Road to Justice

by Glenn Trust

  “Yes.” Garcia strolled over, lighting a cigarette as he walked.

  “There may be other attacks planned. Have your men on patrol. Cover all our routes.”

  “That will require my men to work around the clock.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Then they must be paid.”

  “No more shipments can be lost.” Lopez leaned toward Garcia and tapped his chest with a forefinger. “As for pay, your men should consider that there will be no pay at all if another shipment is lost.”

  Lopez became aware that the sergeant’s men were watching. Garcia turned his head to the gathering of state police officers and shook his head, meaning for them to remain where they were, then he turned back to Lopez.

  “Be very careful, Pepe.” He leaned close enough for Lopez to feel his breath on his face. “We have had a long relationship in this business, but remember that you are not the only … how is it the norteamericanos say?” His eyes widened, and he smiled. “Ah yes, you are not the only game in town, and your employers in Texas should remember this also.”

  Garcia slapped Lopez on the shoulder to demonstrate to his watching officers that all was well between them. “Now we will get to work and try to protect your shipments, and I know that when this affair is over, you will compensate my men for the many extra hours they will have served you. You will do this because my men will expect it and you know that they can find you wherever you are.”

  Garcia walked away and shouted to his men to give them their orders. Pepe Lopez stood in the road, sweating under the sun. He now had two problems, find the informer, and deal with Garcia who vastly overestimated his importance to the business.

  First things first. He could deal with Garcia later. Finding the informer was a matter of critical importance if he wanted to avoid a bullet in the head.

  38.

  The Music

  “Hey, girl!” Doyle Krieg grabbed the crotch of his jeans and ground his hips.

  “Don’t forget me!” Paco González aped Doyle’s movements and leered at the girl on the porch of the guesthouse.

  “Ignore them. They are pigs, but they can’t hurt you.” Claire reached out and patted Jacinta’s arm. “They wouldn’t dare. His father would beat them.”

  They sat side by side in the chairs on the guesthouse porch, sipping coffee. Tom Krieg had not called for either of them in the night. Jacinta gave a prayer of thanks for that, although Claire warned her that one day soon he would call for her again.

  Her sleep had been fitful. At one point she must have cried out in the night because she woke to find Claire in bed with her holding her head against her breast and patting her shoulder the way one caressed a sick, feverish child.

  “There, there, little one. It will pass.”

  The words were even almost the same ones Jacinta had used with the children she had tended in Mexico. She blocked the thought of the night and Krieg and the promise that he would call for her again soon. Blocking everything out was the only way to remain sane.

  “I know you want some of this, girl!” Doyle grinned and stroked the front of his pants.

  He and Paco were closer now, standing on the lawn twenty feet from the porch. Jacinta looked away.

  “Go away, little boy!” Claire called out. “Before your father finds out what you are doing.”

  “How’s he gonna find out? You gonna tell him?” Doyle came closer and rested a boot on the porch steps.

  “You know,” Paco leered at Claire. “For an old whore, you don’t look so bad. How about it … you and me … we go have a little fun inside?”

  “In your dreams,” Claire smirked. “And I’ll bet they’re wet sticky dreams when you think of me.”

  “I’ll bet she’s right about that!” Doyle laughed.

  “Puta … whore, bitch,” Paco snarled.

  “Run along now, boys. Come back when you’re grown men.” Claire lifted a cup from the side table and sipped the coffee that had now become cold.

  “You should watch that mouth, whore.”

  Claire put the cup down and leaned forward, glaring into Doyle’s eyes. “No, you should be more careful with your mouth. If I tell your father about this, it will be bad for you.”

  The reaction was immediate. Paco took a step back, deciding retreat might be the better part of valor, or at least the best way to avoid an ass-kicking by Tom Krieg.

  The threat only made Doyle angrier.

  “He might give me the back of his hand. I’ve had that before.” Doyle’s eyes narrowed into mean snake-like slits. “You’ll get a hell of a lot worse, don’t forget it.”

  She never forgot it. She didn’t care. Over the years, Tom Krieg had beaten the caring out of her. Their eyes remained locked together, a cobra and a mongoose, each searching for precisely the right moment to strike and survive the encounter.

  Seconds passed. The silent battle might have continued if not for the crunch of gravel under tires in the drive.

  Paco turned toward the sound. “We got company.”

  Doyle looked over his shoulder. “Son of a bitch.”

  Sandy Palmeras drove slowly along the drive. He’d been to the Krieg place before, had worked on vehicles for the ranch many times, but it always seemed a little surreal, coming out of the brush country into the landscaped gardens and lawns.

  He brought the pickup to a stop and hopped to the ground. Doyle and his asshole buddy Paco were fifty yards away at the guesthouse porch, no doubt harassing Claire and another girl seated with her on the porch.

  He knew Claire. Everyone knew Claire. Tom Krieg’s mistress was a fixture in the county, although no one ever called her his mistress in his presence. She was always referred to as Claire or Miss Claire, or Miss Toussaint on more formal occasions.

  He didn’t recognize the other woman, but she looked younger. Maybe a relative of Claire’s he thought. He called to Doyle.

  “You boys want to give me a hand here?”

  “Do your own fucking work.” Doyle turned back to the women and said something that made Paco laugh.

  Claire didn’t laugh though, and the girl beside her lowered her head. His mother’s words rang in his ear. Watch out for Doyle Krieg. Well, he was watching him now, could see him over there plain as day. He shrugged and walked toward the guesthouse.

  “Miss Claire.” He nodded in greeting as he approached the porch.

  “Sandy.” Claire smiled. “It is good to see you. You haven’t been around for a while.”

  “Been busy.” Sandy’s eyes moved to Jacinta. “And this is?”

  “This is Jacinta,” Claire said. “A … friend.”

  There was just the slightest hesitation, but Sandy caught it. A friend? A friend of whose, he wondered but didn’t ask.

  “Hello, Jacinta … Hola Jacinta. That’s a pretty name.”

  He spoke in semi-fluent Spanish. Everyone in southwest Texas spoke at least a little Spanish and Sandy’s was better than most, certainly better than Doyle’s.

  “Jacinta,” he continued. “That’s a flower, isn’t it? In English, we call it hyacinth.”

  “Yes, a flower. El jacinto, but for a girl, it is Jacinta.”

  Jacinta smiled for the first time since arriving at the Krieg estate. The smile was not lost on Claire, who was happy to see the girl relax for a moment and forget her situation. She saw that Doyle also noticed the smile and his eyes darkened. They must be cautious. Jacinta’s pleasant conversation with Sandy could have disagreeable, even dangerous, consequences.

  “It’s a beautiful name.” Sandy took a step up on the porch, bent over, and extended a hand. “I am Reynaldo Palmeras, but everyone calls me Sandy because of this.” He took his other hand and lifted a few strands of his hair.

  Jacinta’s smile broke into a laugh. There, standing on the guesthouse porch, on a day like any other when he expected nothing exceptional to happen, Sandy heard the most beautiful music he had ever heard in her laughter.

  He looked into Jacinta’s dark ey
es and something inside him changed. Without knowing it, he had taken another step into manhood.

  Claire saw it, and her face darkened with concern. “Don’t let us keep you from your work, Sandy. Mr. Krieg will want his machines unloaded and in the barn before he gets home.”

  “You’re right.” Sandy nodded and looked at Doyle. “You gonna help?”

  “Fuck off.” Doyle and Paco smirked and strolled away from the porch and any possibility that they might have to do some work.

  He turned back to Jacinta. “Maybe I can come visit you again.”

  “I would like that.” She knew Claire’s worried eyes bored into her but said it anyway.

  After losing so much, she thought, what else could she lose? The boy’s face was open and honest. His eyes pierced into hers, studying them as if he saw things that others did not.

  The devil called Krieg, who had stolen her life from her, might not be happy, but she didn’t care. This moment was theirs, between her and this boy called Sandy. He had no power to steal this tiny moment of happiness from her.

  “Good.” Sandy turned toward the truck and went to work.

  When he had the ATVs unloaded and in the barn, he stopped at the porch. “Adiós por ahora.” Goodbye for now.

  “Goodbye for now.” Jacinta smiled and held his gaze until Claire broke in.

  “Goodbye now, Sandy. Go home safely,” Claire said, taking Jacinta by the hand to coax her into the house while she looked over a shoulder at the smiling young man.

  The miles back to Creosote passed without Sandy remembering how he got there. His ears still rang with Jacinta’s laugh, the music that had changed him, the music he had to hear again.

  39.

  Some Mex Gonna be Happy

  “Why the fuck we gotta meet here?” Lucky Martin slammed the door on the rusted pickup.

  “Why the fuck do you think?” Deputy Claude Brainerd leaned against his county truck, smoking a cigarette, his belt and holster laid out across the truck’s hood.

  On temporary leave from K and Z Trucking, while things settled down over the shooting at the river, Martin had driven his personal truck. He resented having to burn his own gas to come to this meeting. After all, the whole thing was being blown out of proportion.

  All he did was take a few shots at a bunch of Mexicans trying to cross the river illegally and by, God, he stopped them. So, one got nicked in the process—so fucking what? If they hadn’t tried to cross, they wouldn’t have been hurt. Everyone was acting like he had done something wrong just for doing what they paid him to do.

  Not to mention, he got his ass beat by some drifter in the process. Now, the word was going around that they were going to hire the drifter because he was such a fucking tough guy. It was bullshit.

  As far as he was concerned, that drifter better watch his back. It was just a matter of time before Lucky Martin found a way to even things up with him.

  “Goddammit, Claude. I don’t like being here.”

  Martin looked around. He was parked in nearly the same place along the river bank he had been on the day of the shooting. He touched his hand tenderly to the still swollen jaw the medics in Brownsville had wired partially shut until the fracture healed. Unable to open his mouth fully, his voice had a curious hissing quality as the words passed over what was left of his teeth.

  “Damned if you don’t sound like a hair-lipped rattler.” Brainerd laughed. “Did you bring it?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  “Where?”

  “In my truck.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  “Shit.”

  Martin turned around and walked back to his truck. Brainerd followed, tugging his pants up under his belly as he walked.

  “Here.”

  Martin tugged the squealing door open, reached behind the seat, and pulled out a Winchester Model 94. He handed it to Brainerd who immediately levered open the chamber.

  “It’s unloaded,” Martin sneered. “No way I’d hand you a loaded rifle.”

  “Good thinking.” Brainerd smiled. “Better safe than sorry, though. That’s what my daddy always said.”

  He turned and pointed down the bank toward the river. “Show me exactly where you were and what happened over there.”

  “What the hell is this all about?”

  “I’m supposed to follow up. Seems you started a shit storm, putting a slug in that Mex. They want me to make sure everything’s cleaned up … no loose ends lying around.”

  “Goddammit! I already explained everything to Krieg and Zabala. They’re the ones that told me to stay out of sight for a while. You know them, right? The ones that pay you your kickback for being their boy.”

  “Yeah, I know them.” Brainerd’s small pig eyes narrowed in his fat face. “And you best watch your mouth … boy.”

  Their eyes were only locked for a second before Martin backed off, not feeling all that lucky. “Okay,” he said. “Sorry, Claude. I suppose you’re just doin’ your job the way I was when I shot near them Mex people tryin’ to swim the river.”

  “Show me where you were.”

  “Alright. This way.”

  Lucky Martin led the way along the bank fifty yards or so to a point where the clearing across the river and the small stand of bushes were visible.

  “They was over there.” He pointed. “Me and Stu, we was here.”

  Brainerd looked down at the ground.

  “You won’t find nothin’,” Lucky snapped. “Me and Stu cleaned up the brass if that’s what you’re thinkin’ … me injured and all, in pain … I still done my job.” He nodded at Brainerd. “You tell them that.”

  “I will.” Brainerd walked toward the river. “Shit, Lucky. Can’t be more than a hundred yards or so away. How the hell did you miss.”

  “I didn’t fucking miss.”

  “Well, you told Krieg and Zabala that you wasn’t aiming at nobody, yet you managed to put a round in that Mex.” Brainerd turned and grinned. “Sounds like a miss to me.”

  “I didn’t miss.” Lucky hissed through the wires holding his jaw in place. “Look.”

  He stepped forward, pointing at the far bank. “See that clump of brush over there.”

  “Yeah, I see it.”

  “They was in there, all of them. I just put a couple of rounds nearby to sort of warn them to go back the way they come. Next thing I know, that damned Mex is out crawling around, so I put some rounds in the dirt near him.”

  “That don’t explain how you managed to hit him.”

  “Because, goddammit, the Mex started jumpin’ around like a monkey. He jumped hisself right into one of my bullets. That’s all they was to it.”

  “You’re sayin’, you shot him by accident.”

  “Damned right it was by accident. There’s no way …”

  Lucky Martin never saw the pistol. Brainerd reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled the small .32 caliber semiautomatic. While Martin pointed across the Rio Grande to the clump of bushes where the Mexican family had taken refuge from his bullets, Brainerd pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession.

  Fired from a distance two feet, all three slugs penetrated the back of Lucky’s skull. It took less than an ounce of lead to snuff out his unpleasant existence.

  Lucky Martin dropped where he stood. The only sound was the lifeless thud when his body hit the dirt. Brainerd looked down at him for a moment, searching for signs of life. There were none. Then he scanned the distance to the water and cursed.

  “Fuck. Shoulda got him closer first.”

  It took the deputy a couple of minutes to drag the corpse to the water's edge and roll it in. He tossed the rifle in behind him.

  For a moment, he thought about tossing the pistol in the river with the rifle. It was just a Saturday night special, a cheap piece of steel like a million others. He’d taken it off a drunk Mexican he locked up one night and then hung onto it for use in some special occasion. Putting holes in Lucky Martin’s head was special enough h
e figured.

  An untraceable weapon was a handy thing to have, especially the way things were heating up with Krieg and Zabala lately. You never knew. He might be called on to use it again. He decided to hold onto the pistol.

  “Some Mex over there gonna be happy when old Lucky’s body bobs up somewheres along the bank.” Brainerd pushed the pistol back in his pocket and made his way up the slope, panting and muttering.

  He stopped to wipe the sweat from his face with the back of his arm. “Least I won’t be the one pullin’ him out.”

  40.

  La Guerra

  Mario Acosta did not want to be there. The blast furnace of the noon sun beat down on the top of his head until he thought his brain would roast inside his skull. Worse than the sun, though, was the stench.

  Twenty men stood in a circle baking under the sun outside Benito Diaz’s shack. In the center of the circle was a wire enclosure. Inside the pen were twenty-eight men and women. A few of the girls looked to be no older thirteen of fourteen. The terrified prisoners inside the wire eyed the stone-faced men on the outside. Many wept, certain their departure from this world was imminent.

  The captives lined the wire praying for deliverance. The center of the enclosure had become a cesspool, the only place they could relieve themselves. Puddles of urine and the watery bowel movements of those overcome with fear steamed under the sun and released their noxious fumes, making it difficult to breath.

  Acosta had never experienced anything so foul. The stench of human excrement, sweat, and fear filled the air. He gagged and feared he might add to the smells by puking his guts out on the ground. He could only wonder at how much more terrible it must be for those crowded together inside the pen.

  He had arrived in the back of the same van that brought him the day they abducted him from Torreón. Over his objections, they warned him that the jefe, Benito Diaz, expected his presence. Acosta had nodded and climbed into the van. Resisting was pointless. On arrival at the shack, he was ordered to join the men standing in the dusty yard. Diaz was nowhere to be seen.