Lone Star Noir

by Bobby Byrd

  Inside the car, Geno broke off his solemn humming. “I’m also guessin’,” picking up his thread, “that we ain’t gonna call the law on this.”

  “If we were—” Chester began.

  “We’d a done it by now.”

  “Correct.”

  You don’t call the law to help you fetch a stolen bus when there’s an ounce of coke on board, not to mention a half-pound of weed, a mayonnaise jar full of Oxycontin, and enough crank to whirl you across Texas a dozen times and back. Small wonder we’re broke, Chester thought. They’d stocked up for the road, a lot of away dates on the calendar. Sure, the stash was tucked beneath false panels, nothing in plain view, but all it took was one damn dog.

  Getting back to Geno, he said, “Long as you’re in the mood for guesswork, riddle me this: think our friend the music lover, before skipping town, scooped up this chimp-faced punch he loves?”

  Geno’s eyes bulged. “In our bus?”

  “He’ll ditch it quick, trade down for something more subtle. Or so I figure. Skillet?”

  As always, silence. In time, a stubborn nod.

  True enough, they found the Flyer with its distinctive black-and-gold design sitting on the edge of the interstate just outside Houston. Maybe he feigned a breakdown, Chester thought, stuck out his thumb, jacked the first car that stopped. Maybe he just pulled over to grab forty winks.

  “Ease up behind,” he said, drawing the .45 from under his belt. “Let’s see what happens.”

  Geno obliged, lodged the tranny in park. “You honestly think he’s up inside of there?”

  “That’s one of several scenarios I could predict.” Chester let out a long slow breath. “What say we not get stupid?”

  Chester kept the gun down along his leg—wouldn’t do for a state trooper to happen by and spot two armed African American gents with their fat dago sidekick sneaking up on a fancy tour bus in evident distress. They lurked at the ass-end of the Flyer, waiting to see if the old in-line six turned over, a belch of smoke.

  Geno glanced at his watch. “Wait too long, we’ll be dealing with po-po.”

  Chester felt the engine panel, noted it was cool to the touch. “I’m aware of this.”

  “Like, Rangers.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Just sayin’.”

  “Duly noted.”

  They ventured single file along the bus’s passenger side, Skillet in the lead, his crouching duck-walk straight out of some Jim Brown blaxploitation joint. Chester, lightheaded from fear, began imagining as a soundtrack a two-step rendition of the theme from Shaft.

  Reaching the door, Skillet tried the handle and found it unlocked. He let it swing open easy. A glance toward the driver’s seat—empty—then a glance back toward Chester, who nodded. Crouching, pistol drawn, Skillet entered, the others right behind.

  The stillness was total, all but for the buzz of flies. No one there, except for the seat at the back, dead center. She wore a black miniskirt with a crimson top bunched in front, no stockings, shoes kicked off. Long skinny arms you couldn’t miss.

  Geno put words to the general impression. “What happened to her fucking head?”

  Chester searched for Lorena while Skillet probed the hidey-holes, unscrewing the panels, bagging the dope he found untouched within. Geno kept an eye out for troopers. Chester could feel his heart in his chest like a fist pounding on a door, sweat boiling off his face, but the accordion was nowhere to be found. Thief wants me to follow, he thought, that or he’s got a mind to hock her.

  Despite himself, he glanced more than once at the headless corpse, sitting upright at the back, like she was waiting for someone to ask her the obvious question: Why? The woman he loved so much, Chester thought, paid five hundred cash for a song, then this. Only way it made sense was if she was just a means to an end. And the end lay somewhere west.

  Geno, suddenly ashen, said, “That Mex is tweakin’,” then stumbled off the Flyer and vomited in the weeds. Jackknifed, short of breath, he mumbled, “Oh Lord …”

  A moment later, like a sphinx handing up its riddle, Skillet finally spoke: “’Less you wanna get us all sent up for that girl’s murder,” he told Chester, “might be time to make a call.”

  In Houston they phoned the Port Arthur police, reported the bus stolen, fudged a little about when and where, claimed no notion of who—they didn’t want some cop getting hold of Feo before they got their chance—then dialed every local pawnshop, even called the Gabbanelli showroom, putting out word that somebody might be trying to offload Lorena on the sly. If so, a reward would be offered, no questions asked. But they got no word the Mexican had tried it yet. Still, the phone lines would be ringing all the way across the state. If he stopped to unload the accordion anywhere along his jaunt, they’d hear, unless Feo sold it to a private party.

  “Which,” Chester noted despondently as they resumed the trip west, “I figure he might well do.”

  “That’d be my plan,” Geno acknowledged.

  “Just drive,” Chester said.

  They were screaming past a little town called Johnsue when the cars showed up, two unmarked sedans, recent model, U.S. make. The men within remained obscure behind tinted glass. One car tore ahead, the other locked in behind. A window in the lead car rolled down, an arm emerged, gesturing them to the berm.

  Geno glanced back over his shoulder. “What you want me to do?”

  This business just ain’t gonna turn easy, Chester thought. “What I want and what’s wise would seem to be at odds at the moment.” He let out a sigh and pushed the .45 under Skillet’s seat. “Pull on over.”

  Skillet and Geno tucked their weapons away as well, as two men emerged from the lead car; the crew behind stayed put. The visitors wore identical blue sport coats, tan slacks, but they walked like men who spent little time in an office. The one who approached the driver’s window did so almost merrily, an air of recreational menace. The other had shoulders that could block a doorway, a bulldog face, that distinctive high-and-tight fade, fresh from the Corps.

  The merry one glanced in, studying each man’s face, one at a time, settling at last on Chester. “You wanna un-ass that seat, big fella?” He grinned, cracking gum between his molars.

  Chester opened the door and bent Skillet forward as he struggled to unfold into the sun, while Mr. Merry Menace leaned on the Firebird’s fender, arms crossed. His wraparounds sat crooked on his face.

  “Understand you’ve made some inquiries regarding a certain Emigdio Nava.” A whiskey baritone. “Mind telling us what that concerns?”

  Us, Chester thought. “He stole an instrument of mine.”

  The man cocked his head toward his partner, who just continued to glare. Turning back: “Instrument?”

  “You knew we’ve been making inquiries, I’d guess you know about what.”

  The smile didn’t falter. The man repeated: “Instrument?”

  All right then, Chester thought. Way it’s gonna be. “Accordion. Belonged to my granddad. Serious sentimental value.”

  A loathsome chuckle. “Sentimental value. Touching.”

  “Can I see some identification?” Chester said.

  The man pushed his wraparounds up his nose. “I don’t think so. No.”

  “You’re not the law.”

  “Better than the law, most occasions.”

  “Such as this?”

  “Oh, this especially.”

  The sun-baked office bore no name, just another anonymous door in an industrial park ten blocks off the interstate. Four men not much different than the first two emptied from the second car, another two waited inside. They put Chester and Skillet and Geno in separate rooms, each one the same morose beige, folding chairs the only furniture, to which each man got bound with duct tape. A silver Halliburton case rested in the corner of Chester’s room, and he doubted an item of luggage had ever terrified him more.

  Mr. Merry Menace snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “So you’re musical.”

  “Look,”
Chester said, his mouth parched, “no need for this, I told you—”

  The fist came out of nowhere and landed like a sledge, the latex chafing his face like tire rubber. He heard the hinge crack in his jaw, a phosphorescent whiteness rising within his mind, blotting out the world. When the world came back, it came back screaming—Geno, the next room over.

  Chester shouted, “I’m telling them everything!” but all it earned him was a crackback blow, knuckles busting open his cheek.

  “You talk to me. Not them.”

  Chester shook his head, gazing up through a blur. The trickle of blood over his stubble itched. “Why do this?”

  “What was it like, finding your bus by the side of the road, Feo’s little ape-girl inside?”

  Chester shook his head like a wet dog. “You know.”

  “Oh, I know. Yes.”

  “He said he loved her.”

  “Love?” The man’s smile froze in place. “She stood up to him, only woman who ever did, so it’s said. He put up with it. That’s love, I suppose. Up to a point.”

  “Why—”

  “Cut off her head?” A shrug. “Style points.”

  Chester coughed up something warm, licked the inside of his cheek, tasted blood.

  “They hurl severed heads onto disco floors down Mexico way, Chester, just to send a message. It’s how vatos blog.”

  “I don’t—”

  “I’m gonna make it simple, okay? There are forces at play here. Secrets. Schemes and counterschemes and conspiracies so vast and twisted they make the Kennedy hit look like a Pixar flick.” A gloved finger tapped Chester’s brow, tiny splash of sweat. “Bottom line, you’re dispensable, you and your two wack friends. I’m doing you a favor. Whatever business you have with Señor Nava, it’s hereby null, moot, done. Tell me I’m right.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  An open-hand slap this time, mere punctuation. “He’s a poacher. Understand that?”

  Chester inhaled, his chest rippling with the effort. “I grew up in Calcasieu Parish. I know what a poacher is.”

  “Not that kind of poacher. He’s Mexican military, Teniente Nava, trains infantry, automatic weapons. When he’s not recruiting assassins for the Juárez Cartel.”

  Chester swallowed what felt like an egg. “That’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “Not now.”

  “Not never. All I want is Lorena.”

  The man glanced to his partner, eyebrow cocked. Perplexed.

  Chester sighed. “My accordion,”

  It was like he’d admitted to sex with a fish. “Damn,” the man said. He barked out a laugh. “You are sentimental.”

  They were escorted all the way back to the Houston city limits, then the two cars broke away. Message delivered, no further emphasis required. Skillet held a wet bandanna to the gash on the side of his head. He’d about had it with being hit on the skull. Geno, glancing up into his rearview, face swollen and colored like bad fruit, caught Chester’s eyes, held the gaze.

  “Say the word.”

  Chester had never killed a man—thought about it, sure, even plotted it out once. Now, though, he felt as close as close got. Feo had to pay. Pay for the theft of Lorena, pay for what Geno and Skillet had just endured, pay for the girl in the back of the Flyer. Feeling within him an invigorating, almost pleasurable hate, he imagined it was what his granddad—tongue unlocked by a jug of corn, Lorena resting in his lap—once described as the sickness at the bottom of the mind. He confessed to killing barehanded, last days of the war, his unit charged with cutting off the German retreat through the Cisa Pass. Low on ammunition, they didn’t dare call in air or artillery support, the white officers would too easily call in fire directly atop their position. When the Germans overran their front line it got down to bayonets and bare knuckles, swinging their M1s like clubs. I choked one man, stabbed two more, beat another unconscious with my helmet, then smothered him with his own coat. Lucky for me they was all starved weak. The voice of a ghost. But now Chester understood. So be it, he thought. The old man would not just understand, he would insist. I will not betray her. I will find her. I will bring her home.

  “You drop me at the airport, then go on back to Port Arthur.”

  “That won’t do.” It was Skillet.

  Chester shook his head. “I can’t let you—”

  “Ain’t you to let.”

  “Skillet …”

  “You catch your plane.” The older man’s voice was quiet and cold. “Geno and me, we’ll turn on around, head west again. We’ll check around San Antonio, see if we can find Lorena. Not, we’ll see you in El Paso.”

  “I can’t make it up to you.”

  “Nobody askin’ that.”

  He slept in the terminal and caught the first flight to El Paso the next morning, touching down noonish, then a cab ride to the rectory of Santa Isabel. The pastor there was Father Declan Foley, but Chester knew him as Jolt. A boxer once, backwater champion before heading off to seminary.

  A cluster of schoolgirls sat in the pews as Father Dec led them in confirmation class. Chester caught that haunting scent, beeswax, candle flame, hand-worn wood, a lingering whiff of incense, almost conjuring belief. Or the want of belief.

  The priest glanced up as his visitor ambled forward. The girls followed suit, pigtails spinning. I must look a sight, Chester thought, jaw swollen and bruised, a zigzag cut across his dark-stubbled cheek.

  “Father,” he said, a nod of respect.

  The priest told the girls to open their books, review the difference between actual and sanctifying grace, then led Chester back into the sacristy. He eyed his old friend with solemn disappointment.

  “You look, as they say, like hell.”

  Chester tried to gather himself up, quit halfway. “Feel like I been there.”

  “You’ve still got time. What’s this about?”

  Chester laid it all out, something about being inside the church arousing an instinct toward candor, flipping off the switch to that part of his mind inclined toward deceit and other half measures. It was no small part.

  Father Declan heard him out. Then: “The man’s a killer.”

  “I’m with you there. I don’t want no more trouble, though. Just Lorena.”

  “I find it hard to believe he cares about an accordion.”

  Chester laughed through his nose—it hurt. “Maybe he’s planning a new career path.”

  “My point is, from the sound of things, he means to punish you.”

  “He’s succeeded.” Chester felt tired to the bone. This, too, he supposed, was the church working on him. “I hope to make that point. If I can find him before he crosses over to Juárez.”

  “I can ask around.”

  “I’d be obliged. Old time’s sake and all.” Chester heard something small in his voice. Begging. “You know the people who know the people and so on.”

  “Have you bothered praying?”

  The question seemed vaguely insulting. Chester tugged at his ear. “Wouldn’t say as I have, no.”

  “Be a good time to start, from all appearances.”

  “Can’t say I feel inclined.”

  “Try.” The priest reached out, his touch surprisingly gentle for such a meaty hand. “Old time’s sake and all.”

  Father Dec gave him an address for a hotel nearby where he could rest while calls were made, then led him out to the front-most pew. Chester knelt. When in Rome, he figured, the deceit sector of his brain flickering back to life.

  “By the way,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the schoolgirls, “just to settle my curiosity, what exactly is the difference between actual and sanctifying grace?”

  The priest studied him a moment, something in his eye reminding Chester of the brawler he’d known before, glazed with sweat and blood, a smoky light hazing the ring, smell of cigars and sawdust, all those redneck cheers. “You know about all the women being killed across the border, right? Worst of it’s right here, just over the line, Ciudad
Juárez.”

  That didn’t seem much of an answer. “Dec—”

  “Not just women. Kids. Sooner or later, it’s always the kids. They’re shooting up rehab clinics too, nobody’s sure why. Then there’s the kidnap racket. Not just mayors and cops and businesspeople, now it’s teachers, doctors, migrants, anybody. Know what your life’s worth? Whatever your family can cobble together. If that. People have stopped praying to God. Why bother? They’ve turned to Santa Muerte. Saint Death.”

  The weariness returned. “Not sure what you’re getting at exactly, Dec.”

  “I’m trying to focus your mind.”

  Chester had to bite back a laugh. Like having your granddad’s button box stolen, finding a headless hooker at the back of your bus, and getting punked by somebody’s goon squad doesn’t focus your mind. “Fair enough.”

  “Put your problems in perspective.”

  “All right.”

  Gradually, the priest’s stare weakened. Something like a smile appeared. “Sanctifying grace,” he said, “comes through the sacraments. Actual grace is a gift, to help in times of temptation.”

  He returned to the schoolgirls, who shortly resumed their mumbled recitations, a soft droning echo in the cool church. Chester clasped his hands and bowed his head. He tried. But the churchy nostalgia he’d felt before had a weaker signal now. Nothing much came. No gift in his time of temptation.

  Father Dec would phone around, every soup kitchen, every clinic, every police station, the holy hotline, calling all sinners. Someone would remember the monkey-faced streetwalker who’d gone off with the Mexican lieutenant known for his deadly sideline. Someone would know where in town the man would sneak back to. He wondered if Father Dec would mention how the woman died, mention who the killer was, playing not on sympathy but revenge. No, Chester thought, that’s my realm, and he thought again of his granddad in the spring of ’45, last days of the war, knifing a man, strangling another, smothering a third, whatever it took. And why? He pictured her, the bottomless glow of her wood, the warm tangy smell of her leather straps and bellows, the pearly gleam of her buttons. Remembered the moaning cry she made in his loving hands. No other like her in the world, never. If that wasn’t love, what was? Worth suffering for, yes, worth dragging all across Italy to bring back home, worth killing for if it came to that. And it had. He suspected, very shortly, it would again.