Retribution

by Brent Towns

  When Kane emerged from the alley, he looked left and right but couldn’t see the kid anywhere. So, he turned left and kept on along the sidewalk.

  The center of town was at the main crossroads. He stood briefly on the corner outside the town hall. Diagonally opposite him was the courthouse. The Sheriff’s Office was opposite that, and on the other corner was a car dealership with five cars in the lot.

  Kane was about to step down onto the asphalt to cross the street when a siren gave a quick whoop! A sheriff’s cruiser pulled up in front of him on the wrong side of the road. The window came down, and a solid man wearing a uniform and mirrored Aviator sunglasses looked up at him.

  The first words out of his mouth were, “Stranger in town?”

  Kane looked around the intersection. An orange Ford pickup drove by, and a beat-up Chrysler came back the other way. Across the street on the sidewalk, a girl, perhaps seventeen, walked along and looked in his direction. She wore denim shorts cut off a hair below her buttocks and a tight, white, singlet top. Her long, black hair spilled down her back.

  “I asked you a question, mister.”

  “Yeah,” Kane said and dropped his gaze to the man in the car. “Sheriff?”

  “Deputy. Deputy Art Cleaver,” Cleaver said and looked him up and down. “Come in on the bus?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You staying or passing through?”

  “Ain’t sure yet.”

  Cleaver took off his glasses and pointed one end at Kane. “Let me give you some advice. Keep going. Ain’t nothing in Retribution for you.”

  “Must be something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Feller offered me a job,” Kane told him.

  Cleaver frowned. “Who did?”

  “Druce, down at the gas station.”

  A look of concern came over Cleaver’s face but quickly disappeared. “All right then. If you got yourself a job, I guess that’s OK. But if you step out of line, I’ll run you out of town so fast your head’ll spin.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Make sure you do.”

  The glasses went back on Cleaver’s face, and the window whirred as it returned to the closed position, keeping out the heat of the day. Then, with a small screech of tires, Cleaver was gone.

  Kane began to think that the bus driver’s offer might have been the better choice rather than stopping in Retribution.

  “Damn it, Marylou, how many times do you have to be told? No testing the fucking product.”

  “I’m sorry, Barrett, it wo –”

  The crack of knuckles on bone filled the room. “Shut up! All you have to do is get it ready for distribution. Just put it in the little packets. Christ, are you dumb or something?”

  Barrett Miller took out the handgun tucked into his pants and placed it against the side of Marylou’s head. She trembled with fear and tears ran from her pale-blue eyes.

  “Next time I’ll put a bullet in your head and take you out into the desert for the vultures to pick clean. Understand?”

  “Y – Yes.”

  He shoved her away from him so hard she stumbled. She caught herself and moved back to work with the other four women.

  Barrett tucked the nickel-plated Smith and Wesson 1911 back into his pants and signaled to one of his men in the far corner.

  The drug dealer was a tall man, maybe six-feet-five. Broad across the chest and the black singlet top he wore showed the jailhouse tattoos on each well-muscled arm. His eyes were dark, cold and distant, his hair black and his jaw square.

  The gang operated out of a house in the backlots of Retribution. The sheriff’s office had raided the house on several occasions but failed to find anything each time, thanks to an insider they paid well.

  Whenever a tipoff came in, Barrett and his crew were well organized and quickly dissembled any evidence of illegal activity and stashed it in a subterranean room beneath the basement. Along with money and weapons.

  Once the cocaine was cut and bagged, a third party was brought in to deliver the goods to the sellers in Phoenix and collect any money that was owed.

  “What you want, Barrett?”

  “Keep an eye on Marylou for me, Buck. If she starts testing the product again, I want you to take her out in the desert and put a goddamn bullet in her head.”

  The man’s deeply-tanned face remained stoic, and he nodded.

  “I got to go to Sonora in a couple of days to see Montoya and deliver his money to him,” Barrett continued. “There is, however, another shipment coming across tonight. The crew in Phoenix want a double batch this time around. The Cardinals have a game this weekend. That’ll give the girls three days to get it cut and bagged.”

  “That’s a lot of work, Barrett,” Buck pointed out.

  Barrett shrugged. “Give them some incentive. Tell them if it don’t get done on time, I’ll take them with me to Sonora next time I go, and they can visit El Hombre.”

  El Hombre! Juan Jesus Montoya, of the Montoya Cartel. A dangerous man if there ever was one. Especially if you erred on his wrong side.

  The cartel boss lived in a fortified villa outside the small town of Acuña, ten miles on the Mexican side of the border. He surrounded himself with armed men who had been hand-picked for the job. Most were either ex-military or policía. Some were just plain killers.

  Barrett had known him to venture onto American soil only once before. A trusted business associate had skimmed an extra five-million off the profits. Montoya came across with his sicario and paid the man a visit.

  They returned before dawn the next day, leaving behind one of the worst crime scenes Arizona law enforcement officers had ever seen.

  Buck knew it was pointless to protest further so let it go.

  A door opened, and the thin young man who’d been with Bolt entered.

  “About damned time, Alton,” Barrett snapped. “Where’s Bolt? He was meant to be here an hour ago.”

  Alton’s expression was grim. “We had ourselves a slight problem, Barrett.”

  A dark cloud descended over Barrett’s face. He hated problems. They always seemed to breed more problems.

  He said in a low voice, “Tell me.”

  By the time Alton was finished, Barrett had become eerily calm. “Where is he now?”

  “I’m waiting for Davy to call once he perches.”

  The phone rang.

  Alton picked up and put it to his ear. He waited in silence for a few seconds and hung up. He looked at Barrett. “Chester’s Motel.”

  The bell above the door jingled when Kane entered the motel’s reception area, signaling his arrival at the empty wooden counter.

  When Kane had first swung into the motel’s driveway, the garishness of the bright-yellow building hit him between the eyes like a 5.56 NATO round. Then he saw the sign that said: Pool. When he looked around for it, he saw only a fenced area where giant cacti had grown within.

  “Looks like the oasis is a desert,” he murmured.

  The motel was all on one level. It spread in a long L-shape, with the main reception area at the front. The neglected lot had two cars in it. One, a Ford Taurus with Arizona plates, and the other was a beat-up Buick that Kane figured would be lucky to make it out of its park.

  As he got closer, he noticed that large flakes of the yellow paint were peeling off and tufts of grass grew out of the cracks in the concrete walkway in front of the rooms so bad that a cleaning trolley would have trouble getting by them.

  The sign on the door had read: Budget Rooms.

  Kane reached the counter and was about to pick up the pitted bell to ring when an unkempt, middle-aged man dressed in jeans and a stained white singlet emerged from the back room.

  “Howdy, stranger, what can I do you all for?” he smiled and revealed a row of discolored teeth. “The name’s Chester.”

  “A room would be good. Preferably a clean one.”

  “Sure, sure. Clean’s all we got. If you sign the register, I’ll rustle up a
key.”

  He signed his Christian name only while Chester turned away to the keyboard. When the man turned back, he looked down at the ledger. “Is that it?”

  “That’s all you’ll get, apart from the money for the room. How much?”

  “Eighty.”

  “For the week?”

  “Per night.”

  Kane raised his eyebrows and reached into his pocket. He took out a roll of bills and peeled off two twenties. He tossed them on the scarred countertop. Kane stared at Chester and said, “You’ll get the rest if I like the room.”

  Chester almost protested but instead scooped up the money as though it were about to be taken back. He nodded. “The rooms are fine. You’ll see. It’s number nine.”

  Kane took the key, walked out of the reception area and paused. His time in charge of recon missions had taught him to be aware of his surroundings. He took in everything around him; the parking lot and its derelict asphalt, the large, now-defunct furniture store across the street, a graffitied dumpster outside the loading dock, and the punk beside it, trying not to be seen.

  Kane stared at him for a good thirty seconds before it got the better of the gang member who walked away. He watched him go, then made his way along the parking lot in front of the rooms to avoid the grass, past a line of yellow doors until he found his number.

  The key slid smoothly into the door-lock, but when Kane tried to turn it, it wouldn’t move. He jiggled it a touch, but there was still no movement. He stepped back and looked at the number. Nine. Then something caught his eye. There was a hole in the wood above the number. He stepped back further and looked at the door to his left. Number five.

  He worked out the problem. A screw had come free, and the number had turned.

  Kane found his room number and this time the key worked. He turned the doorknob and pushed the door inward.

  The trapped heat from the room rushed out and smacked him in the face. It released the built-up-over-time smells of stale tobacco smoke and another odor that Kane couldn’t nail down. He stepped inside and found the carpet stained with indeterminate matters. The mirror had a large crack in it, and the bench where the microwave and glasses sat was delaminated and had dropped woodchips.

  He checked the bathroom and found it a similar state of disrepair. There was a copper-green stain in the shower, and the toilet still had the previous occupier’s stains on the bowl. He peeled the covers back on the double bed and hissed in disgust. The once-white sheets were stained. Now he knew that the grass on the path would not get in the way of a cleaning trolley – they obviously didn’t have one.

  Far from happy, Kane stalked outside and pointed himself in the direction of the reception. He pushed in through the door and stopped at the counter. He picked up the bell and rang it until Chester appeared.

  “What’s up?”

  “The room.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “How about what the hell is right with it?” Kane growled. “I’ll give you an hour to sort that shit out, and I’ll be back. If you ain’t done, I’ll kick your ass until it is. Where can I get a beer?”

  Chester opened his mouth to protest at the way he’d been spoken to. Before a sound could emerge, Kane snapped, “The next words past your lips better be, Yes, sir or I’ll drag you down to the room and use you for a rag. Understand?”

  The motel owner’s mouth clamped shut, and he nodded.

  “Good. Beer?”

  “There’s a bar one block over and down to your right. It’s called Drew’s Cactus Rose.”

  Kane cocked a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Don’t ask.”

  Chester peered over Kane’s shoulder, and his expression changed. “Oh, shit!”

  Kane turned and saw five men walking into the parking lot. The man at their center was a full head taller than the rest.

  “Who are they?”

  “Barrett Miller and his crew. They ain’t due for another couple of days?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have to pay them insurance.”

  “Insurance from what?”

  “From them. Damn it, I ain’t got the cash.”

  “Don’t worry,” Kane told him. “They’re here for me.”

  “Huh?”

  “I put his brother in the emergency room. You don’t have a baseball bat or something I could borrow?”

  Chester ducked below the counter and came up holding a wooden bat. He passed it across to Kane and said, “Won’t do you any good. He’s more likely to shoot you.”

  Kane tested the bat’s weight then reached behind his back and took the H&K from inside his pants. “That’s what I’m trying to avoid.”

  He handed the gun across to Chester who paused, then took the weapon. “Take care of it for me.”

  “Ah, sure.”

  Kane walked outside and stood on the edge of the lot. “Are you fellers looking for me?”

  “That’s him, Barrett.”

  Kane’s gaze shifted to the young man who spoke. He recognized him as one from the alley.

  “Are you the feller who beat on my brother?” Barrett demanded.

  “Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Kane told him. “He figured to run me through with that knife of his.”

  “He was going to do no such thing,” Alton lied.

  Kane’s icy stare bored into the young man. “I guess you had your eyes closed, huh?”

  “You’re a liar,” Alton sneered.

  “It don’t matter much,” Barrett snapped. “You did it. You said as much.”

  Barrett put his hand behind his back and retrieved his gun that he’d had down the back of his pants. Kane froze. It wasn’t the first time he’d had a gun pointed at him. He just hoped it wouldn’t be the last. The first words that came into his head were, “You don’t want to do that.”

  It was weak and lame, but hell, he was trying to buy time for himself.

  Barrett’s eyes glittered with anticipation. “You don’t get no say in what I aim to do, Mr. Tough Guy. You just get to die.”

  The gang leader’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  The sound of two blasts from a sheriff’s car siren as it entered the lot, stayed the trigger-finger, and Barrett lowered the weapon and turned around. Kane searched the driver’s seat and saw that it was the deputy who’d talked to him earlier.

  The car stopped, and the deputy climbed out. He placed his hat on his head as he walked around to the front of his vehicle and leaned his butt against the hood.

  His gaze fixed on Kane and he said in a patronizing tone, “I knew you were trouble when I saw you the first time. I said to myself, Cleaver, this stranger is trouble. And what happens? I get a call from the emergency room saying that some stranger had beat up on young Bolt Miller. Busted his arm, his nose, his jaw. Immediately, I thought of you.”

  “Kid came at me with a knife,” Kane said.

  “That’s a lie,” Alton declared.

  Cleaver shifted his gaze to Alton and then to Barrett. “Are you trying to make extra work for me, Barrett? Going to shoot this feller here and now? Your boss ain’t going to like that much. You know how he feels about unwanted attention.”

  “You know what he did to Bolt,” Barrett snarled. “He’s got it coming.”

  “Not here, not now, Barrett,” Cleaver warned him. “Your friend here will put the bat away, and you and your boys will turn around and go home.”

  “Friend, hah, he’s no friend of mine. What about my brother?”

  “Teach him to pick on someone his own size,” Kane offered.

  Alton took a step forward and snarled, “Fuck you!”

  With a blur of movement, Kane’s arm swept up and then down. On the latter stroke, he let the baseball bat go. It whistled through the air, and the thickest part of the bat cracked Alton between the eyes, dropping him on the spot, blood flowing from the neat cut that had opened on his forehead.

  “Son of a bitch!” Barrett shouted and brought his gun
up.

  “Hey!” Cleaver shouted and drew his own sidearm. A Smith and Wesson M&P 9mm. However, it wasn’t pointed at Kane. The deputy had a bead drawn on the side of Barrett’s head. “You pull that trigger, Barrett, and I’ll drop you where you stand.”

  The tension in the air was palpable as everyone waited to see what Barrett Miller would do. Kane stared hard into the gang leader’s eyes.

  Before anyone had the chance to find out, two more sheriff’s vehicles roared into the lot. The first was a car like the one Cleaver drove. Behind the wheel was a grey-haired man.

  The other vehicle was a Tahoe driven by a woman. Beside her was the kid Kane had helped in the alley.

  Barrett lowered his handgun and tucked it into his pants. He turned away and walked off a distance and then stopped.

  The older man climbed from his car, a pump-action shotgun in his right hand. He was of average height and build with his thickened waist starting to show the effects of mid-fifties.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded. His gazed jumped back and forth from one to the other. It dropped to Alton who was still on the ground. “What’s wrong with that little shit?”

  Barrett stabbed a finger at Kane. “That son of a bitch threw a baseball bat at him. Do your damned job and arrest him, Sheriff.”

  The sheriff stared at Kane. “Is that so?”

  Kane shrugged.

  “Is that what happened, Cleaver?” the sheriff asked his deputy.

  While Cleaver rattled off the details, Kane glanced over at the Tahoe. The woman climbed out and stood beside the front of her vehicle, her hand resting on her sidearm.

  She was in her mid-thirties, slim with short, dark hair, tanned face and like Cleaver, wore aviator sunglasses.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

  Kane looked at the sheriff.

  “Was it you who put young Bolt in the emergency department?” he asked again.

  “He came at me with a knife.”

  The sheriff nodded. “You want to press charges?”

  Kane shook his head.

  “All right, then,” he turned to look at Barrett. “You get the hell out of here before I arrest every last one. Cleaver, make sure they keep going. I’ll have a word with our friend here.”