by Ward, Robert
“Canyon Caine,” Jack said. “My daddy used to see all your pictures. I just saw one last week myself on cable.”
“Som of a bitch, you are all right, hoss. How ‘bout that, Mr. Wingate? This young fellah remembers ole Canyon.”
“On account of you are totally unforgettable,” Buddy Wingate said.
Wingate took out his six-shooter now and turned and aimed it at the target ten feet to his left. It was a great hulking black shadow with a big six-gun. There were a couple of holes in the sinister target’s head and a few dead center in his heart, and about twenty-five that came close to him but hit the white border around him instead.
Buddy turned quickly and fired at the target, six quick shots. They hit the target in a sporadic manner, some nailing the head, some landing in the arms and legs, and one or two lodging in the chest.
“Your turn, cowpoke,” Wingate said.
Canyon smiled, aimed his gun, and fired off six quick rounds. Every shot hit the target dead-on, right between the eyes.
He smiled and, turning toward Jack, gave a hint of a grin, and for a second Jack could see the Canyon Caine of old, the chaps-wearing bronco rider, who was the idol of every kid in America in the 1940s.
“Waal,” Buddy Wingate said, ambling over to the target, “looks as though you nailed this hombre a few times, Canyon.”
‘Just a couple of lucky shots,” Canyon said. “I used to be quite the shooter, son, but nowadays Buddy usually outguns me.”
Buddy laughed and blew smoke from his own gun.
“You really seen my pictures, son?”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “My dad got them all on tape. You were his favorite cowboy. He told me all about these fan clubs you used to have….”
“Ah, the Little Pards,” Canyon said, a sudden happiness in his voice. ‘They was all my children, yessir. Well, that’s right kind of you to remember. There’s some who forgot ole Canyon. But I can tell you this, I’m about to make a comeback with the help of ole Buddy Wingate here. We might get the Pards riding down the trail again yet.”
“That’s certainly true, Canyon,” Wingate said, looking at the target with distaste.
Canyon’s green eyes shimmered a little, but this time with fear, and Jack watched him reach down to the ground, behind a hitching post, and pick up a bottle of Kentucky Gentleman. He took a long pull, and then he seemed to sag back upon himself. Wingate regarded him with a sneer. If contempt and jealousy had been bullets, Jack thought, the old cowboy star would be lying on the streets of Laredo wrapped in white linen.
“I was darn lucky to meet you, Buddy,” Canyon added, which made Jack feel embarrassment and pain for the old cowboy star.
“Damn right you are there, hombre,” Buddy Wingate said. “See, I recalled ole Canyon in his heyday there for Republic Pictures. Them B-movies, Saturday afternoon, serial watching, jujube-eating classics. But with the advent of television, ‘ole Canyon here ended up going on the rodeo circuit. From whence he came.”
“It weren’t all that bad, Mr. Wingate” Canyon said, his voice trembling, as he took another drink of whiskey. “Folks liked us real well.”
“Yeah, I’m certain they did,” Buddy Wingate said. “I’m sure you liked playing Fort Smith and Pine Bluff after being a movie star. How come you never made it on the TV?”
“Fucking TV,” Canyon said, more than a hint of roughness and anger in his voice. “It’s what killed the Bs…. Little buckaroos didn’t wanta go to the picture show no more when they could watch Rogers and Autry free on the idiot box.”
“Whoaa, my, my, ain’t we the bitter soul,” Wingate said. “My guess is you had a little bottle problem, son.”
The old cowboy looked at Wingate in a steely way, and for a second Jack thought that Canyon Caine would go for Buddy’s throat. But Buddy smiled and opened his arms in mock surrender.
“Just joshing, Canyon. You’re a great star, and we’re gonna see to it that you ride the celluloid range again. Hey, ain’t we already going great guns with our new commercial?”
“That we are, Mr. Wingate,” Canyon said.
“See, Canyon and me are doing a Discount Rodeo shootout…. Course I plug him dead,” Buddy said. “It’s real funny, plays off his image, and it’ll reintroduce him to the fickle American public. Someday, who knows, we might get him a picture again.”
Canyon managed a smile at that.
Wingate smiled back. Jack expected it to be a triumphant smirk, as though he had put Canyon in his place and now could afford largesse, but he was surprised to see real respect and even affection in Buddy Wingate’s face.
“Listen,” Buddy said, in a suddenly emotional voice, “this fella gave me the happiest moments of my life in the theater. I mean it, man. I would go into the theater and I would forget my old man, who was never home except when he was so fucking loaded all he wanted to do was whip up on somebody, namely me, and I would see ole Canyon gunning down the baddies, and I would say to myself, that is what I am gonna do someday, blast all the assholes and all the jerks who don’t take care of their kids.”
Buddy Wingate then walked over to Canyon Caine and hugged him in a deep, sentimental gesture, and Jack understood that Buddy meant it—maybe not all of it, but some of it—and in his own twisted and demented way, he was going to try to both ruin and help Canyon Caine. God Bless America.
“Gotta run some errands. Nice meeting you, amigo.”
“Same here,” Jack said.
Canyon smiled and managed a two-fingered ear-to-eye salute, his classic trademark in the old days, when he stood high atop a purple mountain with his big sorrel, Smokey, and the picture faded to black. Then he shuffled off toward the bunkhouse.
“I love that ole boy,” Buddy said.
“I can tell,” Jack said, aiming his pistol at the target’s heart and squeezing off three fast rounds.
Buddy Wingate looked up and saw the holes clustered dead center in the left ventricle and gave out a little sigh-yodel.
“Now, ain’t that something?” he said. “You just plugged ole Black Bart dead. Amazing. A man with that kinda shooting ability could stand to make a lot of money in certain professions.”
“That right?” Jack said. “Which ones would we be talking about?”
Wingate smiled and aimed his pistol. He hit the target in the middle of its forehead and smiled. Jack nodded.
“Nice shooting, but frankly I got things to do, so why don’t you tell me what you had me come out here for, Buddy?”
“Okay. It’s time to play truth or dare,” Buddy said. “I understand from my wife that you thought I wasn’t being completely forthcoming about that little incident up at Tahoe.”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘little,’ “ Jack said. “You and me and your charming wife were practically dog meat.”
“Okay, I admit it. I wasn’t being entirely straight with you, but I couldn’t be until I checked you out. Which I now have done. You got a great record back East. Only one thing I can see wrong with it.”
“What’s that?” Jack said.
“You took all the risks, and yet you didn’t make any of the bread.”
“I knew the terms when I took the work. I didn’t complain.”
“No, sir, you did not,” Buddy said, smiling and winking at Jack. “And that is undyingly to your credit in this world of cheapies and hustlers and wanna-bes, all trying to come down on other people’s action. Which brings us to my little problem, one which I think you are uniquely equipped to handle.”
“Which is?” Jack said.
“Well, sir, you were right in your suspicion that I work in … how best to put this … fields other than discount furniture. Hell, in the kind of economy we got today a man would be a fool to put all his hookers inna same hen house, if you know what I mean?”
“I’m waiting,” Jack said.
Buddy wet his lips with his lizard tongue and pushed his cowboy hat back on his bald head. “Okay. I got me a line to something new in the world of pharmaceuticals.
Colombian white heroin.”
“Heroin?” Jack said, “—from where?”
He’d hoped he had put the right spin on his “astonishment.” And apparently he had, because Buddy smiled in a pleased way and paused dramatically before he spoke.
“Bet you thought the Colombian lads were only into coke. Well, that’s all changing. They realize there’s money to be made in smack, and they got the newest and the highest grade. Fine stuff. In the future the South Americans are gonna put the fucking slopes outta business. This great ole country of ours will be inundated by Colombian white. It’s the drug of the future. Believe me, son.”
“Sounds interesting,” Jack said, squeezing off another shot. “But I thought the Colombians only dealt with their own people.”
“Usually that’s true. But not always. So happens I got a fantastic relationship with certain very influential people in the great country South of de border. See, a long time ago I did a very big favor for one of them Colombians, and so they made me like one of their family. Result is I got access to major players and unlimited access to high-quality skag.”
“So what do you need me for?”
Buddy put his arm through Jack’s and began walking with him toward the house.
“My problem is that there is a rival organization, headed by the guy I mentioned to you, Pedro Salazar. Pedro is all muscle and very little brains, but he has a way of getting on my nerves. Like the other night.”
“I see,” Jack said. “Well, if you are asking me to take him out, that’s not my line of work.”
“No, not at all,” Buddy said. “You see very soon … in a week actually, I have a serious shipment coming through. Word I got from my boys is that Pedro wants to hit me … maybe down on the Mexican border. What I am doing is hiring some muscle and some brains to make certain that he doesn’t give it a shot. I’ve already rounded up some good boys, but they lack a leader, somebody who can mold them into a unit, somebody who Pedro will respect. I know what you can do if the shit goes down, and by now, so does Pedro. He’s gonna think twice about hitting us if you’re on my side. So there it is. Sound good?”
“Sounds like Christmas,” Jack said. “But there’s a few problems. I don’t know Mexico, and there’s no way I could guarantee you security down there.”
Wingate smiled and spun his six-gun on his forefinger.
“Appreciate your candor, son, but who said anything about you working in Mexico? No sir, you see we got us a pretty unique way of getting the stuff into the United States. And I got people on my side—people I pay serious money to to make damn well sure they are on my side—in this country and in Mexico. Salazar is less than zip down there … and he knows it. The place he’ll hit us is on this side of the border, after we bring it across. All I’ll want you to do is be there with some of my boys and make damned certain nothing goes wrong.”
“So I don’t even go into Mexico?” Jack said.
“Don’t see any reason you would have to, ‘less it’s just to have a look-see around to make sure you understand how the whole deal’s set up. Beyond that, you go back and wait in a nice hotel, treat yourself to margaritas, swimming pools, and more eighteen-year-old pussy than Jon Bon Jovi. Sound good?”
“Yeah, but aren’t you leaving out one detail?” Jack said, as they came to the bunkhouse.
“Ohhh, dear me,” Buddy said, laughing. “I knew you wouldn’t let me forget. Well, let me put it to you this way. You meet the guys … you take who you want, fire who you don’t like. And get them to man their stations right. We head south next week. You basically hang out and keep things moving along, and three days later you collect two hundred thousand dollars. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds about a hundred thousand short,” Jack said, staring coldly into Wingate’s eyes.
“Damn, is there anybody in this world who isn’t greedy anymore? I’m offering you more money than you ever made in your pissant life, and you wanta hit me up for another hundred?”
“Chalk it up to a character flaw.”
“Two fifty,” Buddy said. “That’s two percent of the deal. And if this works out, it’ll be the first of many. Thing is, I like you, son, though I am not sure why.”
“It’s ‘cause you know I can cut it,” Jack said.
“Yeah, that’s part of it,” Buddy said. He squeezed Jack’s arm. “The rest, who knows? It’s a mystery about human beings, wouldn’t you say so? Some you like, and some you would just as soon see die at your feet. All comes down to molecules, genes, and the sense of smell. Okay, I’ll give you the three, ‘cause I’m betting that you’ll want to reinvest it in one of my other projects. Maybe my movie. I plan on making my directorial debut with money we make from these scams, and I see a good-sized part in the film for a stud like you.”
“This is a weird kinda casting couch, Buddy,” Jack said.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Buddy said. “Lemme explain something to you. The difference between me and Salazar, hell, between me and all the other hard-ons who wanta be in the glamorous business of smuggling, is I only do it with family. I take care of all my people, and they take care of me.”
“The Brady Bunch,” Jack said.
Buddy patted Jack on the cheek.
“You’re a hard guy, Jackie,” Buddy said. “But I’m gonna soften you up. You’ll see. You can’t resist ole Buddy, ‘cause in the end, he’ll do you right. Now, you run along. I gotta go into the ole bunkhouse here and send a few faxes. We leave soon. I got your number, and I’ll be calling you tomorrow. I want you to meet your brothers. Hell, it’s gonna be one big barbecue. Take care, son. Good to have you riding the stage with me.”
He winked at Jack and walked into the bunkhouse, his spurs jangling in the hot Valley air.
Jack looked after him and felt things creeping over his arms, chest, feet—scaly things with darting tongues. Buddy Wingate was a reptile; Jack could barely wait to take him down.
Chapter 12
“I would like to say for the record that I find this mission completely wrongheaded.” Ted Michaels shook his head violently, but Jack thought he still looked and sounded like some kind of prep school headmaster.
Jack looked at C.J., who gave out a sigh and a frustrated whistle and sucked on his gold toothpick. Jack had been sitting here in the DEA strategy room for two hours, listening to Michaels drone on, and now he could stand no more of it.
“Michaels, what is your problem?”
Michaels looked down at Jack as though he were a bug.
“I believe I’ve enumerated the problems. What if you end up in Mexico … in trouble of some kind? There’s no way we can protect you. Unless you’re talking about wearing a ten-pound SAT track … but I don’t think that’s at all practical, do you, Walker?”
“No one suggested that I was going to do that,” Jack said, “and I don’t appreciate your patronizing tone.”
The usually placid, pipe-smoking Brandau, squinted and looked hard at Michaels.
“Ted, I think Jack’s done an excellent job. Buddy Wingate has handed us this thing on a platter, for godsake…. He’s even said he doesn’t want Jack in Mexico. Jack doesn’t do him any good there.”
“I know what he said, Richard,” Michaels said. “I also know how these drug deals can go wrong. We can’t ensure Walker’s safety … even in this country.”
“Why not?” Brandau said. He reached down and picked up a Twinkie, which was sitting next to his notebook.
“First of all, we don’t know where the deal is going to go down. Is it San Diego, Arizona, or El Paso? Wingate has only told him it’s going to be on the border. And we can’t track him.”
“I could wear an Agent Alert button,” Jack said. “I can place the trigger in my pocket and run the wire down my pants leg.”
“No, you can’t.” Michaels said. “This action could take days. You’re going to walk around with that in your pocket for a week, or more? I don’t think so.”
Zampas ran his fingers through his thick ha
ir.
“I agree with Ted on that, Jack. The alert is all right if it goes down in a day or so, but we don’t want you out there for a week with that thing in your pocket.”
Valle popped his fingers, got up, and walked around the room. He looked, Jack thought, as if he were going to jump out of his skin. Whatever it was that had been bothering him earlier was obviously still eating him.
“The Agent Alert button idea sucks,” he said, sticking a fresh piece of gum in his mouth.
There was a lull in the conversation, and Jack felt a fury building inside of him.
“Look,” Jack said. “Here’s the way it’s going down. I’ll be somewhere on this side of the border. I don’t know exactly where, but so what? He’s got to tell me at least two days before the shipment comes, so we can secure the area.”
“Wrong,” Michaels said. “He’s worried about Salazar, so why tell anybody anything right up until the day before it goes down? Lessen the risk, in case he’s got a mole in his group. Once he’s told you, he’ll be watching you. Which means you’re going to have to lose a tail in order to make a phone call to us, and that’s dangerous as hell.”
“I can do it,” Jack said. “Remember I saved the guy’s life. He trusts me.”
“Listen, Walker,” Michaels said. “We can’t risk exposing the Agency …”
Now Brandau got up and looked at Michaels.
“Ted, let’s be honest. Jack has brought us this far; he’s our best shot.”
“Fuck’n A,” Valle said. He was leaning against the window, popping his gum. He glowered at Michaels, then shook his head.
“You have something to say to me, Bob, just say it, but don’t give me the high school stare.”
“High school? You arrogant …”
Valle was moving toward Michaels now, but Zampas leapt between them.
“Hey!” Zampas said. “Both of you cut the shit.”
Michaels looked angrily at Zampas now.
Jack looked around the room. It was time for him to make his final pitch.
“Look,” he said. “I know you think this is a little crazy, Ted, and maybe it is. But I really want to reassure you and everybody else in this room that I know what the fuck I’m doing. I’ve got it under control. I won’t do anything risky or out of line. I’ll call the minute I find out the details, and I’ll do everything I can to find them out early.”
