sand and grit swirled through the truck cab, filling his nose and peppering his face, coating everything. As suddenly as it came, it was gone, bouncing down the road, a thousand-foot tower of spinning dust that seemed to have a life of its own, spewing everything it picked up out the top to settle back to earth a half-mile away.

  It was an inauspicious welcome to Creosote., Texas. Sole followed the dust devil as it passed down the road between the rows of buildings and pulled to a stop in front of a collection of pickups and rusty cars at the end of what passed for the main street. The dust devil continued out across the plains.

  He pushed the pickup’s door open and stood for a moment in the street, blinking the dust out of his eyes. A bit of unlit neon tubing in the window of an adjacent building was curled into the word ‘café.’ The place looked closed.

  He stepped to the door, brushing the sand from his hair with one hand as he grabbed the door handle with the other. To his surprise, it opened. Inside, the air was thick with the aroma of fried bacon and eggs spiced with chilies and cilantro. He stood with his back to the door allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom.

  “You comin’ or goin’?” The old man at the counter swiveled on a stool and squinted at the silhouette in the doorway.

  “Coming I suppose,” Sole said and walked to the counter. He looked at the empty tables scattered around that took up nearly the entire interior space of the building. “Where is everyone? From the cars out front, I figured the place would be packed.”

  “Oh, them …” A woman came from the small room on the other side of the counter, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “They’ve already eaten.” She nodded at the window and the building across the road. “They’re all at Mazey’s.”

  “Mazey’s?” Sole followed her gaze through the dust-covered window to the shack with the front door propped by a cinder block.

  “Whorehouse,” The old man chuckled. “Came in for breakfast, now they’re at Mazey’s taking care of another kind of appetite, you might say.”

  “Oh.” Sole nodded, indifferent, for the moment, to that type of appetite. He smiled at the woman. “Is it too late to get some breakfast?”

  “Nope. Just in time. Was washing up, but there’s enough left for one more.” She rested her elbows on the counter, brushing at a wisp of hair that hung in front of her brown eyes. “I’ve got bacon and eggs, or eggs and bacon. Which’ll it be?”

  “I’ll take one of each.”

  “One of each,” the old man chuckled and slapped a knee. “That’s a good one, young fella. One of each.”

  “Coming up,” the woman said.

  She smiled, and her dark eyebrows rose, making little lines around the corners of her eyes. It was a welcoming smile with a familiarity that held his gaze for a moment.

  John Sole knew nothing of her background, didn’t even know her name, but he was drawn to the smile. He realized others must have been touched the same way, looking into those soothing brown eyes, feeling the smile shining on them.

  “Pour yourself some coffee from the pot there on the counter. I’ll get your breakfast.”

  She turned, throwing the dishtowel over her shoulder and walked back to the small room behind the counter. Sole’s eyes followed.

  There was more than a smile there. The curve of her hips under the denim shorts, the graceful stride, the long legs swinging rhythmically as if she were moving onto a dance floor and not to a kitchen to fry bacon and eggs. There was a womanly familiarity about her that reminded him of … he pushed that memory away, reached for the pot, and poured black coffee into one of the mugs stacked beside it.

  Eat your breakfast and get out, John, he told himself. No distractions.

  The sounds of his meal being prepared came from the small kitchen, and he couldn’t help looking in that direction, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, and not wanting to at the same time. He forced his eyes away and down at the coffee, circling his hands around the mug as if to steady himself.

  What the hell’s going on with you today, John? Too much driving and not enough sleep, that’s what it is. She’s just a woman. She’s not … he shook his head. She is not someone you have ever known or will ever know.

  The old man watched the emotions play across his face. “Isabella does have a way of touching a man without ever laying a hand on him.”

  “Does she?” Sole turned and looked up from the coffee. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Bullshit!” The old man gave a friendly laugh. “Don’t know anything about you mister, but it was there all over your face for a second. Nothing to be ashamed of. Isabella is one hell of a woman. The man that can match her spirit and win her as a partner will be one lucky man.”

  “I suppose so,” Sole said, wishing the old man would change the subject.

  The old man had other ideas. He fixed his eyes on the newcomer, giving him an appraising once over. “There’s someone else, ain’t there.”

  Sole started to turn to the window, thought better of it and tried to freeze all emotion from his face.

  The old man wasn’t fooled and would not be denied. He nodded, sure of himself now.

  “That’s it. There’s someone else, and you had a second of guilt for looking at Isabella the way any man would look at her.” He nodded. “That’s it, right?”

  Sole sighed and nodded to appease the old man. “That’s it.”

  “Thought so.” The old man’s eyes remained uncomfortably fixed on Sole’s face. “Is she around here? The other one?”

  “No.” Sole shook his head and looked down at the counter. “Not around here.” Not anywhere, he thought.

  The old man paused, his eyes narrowed to stare at Sole from under his bushy eyebrows. “She’s gone. That’s it. Le
ft this world.” He smiled, sure of himself. “How long’s it been?”

  Sole’s eyes hardened. The old man’s gaze was fixed and undeterred.

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “I understand.” The old man nodded. “Lost my wife twenty years ago this month. Still hard to think about it.” He extended a hand toward Sole. “Name’s Sherman Westerfield, but you call me Sherm. Everyone else does.”

  A second passed, then two. Sherman Westerfield’s hand remained outstretched, his eyes friendly and without guile. Sole relented.

  “Bill Myers,” he said, giving Sherm’s hand a pump.

  “Glad to know you, Bill Myers.”

  “Same here, Sherm."

  “What brings you to Creosote?”

  “Breakfast.”

  “Breakfast?” Sherm laughed and shook his head. “You’re surely one for mystery, Bill, and a hard one to pull a story from.”

  “Sorry.” Sole smiled for the first time. “I was sleeping in my truck when I heard some shooting out by the Rio Grande. Went to check it out and found a couple of boys firing across at a family of Mexicans.”

  “That would be Krieg and Zabala’s men, assholes most of them.”

  “Can’t disagree with you there.”

  “So what do a couple of men shooting at Mexicans have to do with breakfast?”

  “Told them I was hungry and asked where I could find some food. One of them … Stu was his name … told me about this place.”

  Sherm nodded. “Stu’s a good man, just in with a bad crowd. Who was he with?”

  “Fella by the name of Lucky.”

  “Lucky Martin.” Sherm’s lips curled as if he’d tasted something sour. “Biggest asshole of them all. You’re fortunate he didn’t turn the rifle on you.”

  “Yeah, I got the impression he might have if I’d given him a chance.”

  “There you go again, saying things like there’s a story there, but you’re not telling it.”

  Isabella walked from the kitchen carrying two plates loaded with bacon, eggs, tortillas, and black beans. “Here’s your breakfast.” She stopped and looked at him, the smile back on her face. “I know everyone around here.” She laughed, and the smile became even more enticing, beckoning to him to smile back. He resisted.

  “Not too many to know in Creosote,” she laughed. “But I didn’t catch your name.”

  For an instant, he thought he might blurt it out—John Sole. Get a grip, he thought. You’re acting like a teenage boy, tongue-tied and confused.

  “This here’s Bill Myers,” Sherm piped up, filling the brief silence that passed between them.

  “Here, Bill Myers. Eat your breakfast.”

  She placed the food in front of him, and for a moment, her hand rested beside his on the counter. He wondered what it would be like to let his hand touch hers, soaking in the feel of her skin against his. Would she pull away from him?

  The muscles in his arm tensed. It was as if his hand was being pulled toward hers. He picked up the coffee mug, to break the magnetic attraction.

  You’re being ridiculous, he thought. She was a woman, like any other, and she was not ... Damn it. The memory forced its way in again. He gave in, saying the words to himself. She was not Shaye.

  No one is, a voice inside reminded him. No one ever will be. But this woman is real, and she is here. Shaye is not. See, she’s smiling at you, waiting. Her name is Isabella. Say it. Go on, say her name.

  He put the coffee mug down and said, “Thank you, Isabella. It looks good.”

  “Eat,” she said, and the smile was back, warm and knowing, the brown eyes watching, curious and friendly. “And tell us the story, the one Sherm was trying to coax from you.”

  He managed to pull his eyes away from hers, lifted a fork, and began shoveling food into his mouth. In between bites, he told the story. It only took a few minutes to finish the meal and his account of the encounter on the Rio Grande.

  “You butt-stroked, Lucky Martin,” Sherm chuckled, shaking his head. “Boy, you got some balls on you. That’s all I can say. I’d a given a month’s pension to have been there.”

  “Just happened,” Sole said, shrugging.

  “Well, just the same, you keep an eye out,” Sherm leaned toward him, shaking a finger. “Lucky Martin is not one to forget a grudge.”

  “I’m not hard to find.” Sole forked in the last mouthful of egg, scooped up some beans in a tortilla, and shoved it all in his mouth. “Good food,” he mumbled, cheeks bulging.

  “Thanks.” Isabella leaned against the counter and grinned, nodding at his plate. “Good eater.”

  They laughed together this time.

  “Yeah. Guess I made a pig out of myself.”

  “Nice to have the cooking around here appreciated,” Isabella said, wiping the counter in front of Sole with the towel. “Usually they come in slam down some eggs and trot their horny asses over to Mazey’s.” She grinned. “Not always in that order, of course.”

  Arms folded, she gave him an appraising look. “So, besides breakfast and the usual gunfire on the Rio Grande, what brings you to Creosote, Bill Myers?”

  “Chance,” he said with a shrug. “Just wandering the country.”

  “Hmm. I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “No, there’s another reason … something more.”

  She leaned toward him, resting her hip against the counter. For a moment, he couldn’t control himself, and his eyes rested on the curve of her bare shoulders and swelling of her breasts under the halter top. He jerked his head to the side to break his gaze away.

  “No, there’s more,” she repeated, leaning closer, curious, studying his face.

  He could feel the warmth of her breath in the air before him. Her fragrance surrounded him.

  “You aren’t a man who just wanders,” she said, making up her mind about it. “You’re searching for something.”

  Her eyes rested on his for seconds. He was powerless to turn away, feeling them probe, turning things over, searching for a key to unlock whatever he was hiding inside.

  Then all at once, she stood up straight, the smile spreading across her face again. She extended a hand. “Well, whatever the reason, welcome to Creosote, Bill Myers.”

  He took her hand in his, holding it a second longer than necessary. The feeling was intense. It was strong and firm, warm and feminine at the same time, a hand accustomed to work, but that also knew other things. It was a woman’s hand, and John Sole lingered, clinging to it for as long as he dared.

  “Thank you, Isabella.”

  10.

  Time to Go to America!

  It was cold and gloomy, and she was frightened. She wasn’t alone.

  Twenty-two others were jammed inside the cramped space behind the false walls of the K and Z refrigerated truck. Before boarding at a remote farm in the Mexican State of Sinaloa, they had been told the trip to the border would last twelve hours. There would be two stops along the way, for water and to allow those hiding behind the walls to relieve themselves in the brush.

  At the first stop, Jacinta Martinez took the bottle of water the driver offered but had been too shy to squat behind a bush and empty her bladder as the other women had done. Now she regretted her inhibitions. She squirmed and bent over in the small space, trying to squeeze her legs shut and stop the urge to release her water on the floor.

  “You should have let it go when we stopped, little one.” The woman who spoke was older, in her fifties. Jacinta had learned that her name was Inez. She stood against the outer wall to the left and patted Jacinta’s arm, speaking gently. “No one would have thought anything about it.”

  Jacinta nodded without speaking, focused on holding her bladder shut. Tears of frustration and embarrassment rolled down her face.

  “All I can say is you had better not let it go down your leg in here. It smells bad enough already with all of these bodies.” This woman’s voice was cold, with no sympathy for the young girl’s plight.

  “Quiet!�
�� Inez snapped. “You can see she is doing her best to hold it. She doesn’t come from the same sort of life we have had. These things are new to her.”

  “Just the same,” the cold-voiced woman said, turning away from Inez’s stare. “She better not let it go in here.”

  Jacinta looked up at Inez. “I won’t let it go. I promise, but it hurts so.”

  Inez moved closer in the dim light. Two small light bulbs mounted in the walls of the truck provided a yellowish glow. She put an arm around Jacinta.

  “Relax, child. Ignore that old hag.”

  The cold-voiced woman turned her head and glared at Inez, but she said nothing.

  “Try not to think about the urge to go, and it will pass,” Inez said and added with a shrug, “Besides, we’ve all slept on the floor with the dogs or in the barn with the animals. A little piss on the floor isn’t going to bother any of us.”

  There was muted laughter from the other women lining the truck wall. Only the cold-voiced woman remained silent, scowling at Inez.

  “How did you come to be here?” Inez asked, more to take Jacinta’s mind off her discomfort than for any other reason.

  “My mother’s brother lives in Houston in Texas. I have a picture.” Jacinta reached in her pocket and removed an envelope, forgetting the urge to pee for a moment. “Here it is.”

  She held it out to Inez who squinted at the image of a round-faced, smiling man in his fifties. “Your uncle is a nice looking man. He has a pleasant smile.”

  Jacinta turned the picture to see it better and nodded. “Yes. His name is Arturo Cardozo, and my mother always said he is the happiest of men, always laughing and making others laugh.” She placed the photograph back in the envelope, closed the flap, and slid it back in her pocket. “I am going to find him and tell him that I am his family. He will welcome me, and I can work for him and be with my family there in America.”