by Glenn Trust
“Not so difficult, if you listen to what I say.” Lopez spoke with more confidence now, recovering from his initial shock. He realized there was a reason that he paid Garcia and not the other way around. “You will say that it may have been a competing truck company, one from Mexico perhaps, unhappy about the competition from the north.”
“That’s it? A competitor?” Garcia shook his head.
“No, that is one theory you will offer. You will show them that you are a thinking man.” Lopez smirked. “You might even get a promotion from this.”
“A promotion?” Garcia’s eyes narrowed. “How?”
“You will show that you are leaving no stone unturned in the investigation and will offer the second possible motive.”
Garcia’s brow furrowed, a sign that his labored brain was making every effort to follow Lopez’s reasoning.
“You will also explain in your report that the attackers could be from one of the drug cartels who attacked because they thought the truck carried drugs and not avocados.”
“But the truck did not carry drugs.” The glimmer in Garcia’s eyes brightened a little. “So, the avocados were of no importance to the cartel attackers, and they left them.”
“Correct,” Lopez continued. “Then they killed the men in the truck to eliminate witnesses. This will give them two reasonable avenues to investigate.”
Lopez looked around as Garcia soaked in his instructions. He peered into the back of the truck and nodded, satisfied. It would work.
“Now, get your men to work and put the panel to the hidden space back in its place. Then throw the crates in. You can leave a few scattered around the ground, that would be expected, but most of them should be overturned inside the truck. Once the panel is in and the avocado crates are scattered about inside, no one will suspect there was any other cargo.”
“And the farmer who reported this to us?” Garcia asked.
Lopez thought it over for all of two seconds. It was regrettable. The farmer was on the wrong road at the wrong time. Sometimes life is like that.
“He must disappear … no trace of him left behind. You understand that there can be no witness who can undermine your story of what happened.” He watched Garcia’s beefy face for some sign of reluctance. “Will disposing of the farmer be a problem for you?”
“For me?” Garcia’s broad shoulders shrugged, tightening the uniform shirt across his belly. “One farmer, more or less, is of no consequence.” He laughed. “There are plenty to go around. Of course, there will be a search when his family reports him missing, but …” He smiled and shook his head. “He will not be found.”
“Good. Now let’s get it done.”
“Okay.” Garcia nodded, his face a mask of concentration as he began reviewing the instructions in his mind. He looked at the men standing around smoking cigarettes, waiting for orders, and shouted, “¡A trabajar!” To work!
Pepe Lopez watched as two men of the Policía Estatal worked inside the truck’s cargo department to replace the panel. While they worked, others tossed the crates inside in a haphazard fashion as would be expected when the truck rolled into the ditch.
Lopez surveyed their work and nodded, satisfied. Garcia stood to one side, his lips moving silently, trying to commit the story to memory so that it would stand up under questioning from his superiors. The other state police officers gawked at the bodies in the cab. One pinched his nose shut with his finger and pointed, saying something that made the others laugh.
The plan was coming together. Now it was time for the most challenging part.
Lopez reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, took a deep breath, punched in the number, and waited. It was answered on the third ring.
“Yes.”
Lopez swallowed once to ease the tightening in his throat. “I have news.”
36.
The Hog Was Out of His Sty
The café door opened with a thump as the door banged against the wall. The man standing there grinned at her. He always grinned, and it always annoyed her.
Isabella looked up from the newspaper spread before her on the counter. “You’re letting the dust in, Claude.”
Salvia County Deputy, Claude Brainerd, shuffled through the door, hitching his pants and Sam Brown belt up over his belly as he walked, slamming the door behind him. He was a disagreeable sort, and having him around, generally put everyone else in a disagreeable mood as well. Usually, locals went the other way, if they could, the way they might try to get away from the smell of an outhouse when the wind changes directions. Isabella couldn’t go anywhere.
“What brings you to Creosote?” she said with a sigh, folding the newspaper for later.
The morning had been slow, and the lunch crowd light. Even Mazey’s business was off across the street. Having Claude Brainerd in town was not going to improve things. Isabella had been enjoying the quiet—until now.
“Just passin’ through, Isabella. Always have to come by and have one of the best pieces of meat around.” His mouth opened in a leering, gap-toothed grin. “I mean one of your famous hamburgers.”
He plopped on a stool directly in front of her. She backed away to try and avoid the chronic halitosis and stale body odor that preceded Brainerd’s bulk wherever he went.
“Hmph.” She motioned with her head at the empty counter. “Not much trade today. Already turned the grill off and cleaned up.”
“I’ll wait.” Brainerd rested a sweaty arm on the counter. “Won’t take much to clean up after one burger.” He nodded at the cooler behind her. “And I’ll take a beer while I wait.”
“Aren’t you on duty?”
“You gonna report me?” He shook his head. “Naw, I don’t think you’d do that to a friend.”
Claude Brainerd was no friend, but he was right. If she reported him for having a beer, it would only bring more trouble. Brainerd would find something to stick his fat nose into, stirring shit up just for the hell of it. When he got like that, getting rid of him was like trying to dig a tick out of the crack of your ass with a bowie knife. He’s happy where he is, and if you get too aggressive about it, you might cut off more than you bargained for.
It was best just to let him have what he wanted and move on as quickly as possible. She opened the cooler, twisted the cap off the beer, and thumped in front of Brainerd.
“I’ll get your burger.” Isabella turned toward the kitchen without any further comment.
“Rare,” he called after her. “Extra onions and throw some jalapenos on it.”
The clang of pans and utensils from the kitchen signaled her annoyance. Brainerd grinned and gulped the beer in one long chug then went around the end of the counter to the cooler and grabbed another one.
When she came out with the burger a few minutes later, she found him turned with his back to the counter, looking out the window. His Sam Brown belt holding the service weapon, taser, and portable radio, was laid out on the counter beside him. She marveled at the length of the belt required to circle the deputy’s gut.
“Here.” She clunked the plate holding the burger and a mound of fries in front of Brainerd, put the mustard and ketchup bottles in front of him, and stood back.
He spun on the stool, and his immense, red face lit up. His shirttails were out, and he scratched underneath with both hands as he surveyed the food.
“Damned belt irritates the shit out of my skin.” He lifted the shirt to display a red band of mottled flesh over his belly.
Isabella grimaced in disgust.
“Looks good.” Brainerd finished scratching and grabbed the mustard and ketchup, drenching the entire affair in both.
Isabella watched as he opened his mouth and shoved the burger nearly half in on the first bit. Four bites later he was finished and began working on the fries.
“Beer,” he said through a burp that caused him to gasp and exhale sending the reek of onions, jalapenos, and tooth decay in her direction.
She noted the two already on the
counter and got him another without comment, wondering if Mazey was preparing one of the girls for a visit from the deputy. They ran for cover whenever Brainerd showed up and drew straws to decide who would have to service him. Denying him was out of the question.
After cramming the last of the fries into his mouth, he turned the bottle of beer up and washed it all down. With an echoing belch that would have eliminated all competition at the state fair’s annual burping contest, he slammed the bottle down, pulled a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket, and tossed them beside the bottle.
“Here. This ought to cover it.”
Brainerd grabbed the Sam Brown belt and slung it over his shoulder and headed for the door. His shirttails were still out, and Isabella was grateful she didn’t have to stare at his ass crack that would undoubtedly be visible if not for the shirt.
Outside, he stopped for a moment and looked longingly across the road to Mazey’s. None of the girls were in sight, and the usually open door was closed tight. That didn’t mean anything, and he knew it. If he wanted one of them now, they’d open up for him.
He pushed the lust back down into his groin and shook his head. Maybe later, after. For now, he had work to do, an assignment from Tom Krieg himself.
Isabella watched him go and then looked at the wadded cash on the counter. She could swear it looked sweat-stained, or worse. The thought of touching the money made her cringe, and she pulled out a pair of disposable latex glove she kept in a box to wear when cleaning the restroom.
Delicately, she unwadded and straightened the bills out, side by side—a five and two ones. Seven dollars on a tab of thirteen dollars and fifty cents.
She tossed the bills in the sink and soaked them with disinfectant spray then laid them out on a towel to dry. Outside the window, the county pickup rolled slowly down the road and out of town.
Good. The hog was out of his sty today, but at least he was going to root around somewhere else.
37.
First Things First
“You’re late, and your shipment is late. Why?”
There was no hint of a threat in the voice that vibrated into Pepe Lopez’s ear. Tom Krieg didn’t believe in hints. The menace in his tone was clear and unmistakable.
“There has been a problem.” Pepe Lopez tried to control the trembling in his hand that threatened to send the cell phone tumbling to the ground.
The silence that ensued was even more menacing. Lopez looked around to see Sargento Garcia watching, a small smile evident on his lips. Fuck you, he thought. If I go down, so do you.
“Are you going to tell us about your … problem?” Krieg’s voice rumbled at him like distant thunder, warning of the destroying winds that follow.
“Y-yes, yes, of course,” Lopez stammered. “Except it is not my problem. It is our problem.”
“Speak, goddammit!” Krieg roared, and the thunder surrounded Lopez.
“Amigo, calmarse y nos dice lo que es el problema.” Friend, calm down and tell us what the problem is.
There was no thunder in Zabala’s voice. It was serene even. Serene like the hiss of the snake that bites when you aren’t looking, Lopez thought.
Best to just say it. That would be the worst of it. After, if they had not sentenced him to death, perhaps he could find a way to survive. He looked at Garcia, still watching like a vulture, ready to pick up the scraps. He walked several paces away so that the police sergeant could not hear what Krieg and Zabala shouted at him over the phone.
“We have been attacked.” He spoke quietly into the phone, deliberately using the word we to demonstrate that he was as much a victim as they were.
“Attacked?” The rage still thundered in the background, muted as Krieg considered what the words meant. “What are our losses?”
“Everything. It happened on the road to Monclova. The truck was wrecked, Slocum and Miller dead … both shot.”
“The cargo!” The sharpness was back in Krieg’s voice. “What about the cargo?”
Lopez knew he wasn’t referring to the avocados. “Gone. No sign of them. Apparently taken onto another vehicle. We checked the area and didn’t find any of them dead or on foot.”
“How many?”
“A big load, twenty-eight.” Lopez spoke rapidly, trying to move the conversation as far as possible from the initial thunder. “Seventeen women, the rest men.”
“Who?” Now Krieg’s voice was quiet, and somehow that made it even more threatening.
“We haven’t determined that yet.”
Once again, Lopez intentionally used the third person plural pronoun—we. He’d be damned if he was going to go down alone. If Krieg and Zabala decided to take their wrath out on someone, Lopez had no doubt that he was the most natural target. A little company might make him less vulnerable. The time had come to include Garcia and the Policía Estatal goons that worked for him.
“Garcia and his men are searching the wreckage for clues.”
“Where were they when this happened?” Zabala asked. “Why did they not know something was going to happen on the road we pay them to protect?”
“Valid questions,” Lopez agreed, happy to deflect some of the attention. “I will find out why and make sure the ones who failed to do their job pay for their mistakes.”
He nodded to Garcia who continued to eye him from a distance, the annoying smile still on his fat face. He gave the sergeant a palm down signal to indicate he was trying to calm things down with his superiors.
“Fucking find out who!” Krieg shouted. “I want the name of the person behind the attack!”
“Yes, yes, of course. We are working on that as we speak. It must be one of our competitors … other coyotajes.”
Lopez shot a disgusted glance at Garcia and his men, gathered around the truck gawking at the bodies of Slocum and Miller. Fat chance he was going to have finding the attackers with this group of clowns.
“Pepe, speak to me.”
Zabala spoke, probably thinking his calm voice would reassure Lopez and elicit more information than Krieg’s rage. It sent a chill up Lopez’s spine, giving him the sensation that someone was creeping up behind him in the dark.
“Yes, Raul,” Lopez responded. “I am trying. It’s just that we have very little information now … for the moment … we will find out more, of course, but it will take time.”
“I understand,” Zabala said. “Is there a competitor that you would suspect?”
A reasonable question instead of rage. That, at least, was refreshing but changed nothing.
“All of them, jefe.” He tried reasoning. “That is the problem.”
“Yes, of course.” In the air-conditioned office, Zabala looked at Krieg and shook his head, which meant that he should not interrupt. Zabala would handle the conversation from this point until Krieg reigned in his fury. “So start with your contacts in the villages and cities and barrios. Someone who knew of this shipment informed those who attacked. They had advance knowledge. Begin there.”
“Yes.” Lopez nodded. He had already decided to seek out the person who had the most intimate knowledge of this shipment, although that person seemed an unlikely traitor.
“Take care when you speak to them,” Zabala continued. “Do not let the informer know that he is suspected. Make him think all is well between you and him.”
“If I find him, I will kill him.”
“No. You mustn’t, at least not yet.” Zabala spoke like a coach instructing his team on the next play. “We will use this informer and devise a way to eliminate those who attacked us. Only then will he die.” Zabala paused, waiting for Lopez to acknowledge his instructions.
“I understand.” Lopez wondered if the informer and attackers would be the only ones targeted for elimination.
As if he read his mind, Zabala offered some words of reassurance. “And you, Pepe Lopez, will have the pleasure of killing the informer when the time comes.”
Lopez was not reassured. He imagined Krieg standing behind him, ready to
put a hole in his head once the informer had been eliminated. For now, though, he could only do what they expected.
“I will find the informer,” he said.
“Good!” Zabala beamed at him over the phone. “Contact us every day, morning and evening, and as soon as you have information. Now go and find the informer.”
“I will, Jefe.”
The call ended, and Zabala resumed his customary position in the chair, leaned back, hands behind his head.
“Don’t look so smug,” Krieg shot at him. “We’ve got a problem. We are going to war across the border, and we don’t even know who it is we are fighting.”
“I am aware of the problem.” Zabala smiled. “But there is opportunity here too.”
“Opportunity. What the fuck do …” Krieg’s eyes narrowed as he considered Zabala’s words. “I see your point.”
“Yes. We didn’t ask for the war, but with careful planning, we can make use of it and eliminate our competition. Instead of being one of many who provide our special services, we will be the one and only.”
“Yes.” Krieg nodded. “And our inventory for our other market will also increase.”
“Correct. Now you get the picture. More pretty faces to choose from gives us the chance to boost sales and improve our product line.”
“But first, we have to fight a war.” Krieg returned to the business at hand.
“Yes,” Zabala agreed. “But we must do more than that. We must win it.”
Five hours away by car, on the road to Monclova, Pepe Lopez considered the task at hand. He would survive, at least until he could discover the identity of the informer. Until then, he had to make sure that there were others to blame if there were any other attacks.
“Garcia, come here,” he called to the sergeant.
