Cactus Garden

by Ward, Robert

  “Tell me,” he said softly. “They jammed you up and made you do it. That young agent, Jack Walker, isn’t that right?”

  The tears rolled from Jaime’s eyes. His body shook with convulsions.

  “All right, yes,” he said. “Yes, Walker made me. He told me I would go to prison for life. Unless I led him to Jose. I didn’t want to do it. I loved Jose like a brother. You know that, Eduardo …”

  Eduardo Morales slapped the kneeling Martinez hard in the face.

  “Your brother? You led him to Walker, who murdered him. You know what that means? It’s as if you killed him yourself.”

  Jaime Martinez held his stomach and cried.

  “No. I didn’t know. Please … the antidote.”

  He clutched frantically at Eduardo’s knees, and suddenly Eduardo spoke in a kindly, almost fatherly voice.

  “Tell me how sorry you are, Jaime.”

  “As God is my witness, I am sorry,” Martinez said. “I have regretted Jose’s death since the day he died. I will kill Jack Walker for you. Believe me, patron.”

  The sweat was rolling down Martinez’s face now, and he felt a hand squeezing his stomach, tighter and tighter. His heart was beating wildly … faster, faster … double—and triple—time … and he remembered a cloudless night he had run across the desert in Mexico, barely escaping the DEA agent who had busted their operation in Tijuana … that day five years ago when the desert sand stretched out before him like a dry, parched tongue.

  The end of his sentence was nearly inaudible, for he was choking on black bile that suddenly squirted from his stomach into his mouth.

  “Please,” he begged. “Please.”

  Eduardo waited for a long dramatic moment, then took a white linen napkin and wiped the sweat from Jaime Martinez’s brow.

  “I believe you,” he said. “What the hell, killing you won’t bring Jose back. Give me your arm and make a fist.”

  Jaime Martinez offered his arm and, with all of his fast-sapping strength, made a fist. Then Eduardo Morales was roughly taking his arm, tying his elbow up with a red silk sash and administering the precious antidote to him. Jaime Martinez fell backward onto the floor and felt the terrible pressure in his chest disappear, the horrible convulsions in his face and throat seemed to melt away. He could breathe again. The pain in his stomach was receding, his heart had stopped its terrible crazed arrhythmia, and he knew that he was going to live.

  “Do you feel better, my friend?” his host said. “Yes, yes.”

  “Good. You see I am not a vengeful man.”

  “No … No … thank you,” Jaime Martinez said, and his own voice sounded fragile to him like that of a small child who has been scolded by the village priest.

  “And because I have spared you, I want you to tell me all about it.”

  Jaime Martinez shook his head and wept like a schoolchild.

  “I never wanted to,” he said. “I tried to give them other people, nobodies, but they wanted Jose. But they knew nothing of his relationship to you. They thought he operated alone. So you are safe. Because Jose told them nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Eduardo Morales turned and looked at the police chief, who was drinking a second cup of coffee. He looked a little bored, as though he had gone to a not very interesting cockfight.

  “He still does not understand,” Morales said. “Do you think that I brought you here because I was worried that Jose sold me out before they killed him?”

  He slapped the kneeling Martinez with the back of his hand.

  “But …” Martinez blubbered.

  “He would never sell me out, even if they cut his heart out. Jose was a man. It takes a worm like you, Martinez, to forsake the man who has made him.”

  “I am sorry,” Martinez said over and over again.

  “Really?” Eduardo Morales said. “You are sorry? And what have you been doing for Jack Walker lately?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. Believe me.”

  Morales shook his head, slowly, with finality.

  “No,” he said, “I don’t think so, pendejo.”

  Martinez looked up, confused. It made no sense. He had been forgiven, yet the look on Morales’s face said something else.

  Then, suddenly, the pain in his stomach returned, like a lightning bolt, and he felt as though he were going to pass out.

  “What is it, amigo?” Morales said.

  “You gave me the antidote?” Jaime Martinez said. “But the pain is beginning again, Eduardo, and my heart … Oh, God. I must need more of the antidote … Please. Again.”

  Morales opened his sleepy eyes in mock surprise and looked over at Caruso, who seemed vaguely interested now.

  “Do you think another shot of the antidote would do him any good?” Morales said.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Caruso said. “Not a bit of good.”

  “But it stopped it before,” Jaime Martinez said, his voice shaking with fear.

  “Yes, it did, you little scum … you shit-eating little Judas,” Morales said. “But I am afraid it was only a temporary antidote. It gives you a five-minute respite. So if you want to make peace with your maker, now is the time, Jaime.”

  He stared down at Jaime Martinez coldly, as though he were examining a cockroach.

  Jaime Martinez could not believe this. The impossible cruelty of it. It was worse to think he had been saved, only to suffer again. Far worse.

  “Please … please … You must save me, Eduardo. I have been good to you … Please.”

  He could talk no longer, for he was holding his burning throat. He looked up again, but he saw five sets of eyes on Eduardo Morales, and he fell backward, screaming. Seconds later, he was squirming like a crushed insect on the red tile floor, while above him the cool eyes of Eduardo Morales observed his final death spasms.

  “A shame,” Morales said, afterward. He reached for a pearl button under the table and pushed it. Three Indian servants, dressed immaculately in white linen, came silently into the room.

  “Get rid of him,” he said. “And be discreet about it.”

  They nodded and picked up the limp, twisted body of Jaime Martinez.

  Eduardo Morales turned to the police chief.

  “Number one,” he said.

  Herbert Caruso nodded his head and smoked his cigar. He thought of a plan he had once had to displace Eduardo. Fortunately, he had never told it to anyone and had abandoned the notion due to lack of courage. He now thanked Jesus for his cowardice.

  “I am glad you came, Herbert,” Eduardo said. “But I think we have all had enough. I am very tired. Good night, and stay in touch.”

  “I will, patron,” Herbert Caruso said. He thought about taking a cigar for the road, then dropped the idea. No need to get Eduardo riled up again. Slowly he walked to the massive oak doors.

  Eduardo sat at the great table alone. He waited for some sense of satisfaction to overtake him, some relief, but there was precious little. He would never feel any real satisfaction until his entire plan had worked. No, this was only the prelude, the warm-up.

  From another room he heard the telephone ring. A few seconds later Vincenzo walked into the room. “It is the American. Wingate.”

  There was a slight tone of distaste in Vincenzo’s voice. Eduardo knew that Vincenzo found Wingate uncultured and insufferable. Of course, this was true, but Eduardo didn’t allow himself to have any personal feelings toward the loud, brash American. All that mattered was that Wingate did what he was told, played his part in the drama. And so far he had done so perfectly.

  “Thank you. I’ll be right there.”

  Vincenzo nodded and exited silently from the room.

  Eduardo Morales picked up the glass he had just used to kill Martinez and spoke to the ghost of Jose Benvenides, which stood silently in the corner, blood dripping down its cheeks. “For you, Jose,” he said.

  Then he threw the poisoned glass into the great fireplace, shattering it into a hundred fragments, and went to talk to the American on t
he phone.

  Chapter 17

  They flew from Burbank through a cloud bank that was so dark that Jack felt as though they were heading straight down the funnel of a volcano. Charlotte Rae caught his eye twice as they found their seats. She was dressed in a white muslin summer dress on top of black leotards, and her hair was tied up on her head in a tight bun. The look accentuated her perfect cheekbones and green eyes, and Jack felt himself turned on by her from five feet away. It was her perfume too, he thought … he would know it anywhere. Wingate shook Jack’s hand and smiled widely.

  “Son, I am glad you are one of us now. You’re in for some real fun.”

  Jack nodded and sat down next to Tommy Escondero, who waited until Charlotte Rae and Wingate were seated, then let out a little stream of breath and sighed.

  “That is some woman el jefe has, hey, Jackie?”

  “You know it,” Jack said.

  “No, but I would like to.”

  “I wouldn’t suggest trying it,” Jack said. “It would probably shorten your life.”

  “Yeah, you are right,” Escondero said. “If el jefe caught me, he would hire someone to cut off my nuts, and if he didn’t, she would fuck me to death.”

  He gave a laugh that sounded more like a cough and then picked up the newspaper.

  “Look at this,” he said. “Dennis Barrientez just got his two hundredth win.”

  He smiled with a kind of childish delight.

  “You into baseball?” Jack said.

  “Oh, yeah, man. Especially Dennis. You know, I played with him in the Mexican League for a time.”

  “Come on, man,” Jack said.

  “Es verdad. I swear to you on my mother’s grave,” Escondero said. “Okay, you don’t believe me, you look at this.”

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out an old wallet. It was stuffed with money, but tucked away in one corner was a yellowish newspaper clipping. Escondero unfolded it slowly, solemnly, as if he were handling a rare parchment. Then he spread it out in front of Jack, half of it on his lap and half on Jack’s. It was a curiously intimate thing to do; it reminded Jack of his aunt reading him a comic book when he was a child.

  Jack looked at the sports page of the Mexican tabloid El Nacional. Escondero pointed to the date, June 12, 1970. He pointed to the headlines. Jack read in Spanish, Barrientez wins 22 games; winning single by Escondero in the tenth inning.

  “Son of a bitch,” Jack said. “You did play with him.”

  “You know it, man,” Escondero said. “Not only that, I was drafted too.”

  “By who?”

  “The Dodgers, man. I hit three-forty in spring training.”

  “So?”

  “I had an accident, man. Turned my car over on one of those streets up in Laurel Canyon. I was in a deep sleep for three days, ese. Then when I woke up, I found out I had broken my wrist and right shoulder. The doctor, he put a pin in it, but I could never turn on the ball again. That was it for me.”

  Jack shook his head. The story reminded him of Charles Manson. There was a school of thought that argued that if Manson had become the rock star he wanted to be, he would have never killed anyone. Hell, today he might have been featured on Unplugged on MTV.

  “That’s heavy, man. So how’d you break into this business?”

  “My uncle, ese. He lived down in Mexico City, and he took care of me when the Dodgers shipped me home.”

  Escondero smiled again; there was something sweet and sad in there, Jack thought, and the thought chilled him a little. It was weird about his job. It wasn’t when guys like Escondero talked about killing people or hacking families into little pieces that he got frightened. He had steeled himself to that stuff long ago. It was when he saw glimpses of the child that had been there before they made the turn that scared him.

  “Hey, man, when we going to find out where we are going?” someone said.

  Jack turned and looked behind him. Loco Larry Altierez was hanging over the seat. His large sad eyes looked red and bleary.

  “Guess we’ll all find out at once,” Jack said.

  “You mean the man hasn’t told you yet?” Larry said.

  “Nope,” Jack said. “Hasn’t said a word.”

  “Fucking strange man. Making me and Cutty here a little uptight.”

  Jack looked up and saw Wingate climb from his seat and walk back toward them. Behind them was a young Mexican girl, with a tray of drinks in her hand.

  “Well, boys,” he said, “we are in the air, so I guess it won’t hurt none to tell you our destination.”

  The four hired men said nothing but looked at him dead-on.

  “We are heading first down to a little town called Villa Ahumada. I believe some of you boys know it.”

  “Hey, ese, that’s beautiful country,” Altierez said.

  “Yeah, man, nice farms and good hunting up in the Sierra Madres.”

  Wingate smiled at Jack.

  “We’re gonna have a little wait for our product … not long, mind you … jest a few days,” Wingate said, taking off his cowboy hat and scratching his head. “So I thought … now, would we rather wait on some crummy border joint or would we rather go on down to the farm, have us some fun? And believe me, friends, Buddy has taken care of your every need. There’s swimming pools and tequila, a world-class chef, and I even imagine there’ll be a few pretty señoritas there for you. Sound good?”

  “I think I can handle it, jefe,” Escondero said.

  The others laughed. All except Jack.

  Wingate looked at him and smiled.

  “I see you a minute, Jackie?”

  Jack slid out past Escondero, and the two men moved toward the back of the plane.

  Once they were out of earshot, Wingate put his arm around Jack’s shoulder.

  “Now, don’t get all riled up,” he said. “I know I told you we wouldn’t go into Mexico, but this is purely for rest and relaxation. Besides, I want to show you how the deal’s going down.”

  “I told you I don’t work in Mexico,” Jack said, furious. “Things go wrong down there … you’re fucked.”

  “Don’t I know it, son,” Wingate said. “Which is why I spend so much money … making sure things don’t go wrong. Don’t worry, this place is safer than a nun’s pussy.”

  Jack stared at Buddy in a way that finally made the shorter man look away.

  “What the hell, Jack. You’re gonna love this. Trust me.”

  “You lied to me,” Jack said. “Nobody fucks with me like that.”

  “Not a lie. Look, you spend a day or so there, you don’t like it … we’ll go back to El Paso. Deal?”

  Jack hesitated for a long second.

  “This is bullshit, Buddy,” he said, as he nodded.

  “Good,” Buddy said. “Now, why don’t you come on up front with me and Charlotte Rae. We’re going to drink us a couple champagne cocktails. This is going to be some great holiday. Thing to do now is enjoy ourselves for the next few days. Relax, son, you are only a few days away from becoming a real player.”

  He put his big hand on Jack’s shoulder and guided him back up the aisle, past the other men, who were already bragging about how many women they would have at the ranch.

  Chapter 18

  The Cessna landed at a private airstrip just south of the small village of Villa Ahumada and was met by three silent mestizos. Quick and efficient, they picked up all the bags, piled them in a jet-black Jeep Cherokee, and took off with Escondero, Altierez, and Marbella. A second off-road vehicle—another Typhoon, this one silver gray—was waiting for Wingate, who sat up front with Charlotte Rae. Looking at the winding, hilly road, Jack was grateful he was seated in the rear.

  They drove on through a barren landscape without speaking, a desert dotted with huge cacti, and Jack got the creeps in his stomach again. He thought of Michaels’s warning, and felt trapped.

  To hell with Michaels, to hell with the cacti…. Wingate had no idea who he really was, and the only way he could blow i
t was to let them see him sweat. In an undercover, a man’s own nerves were as much his enemy as the perps he was trying to bring down.

  “I love this country, don’t you, Jack?” Wingate said, looking over his shoulder. “Got your big sky and the Sierra Madres over there. It’s wide open down here, amigo, wide open.”

  “Buddy Wingate, the hardy pioneer,” Charlotte Rae said, filing her nails. “All he needs is a coonskin cap.”

  “Hey, don’t laugh, sweetheart. I come from good pioneer stock. My great grandfather went to Arkansas in a mule wagon from Texas, where he’d been railroaded for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  Charlotte Rae turned and smiled sexily at Jack.

  “All the Wingates were forced into lives of crime,” she said, “by unscrupulous cops who misunderstood their good intentions.”

  “Not far from the truth,” Wingate said. “The rich boys with their Harvard educations got ways of robbing you with a fountain pen. My people had to be a little less subtle. All amounts to the same thing. Check out the Kennedys, the Rockefellers, you think they got where they did by running orphanages?”

  He smiled at her in a way that made Jack want to break his face, but Charlotte Rae only snorted at him, seemingly unfazed by the cheap shot.

  They turned up a dirt road and drove up into the foothills, then Jack saw the coyote fence and a house made of flagstone, glass, and steel that made the one in the Hollywood Hills look like a shack. There was a huge waterfall pouring off a second-story deck, and a stream that ran off into a grove of cottonwood trees.

  “Here’s our little ranch,” Wingate said.

  He pulled around to the side of the place, and Jack saw two large adobe guest houses. Between the magnificent home and the ranch houses was a giant swimming pool, complete with a second, smaller waterfall and a series of rock and tree grottos.

  “Welcome to Casa Wingate,” Buddy said. “You sleep in the guest house. Why don’t you get unpacked and then come on around to the pool, and we’ll have us a few drinks and get ready for the celebration tonight.”

  “Celebration?” Jack said.