Road to Justice

by Glenn Trust

  “Suit yourself.” Stu cut another section of tomato, disinclined to leave the shade of the truck.

  They were backed up to a rickety shed where a half dozen, brown-skinned farmworkers loaded crates of tomatoes onto the truck. The workers ignored the gringo with the shotgun, apparently accustomed to the Krieg and Zabala security methods.

  On the side of the shed, Sole found a dozen more workers, sitting in a patch of shade. A familiar aroma filled the air, and he moved closer.

  “¡Hola!.” He called out as he approached.

  “Hola, señor.” One of the group responded, older than the others.

  Sole wasn’t sure exactly how to strike up a conversation. He’d been trying to pick up as much Spanish as he could for the last year, knowing he would need it. But the most words he’d strung together were to tell the family at the river to go away and get medical attention. This would be his first attempt to have a real conversation.

  “How goes it?” he said, halting at first, but a little more confident that they seemed to understand him.

  “It goes well,” the man responded. “And you? Everything in order?” He nodded at the shotgun, still tucked under Sole’s arm.

  “Oh, this …” Sole put the butt of the gun on the ground and leaned the barrel against the shed, near enough to reach if he needed it. He smiled. “Yes, everything is in order. Mi compañero says I worry too much.”

  The workers laughed.

  “Yes,” the senior man said. “There is nothing to be concerned about here. No banditos.”

  At that, the others laughed again, louder this time. “Sí, no banditos,” they echoed.

  “I see you’re taking a break. It must be hard work here on a farm.”

  “Yes. The men work very hard, and now they get a break and a little food. I am Rafael, and these are the workers I supervise for the owner of the farm.”

  Sole eyed the man’s hand.

  Rafael held out his arm. “You want some?”

  “Sure.”

  Sole took the joint from Rafael’s hand, inhaled and then coughed. The men laughed but nodded their approval.

  Most were seated in the shade, smoking marijuana. The few who weren’t munched tortillas or leaned back against the shed to doze before going back to work.

  “Good,” Sole nodded, handing the joint back to Rafael.

  “Yes,” Rafael agreed. “Excellent marijuana is grown here.” He leaned forward and winked. “When I was younger, I worked on a farm that grows it.” Rafael laughed and slapped his knee. “We were always high.”

  “It is not against the law in Mexico?” Sole asked.

  “It was. Now, not so much. The Supreme Court is making changes here.” Rafael shrugged, and the smile spread across his face again. “It wouldn’t matter either way. We smoke it. What are the policía going to do? They smoke it too.”

  Heads nodded, and more laughter rippled through the group.

  “If I wanted something more than this? Can you tell me who I would talk to about it?”

  “More than this?” Rafael held the joint in front of his eyes and then smiled. “You mean cocaína.”

  “Yes, cocaine. Is it for sale around here?”

  “For cocaine, you would have to go to a city. You could get some in Monterrey, but it is hazardous for a norteamericano. Probably, the dealer would rob you, and you would not get the cocaine. They might even kill you.”

  Rafael thought about it for a moment and added, “But you are from north of the border, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why don’t you just get cocaína from a dealer there in one of the cities. It would be safer, and they get their cocaine from the same place … from the cartels.”

  It was the word he had refrained from using, not wanting to arouse suspicion about his motives, but Rafael had used it. “Are the cartels here?”

  “They are everywhere, but it is very dangerous for you to try and speak with them directly. It is better to go to someone … a dealer you can trust, right?” Rafael nodded. “Go to one that you trust and ask for cocaine up north on the other side of the border. That would be the safest thing for you to do.”

  The others had followed the conversation with interest. Now they nodded their heads in agreement. “Yes, that would be much safer,” several said.

  “Can you tell me which cartel supplies the cocaine?” Sole persisted.

  “Ah, there are several, but the biggest is Los Salvajes.” Rafael looked into his eyes. “Their name, The Savages, should tell you how dangerous they are, señor. You should not try to make contact with them.”

  “What if I wanted to meet them for business reasons?”

  “Business reasons?” Rafael started to laugh, and then the smile vanished from his face. “You mean to sell cocaine for them?”

  “Maybe.” Sole shrugged. “If I can make a deal with them.”

  “This I know nothing about.” Rafael stood abruptly. “It is time for us to get back to work.”

  The others followed. Sole heard murmured comments as they trailed off into the fields.

  “Crazy gringo.”

  “Gonna get himself killed.”

  “Better him than us. Stay away from this one if he comes back alive.”

  “If Los Salvajes find out, he was asking questions there will be trouble.”

  “As long as the trouble is for the gringo and not us.”

  “If Los Salvajes is around, they bring trouble for everyone.”

  He turned to walk back to the truck.

  "Hey, señor!” A farmhand trotted away from the group headed to the field and hurried after Sole.

  “¿Que pasa?” What’s up? Sole turned to face him.

  “Maybe I help you.” The man, he was not much more than a boy, still bearing the scars of pimples across his forehead.

  “How’s that?”

  “You ask about Los Salvajes, yes? To maybe sell cocaine for them.”

  “Yes.” Sole nodded. “If I can make contact with them. What’s your name?”

  “Juan Galdo.”

  “How can you help me, Juan?”

  “My cousin …” He paused, scanning in all directions to make sure no one was within listening distance. “He is with Los Salvajes. I can tell him of your wish to sell cocaína for the cartel. If you pay me.”

  “I’ll pay you.” Sole stared into the man’s eyes. “How much?”

  The look on the field hand’s face showed that the question took him by surprise. He thought for a second “A hundred …” when there was no reaction from Sole, he said, “No, I mean five hundred U.S. dollars. I think it is worth that much.”

  “You have a deal.” Sole nodded at the fields where the others were already bent over picking tomatoes by hand. “If your cousin is with the cartel, why are you here?”

  “Oh, Rafael is correct. It is hazardous to work with them, señor.” He nodded at the fields. “Here, the work is very hard, but I go home and sleep, and no one comes with a gun to wake me from my sleep in the night to shoot holes in me.”

  “But you figure telling your cousin about me is safe enough … for five hundred dollars.”

  Juan smiled. “Sí, for five hundred, it is only a little dangerous.”

  “Alright.” Sole nodded, admiring Juan Galdo’s notions about risk and reward. “You tell your cousin I would like to meet him and see about selling cocaine for Los Salvajes.”

  “I will do that. Do you have a phone? I can give the number to my cousin, and he will call you.”

  “No phones.” Sole shook his head. “You contact your cousin and set things up. I will contact you for directions. Where can I reach you, in person?”

  “There is a small village near the farm, Correlia. You passed through it coming here. My house is on the south edge of the town.” Juan thought for a second, trying to determine how to make his house stand out from all of the other shacks in the village. After a few seconds, he smiled and said, “When you come, there will be a blue blanket on a rope in
the yard. My mother hangs clothes to dry there. I will make sure she leaves the blanket there until you come.”

  “Fair enough.” Sole nodded.

  “And the five hundred dollars, señor?”

  “When you take me to see your cousin, you will have the money.”

  “That is very good.” Juan grinned.

  “When?” Sole asked.

  “It may take a little time. My cousin is very busy with his work for the cartel, and I cannot always leave to go to Monterrey. I will contact him. The trucks come often for tomatoes. You come again with them, and I will say when we can meet my cousin.”

  “Good.” Sole nodded. “I’ll be back.”

  Juan grinned, then wiped the smile off his face and trotted out to the field to join the others. Sole turned toward the truck.

  Just like that, it happened. The cartels are everywhere, Rafael had said. What had seemed so remote, suddenly, became real, imminent, a thing he could plan for and see through to the end.

  The air seemed to crackle electrically around him. His senses twitched. He was close, closer than he had ever been.

  45.

  It Doesn’t Matter

  The lights were off at the café by the time Sole drove down the street in Creosote. He let the pickup idle slowly through town without headlights, not wanting to attract attention.

  For a moment, he thought of driving through to the other end of town. She might still be up. He shook the idea away. So what if she was up?

  Isabella had made it clear that she welcomed his company, but there hadn’t been anything more than that between them. Denying that he was attracted to her was impossible. She reminded him so much of Shaye. Maybe that was the problem.

  Independent, self-confident, poised, a mixture of outward toughness that concealed something softer under the surface, he found his thoughts dwelling on her more and more. She could laugh at him and not make him feel small. Instead, it seemed she was letting him in on a joke without turning him into the joke.

  Stop! There had been no invitations extended to come knocking on her door at two in the morning.

  He pulled up in front of his shack, opened the pickup’s door as quietly as possible, and stepped up on the stoop.

  “How’d the first day on the job go?”

  He hadn’t seen her. Peering into the shadows by the café, he could make out one of her long legs propped up on the post that held up the awning over the entrance.

  “Went okay.” He walked toward her and looked up and down the street. “You out here alone?”

  “Alone as can be.” She laughed. “And you seem surprised.”

  “I guess I am. Thought everyone, including the unofficial town mayor, would be tucked in by now.”

  “Hah. I’m not the mayor, unofficial or otherwise. I’m just one of the survivors like everyone else stuck here.”

  “I was trying not to wake anyone.”

  “Yep. I saw how you crept down the street. Not much reason to though. The drunks are passed out, and the ones that aren’t drunk don’t sleep … like me.”

  “You don’t sleep?”

  He stepped into the shadows where she sat on an old aluminum lawn chair and looked down, seeing her clearly now. She wore shorts and a halter top, her usual attire, but she made it seem like more, not a woman putting her body on display. She was comfortable in her own skin, and that gave her a simple elegance regardless of her dress. His eyes moved over her body, and his breath caught in his chest.

  “No, I don’t sleep, not much anyway,” she said.

  “Why?” He wondered if she knew he stared at her in the dark, committing the image of her to memory.

  “Now that’s a damned good question, Bill Myers. Got a day or two? We could talk it over. You’d be my analyst.”

  “Don’t think I’d be much good at that.”

  “Well, we could just talk and keep on talking for as long as you want.” She smiled, her teeth catching the moonlight. “Or whatever you want to do.”

  There it was. The invitation was in the open, clearly stated, and clearly understood. Isabella was not flirting with him or propositioning him. It was a simple statement, one adult, to another, one lonely person to another, offering comfort and companionship.

  “No, I can’t …” he started. The voice from his memories whispered in his ear.

  Yes, John. You can. I want you to.

  “Alright.” His voice was barely audible, the word caught in his throat like a man opening a valve, slowly to prevent a flood from pouring out.

  “Good.” Isabella rose from the chair and reached for his hand.

  They walked through the town without speaking. Her hand was warm and firm in his, and when she twined her fingers between his, stirrings rose inside that he thought were dead.

  She led the way to her house. This time, they did not sit in the wicker chairs on the porch. She opened the door, stepped in, and turned, smiling, waiting for him to follow. He hesitated, and then stepped through the door.

  Isabella held out her hand to guide him to the bedroom. She stood there before him, looking into his eyes, giving him time to become comfortable.

  They were close. He could feel her breath on his face. Her scent engulfed him as if she had her arms around him. Then she did.

  She stepped forward, rose on her toes, and put her arms around his neck, letting her lips brush his lightly. His arms wrapped around her waist. The kiss deepened, filled with fervor driven by their mutual need to end the loneliness.

  They stood like that in her bedroom, embracing, not wanting to separate. Time passed—minutes, hours, John Sole didn’t know, didn’t care.

  She stepped away and loosened the halter top and let it fall. His eyes were locked on her, unable to look away.

  Her shorts dropped to the floor. She stepped out of them, and reached up to loosen his clothing, button by button. When they stood naked before each other, she came close again to embrace and continue the kiss.

  Pressed together, their passion rose, their breath coming fast in gasps of pleasure and desire. He lifted her from the floor and carried her to the bed.

  They made love, desperate for each other at first, then slowing to savor each caress. Every touch was electric. They tried to prolong the moments, not wanting to lose any of it by hurrying. When they came, each heart beating against the other, they remained locked in the embrace that had begun their lovemaking.

  As the glow settled over them, she rested her head on his chest, his arms still wrapped around her.

  “I won’t try to be her,” Isabella said.

  He started to speak, and she put a finger on his lips to silence him. “I only want you to know. I am not trying to be the one you lost. That wouldn’t be fair to either of us. I’m Isabella, and I am happy being me. I have just one question.”

  “Yes?”

  “How long will you be here?”

  It was plain what she wanted—a companion, someone to share life, to make a life together. They were the things he wanted, but Isabella had more courage than he and wasn’t afraid to say them out loud.

  How could he tell her his reasons for being there? How could he make a promise or guess how long or where he would be in a month, a week or even tomorrow? He might not even be alive in another week.

  He answered honestly. “I don’t know, Isabella.”

  She nodded, and her hair moved against his skin, soft and sensual. A tear rolled across her cheek and onto his chest, warm at first, and then cool. She brushed it away, annoyed with herself.

  They had the moment. That was all she had ever had, the present. Why would she demand more of him? How could she? The tears dried.

  She nestled closer, put a leg over his hip, her lips brushing against his chest. She whispered her own honest reply. “It doesn’t matter.”

  46.

  Interlude

  They settled into a comfortable routine. Sole sat with Isabella and helped in the café most days when he wasn’t on a run for K and Z.


  Evenings they would sit on her porch watch the sunset, or walk down the road hand in hand and chat with the locals out on their front stoops, or take a ride out into the brush country and watch the night come on until the sky blazed with stars. For a while, the world seemed to pass them by and they found peace.

  Neither questioned the other about their past. Now and again a little snippet of their history would slip out in conversation. They would look it over as if they just stumbled on an interesting rock, or bird, or insect on one of their walks. Then they would move on and leave it behind.

  The past wasn’t important. What was important was the peace they both felt being together, and for the moment, neither wanted to upset the delicate balance that might send it away.

  Two or three times a week, Sole would leave early in the morning to make a run into Mexico to pick up vegetables for K and Z. He told them he wanted to make the runs to pick up tomatoes at the farm south of Monterrey, and there didn’t seem to be any reason not to give him the assignment with Stu Pearce on a regular basis. They made a good team, and Krieg and Zabala had Pearce keeping an eye on him.

  Sole knew that one day the farmhand, Juan Galdo, would have information for him about meeting his cousin, the cartel drug dealer. He went dutifully to see him on every visit to the farm, but the longer he was with Isabella, the less he wanted to receive the information.

  What he wanted was to spend every moment he could with Isabella and for nothing to change. At first, he felt guilty and reminded himself that he had a mission, but as the days passed, holding her at night, listening to her voice, hearing her laugh, he felt less guilty, and the mission faded to the background. What mattered was the present with Isabella.

  While he was gone on the runs for Krieg and Zabala, Isabella discovered a new emotion. She was lonely.

  Living in Creosote, she had always lived on her own but had never felt lonely. There had been no one to be lonely for.

  Now there was, and she waited up late until Sole returned from the Mexico trips. She would greet him with supper and a beer, and they would sit together and talk about where he had gone that day, or the gossip making the rounds in the café, or nothing at all. When they were together, the loneliness went away.