Cactus Garden

by Ward, Robert

  He shot C.J. in the right shoulder with the first bullet, then in the neck with the second.

  C.J. cried out, then crumpled to his knees, his own gun falling from his hand. He held his left hand over the neck wound, which bled profusely.

  “How?” he murmured.

  Jack scrambled to his feet, kicked away C.J.’s gun. Charlotte Rae stood behind Jack, breathing hard.

  He opened his leather jacket and showed C.J. his Kevlar protective vest.

  “You knew it was me?” C.J. said, his eyes bright with surprise and pain.

  “No,” Jack said. “Just playing it safe, for a change. I figured some bad shit might go down here. But I never figured on you.”

  C.J. fell over on his side, his mouth open.

  Jack knelt next to him and held C.J.’s large, battered hand tight in his own.

  “I just couldn’t see any other way, Jack. I just couldn’t. I’m sorry, man.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Jack said. He felt his chest crushed, burning, and he wondered if it was from the bullets or his own heart breaking.

  “You keep it from my boy?” C.J. said. “I’ll try,” Jack said. “C.J., you gotta’ tell me, man. Who’s the mole?”

  C.J. looked up at him. A tear rolled down his cheek.

  “There’s no use going up against them, Jack. Believe me, man. They’re everywhere.”

  “I know,” Jack said. “But I’m still young and dumb enough to try. Who is it? Valle?”

  “No,” C.J. said. “Brandau. Man, I’m in the tunnel … I don’t see you anymore.”

  “Then the press conference is going off tomorrow?”

  “No, man. Now … at nine o’clock. I can’t hear the world anymore, man. Hey, baby, what’s happening to me?”

  He grasped Jack’s arm and squeezed until his fingers had scraped flesh. Then he gasped for air and died.

  Jack shut his eyes, as Charlotte Rae lightly touched his shoulder.

  “It’s eight-thirty,” she said.

  He grabbed her arm, and together they ran for the car.

  Chapter 29

  As Jack and Charlotte Rae tore through the cluttered, filthy streets of Juarez, they nearly ran over a man selling garish, purple talking-donkey puppets and almost sideswiped a parked BMW. Taking a curve too fast, Jack ended up on the wrong side of the street, and they faced a bus full of screaming passengers. Jack cut the wheel hard to the right and managed to get back on the right side of the crowded street. He felt a sharp pain in his chest. Though the Kevlar vest had stopped C.J.’s bullets, it hadn’t stopped the powder burns, and now his chest felt as though someone had dropped a piano on it. There was an even sharper jolt of pain when he gasped for air. He wondered if a rib was sticking through his right lung.

  In the passenger seat Charlotte Rae held on to the armrest, her knuckles ghost white.

  “I’m never going to forgive you if, after I risked my life getting you out of here, you kill us trying to get back in,” she said.

  “Don’t worry, I’m totally in control,” Jack said. “I can tell,” she said. “That’s why you’re going to hit that ice-cream truck.”

  She fell to one side, holding her hands over her eyes. “Jesus, Jack….”

  “How’s the time?”

  “I’m not telling you,” she said. “It’ll only make you go faster.”

  Fighting back panic, Jack turned down Matero Street and looked for the entrance to the alley. It was two blocks ahead, but the alleyway was filled with hookers. They moved toward Jack’s car, sticking their red-rouged faces in the window.

  “Hi, honey, you two looking for some fun?”

  “Ooooh, three the sweet way? Kinky!”

  Two of them pressed their faces up against the window. Charlotte Rae rolled it down and shook her head.

  “Beat it, señorita, this is my john.”

  Jack gunned the motor and watched them leap out of the way. They screamed curses at him as he shot down the alley and turned into the entrance that said “TAMPICO FURNITURE.”

  There were camera trucks parked everywhere, representing everything from local stations in Texas to the CBS evening news.

  Jack and Charlotte Rae were met by two Marines with carbines in their hands.

  “I’m sorry, sir. This area is off limits to the public right now.”

  Jack flashed his identification card through the driver’s side window.

  “I’m not the public. I’m DEA and this is a Code Red Emergency. Let me in.”

  The two Marines looked at each other for a second.

  “Sorry, sir. You’ll have to wait until we can get authorization.”

  One Marine walked slowly to the guard shack and took his time picking up the phone. “Who are you calling?”

  “Calling Assistant Director Brandau, sir. Those are our orders.” Jack looked at Charlotte Rae.

  “Brandau?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jack looked again at his watch. The other Marine looked at him suspiciously, keeping his hand on his gun.

  Jack suddenly opened the door of the car and fell to the ground, clutching his stomach.

  “Oh, God,” Charlotte Rae said. “He’s having a grand mal!”

  The second Marine reflexively reached over to help him, and Jack hit him in the skull with the butt of the .38, dropping him in a heap.

  The Marine in the shack reached for his holster.

  Jack held the gun on him.

  “Bad idea,” he said. “Move your hand away.”

  The Marine did as he was told.

  “Come out here,” Jack said.

  Fury in his face, the Marine came out of the shack. “You are going. to be in a great deal of trouble, sir,” he said. “Believe me,” Charlotte Rae said, “he knows it.” Jack walked into the shack and ripped the phone from the wall.

  “Hand me your cell phone,” Jack said. The marine gave him the phone. “Now pick him up. Fast.”

  The Marine picked up the still unconscious guard.

  “Now walk into the guard shack. And hand me the keys.”

  Reluctantly, the marine carried his buddy inside, laid him on the floor, and handed Jack the keys. Jack quickly shut the door and locked them both inside.

  As they headed into the furniture warehouse, Jack could hear the guard banging and kicking on the Plexiglas.

  “Not bad, huh,” Jack said, smiling at her a little.

  “Yeah, terrific,” Charlotte Rae said. “We’ve already got the Colombian and Mexican mafias after us, and of course we can’t trust anybody you work with, so I think it’s great that we’ve now made enemies out of the entire United States Marine Corps too.”

  The press was lined up in a semicircle around the pool table. The print media had been relegated a spot in the back, and the TV cameras jostled to get the best shot. Word had already gone out to the media, leaked actually by Valle, that the DEA’s seizure was not simply another bust but was in this case highly visual and had an element of James Bondian fantasy to it: secret cantilevered pool tables, tunnels full of drugs, in short, perfect for a lead story for the nightly news.

  Intelligence Officer Valle was in the back chatting up the press, and Assistant Director Brandau stood next to Zampas near the wall switch.

  Brandau was clearly leading the parade.

  He smiled and loudly cleared his throat.

  “Hello, everyone,” he said. “Could I have your attention. The show’s about to begin.”

  Jack and Charlotte Rae ran through the warehouse and its maze of furniture boxes.

  As they came to the “rec room” entrance, another muscular Marine walked toward them, carrying a machine gun.

  “Thank God we found you,” Jack said.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “Outside, in the guard shack,” Jack said coolly. “There’s some kind of demonstration, and both the guards are locked inside. My wife and I barely got out of there with our lives. The crowd was pouring kerosene over the shack. And lighting matches!”

 
; “Jesus Christ,” the Marine said.

  He raced down the aisle toward the entrance.

  “Semper fi,” Charlotte Rae said.

  “Hurry,” Jack said.

  He pulled out the .38 and descended the steel stairs.

  “So you can plainly see,” Assistant Director Brandau said, smiling and looking down into the hole beneath the pool table, “that this little rec room is all about a game that’s a lot more high-stakes than pool.”

  There was a murmur of astonishment from the media.

  “I think,” Brandau said, “it’s only fitting that the first man down in the tunnel should be our director, the man that came up with Operation Cactus, and that’s my boss and mentor, Director George Zampas.”

  There were more murmurs as a smiling Zampas started to step on the escalator.

  But before his foot hit the first step, there was a dissenting voice from the top of the stairs. The voice sounded wasted, exhausted, but rang out clearly enough for everyone to hear.

  “I don’t think so, Richard.”

  Brandau looked up, and a second later all the media turned toward Jack, who hung over the steel guardrail, the .38 cocked in his right hand. Behind him stood a panting but very interested Charlotte Rae.

  Several of the smarter cameramen trained their cameras and lights at Jack, practically blinding him.

  “Walker,” Brandau said. He sounded stunned, as though he had suddenly walked from reassuring reality into a bad dream.

  “Jack, what are you doing?” Zampas said.

  “I just think that we have to be fair here, Director,” Jack said. “Assistant Director Brandau is far too modest. But it’s time to give him his due. Because, folks, the cold truth is, this entire operation was planned by Assistant Director Brandau. He and a few of his friends in the drug trade designed Operation Cactus as an elaborate trap. Like any first-rate sting, this one was designed to humiliate and embarrass as much as it was to catch its prey. Wouldn’t you agree, Rich?”

  Brandau’s face had gone red. He tried for the old calmness and charm, but he sputtered as he talked.

  “Jack, you look awful. We’ve all been worried about you. You’ve been under a terrible strain, and you’re not making any sense.”

  He started toward Jack, but Jack aimed the gun at him.

  “I think you better stay there, Rich,” Jack said.

  Brandau turned toward Zampas, who looked at him with suspicion.

  “George, he’s out of his mind. You see that? I mean, look at him, for Chrissake.”

  “I wonder,” Zampas said. “Go ahead, Jack.”

  “Nothing more to say,” Jack said, his head swimming. Whatever happened, he had to stay on his feet.

  He grabbed on to the rail to keep from falling.

  “I just think that we owe Assistant Director Brandau the first little trip into the tunnel today. He arranged all this and to him should go the glory. So go ahead, Rich. Start the escalator and go on down.”

  “This is crazy,” Brandau said. “It’s crazy.”

  Jack aimed his pistol.

  “Go ahead, Richard! Now!”

  Brandau’s eyes were swimming with panic.

  “He’s insane,” Brandau said. “You can all see that.”

  “You’re right, Rich,” Jack said, with a snarl. “I am fucking insane. Now get your ass down there, before I blow it off. Start the escalator, George.”

  Zampas looked up at Jack, then walked to the wall panel. He hit the start button, and the escalator began to hum.

  “Get going,” Jack said.

  He aimed the gun at Brandau’s right leg. Brandau looked up at him, hyperventilating with anger and fear. Then he looked down at the hole, terror on his face. Slowly, he began to back away.

  “What’s the matter, Rich,” Jack said. “You got some kind of phobia?”

  “Turn it off! Turn it off!” Brandau screamed. “Turn it off. I’m not going down there! No!”

  Brandau had broken into a flat-out, panic-stricken run toward the stairs. Jack signaled to Zampas, who turned the escalator off.

  Brandau ran up the stairs, screaming.

  “Get out of my way, Walker. Out of my way or I’ll kill you. I swear it.”

  He clawed up at Jack, who leaned back, and kicked him hard in the chest. Brandau cried out like a hurt child and fell backward, tumbling down the steps. He lay at the bottom, drenched in sweat, unconscious, as the cameras rolled.

  Jack caught his breath and nodded his head toward Zampas, who walked toward him through the crowd of astonished reporters.

  “Glad you could make it,” Zampas said.

  “Shut the tunnel,” Jack said. “And get everybody out of here now.”

  “You heard him,” Zampas said. “Move it.”

  He climbed the stairs toward Jack.

  “I can’t wait to hear the story behind this,” he said.

  “There wouldn’t have been any story, if it hadn’t been for her,” Jack said, indicating Charlotte Rae with a nod of his head.

  Zampas looked at him, confused.

  “Who?”

  “Her … The ex-Mrs. Wingate.”

  Now Jack turned to acknowledge Charlotte Rae, but found her once again gone.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said.

  “Looks like your snitch split during the excitement,” Zampas said. “But don’t worry. She can’t have gotten far. We’ll find her.

  “I wouldn’t count on that, boss,” Jack said. “Now let’s get the hell out of colorful Mexico. And I don’t ever want to come back.”

  Chapter 30

  Former Assistant Director Richard Brandau sat in a three-by-five foot cell at Latuna Federal Prison, four miles outside of El Paso. God, he hated this place. He had seen it before while working drug cases in Texas and had always felt a sense of fear and foreboding whenever he had reason to visit. The place was more than a hundred and twenty years old and looked like some Gothic castle out of a horror novel. The Feds kept it painted this sickening off-white which was supposed to soften its silhouette for the local citizens, but nothing could erase the reality of the place. It was made of ancient stones and adobe, and to be caged here was to feel that you had been locked away from the twentieth century.

  He still couldn’t believe he was in here. He kept thinking, “There’s been a terrible mistake. They’re going to come and let me out, and I’m going to be the head of the DEA.”

  But if his mind wouldn’t accept the truth, his body already had. Brandau’s back had seized up on him in the cold dampness of the basement cell; it radiated pain into his neck and temples. His eyes ached from the hideous fluorescent light that shined mercilessly down on him from a wire ceiling cage.

  And the food, that is, the slop they called food—strained carrots and turnips and a piece of fat-mottled beef, gray as old soaked cardboard—was far different from the gourmet delicacies Assistant Director Brandau had become used to. For food had been his one little luxury, eating the best food at the classiest restaurants in town. He hadn’t succumbed to the temptation to buy a new Jaguar, (though he had intended to get one after Zampas was dead and he had been made director of the West Coast Agency), and he hadn’t shopped for a new house and pool (though he would definitely have traded up in a few years), but he had eaten great meals every chance he could get. He ate regularly at Matsuhisa on La Cienega, routinely dropping two hundred dollars for a gourmet sushi dinner for two. He took Suzie Chow to Il Mito in the Valley for their great penne arrabbiata and casually dropped eighty-five dollars for a bottle of perfect ‘83 Medoc. He went to Citrus on Sundays at eight o’clock and became “close friends” with the great chef himself, Michel Richard, who said he was honored to have an “important policeman” in the house. He even ate at Spago once in a while and got to know Wolfgang Puck, who threatened to make a pizza called The Detective Pizza, which would have “mysterious contents.” As much as Brandau would have liked this honor, he squelched the idea. Wingate had insisted that whatever he do, he do it “
so it don’t draw flies,” and Brandau was afraid that he was already drawing a few too many.

  Indeed, that had become a problem between him and Suzie. He’d told her that their gastronomical adventures had been financed by an inheritance he’d gotten from a rich uncle who lived in East Hampton. Ambitious, sexy Suzie had never questioned this alibi, and soon she’d gotten used to going to the best places in Los Angeles. For that matter, so had Brandau. Neither one of them wanted to give up Spago and being seen with famous people.

  But Brandau knew it was a losing game. He’d have to quit playing the great gourmet, or someone might find out. Unfortunately, when he mentioned the idea to Suzie, she was hugely disappointed and stopped talking to him. “I thought you were breaking out,” she said huffishly when he called one night, “but you’re headed right back to the police boy’s club.”

  He could hardly blame her. What good was it go get a fat paycheck every month from Wingate if he had to live the same old dull cop’s lifestyle?

  He had to remind himself why he got into this—to get power, to be able to cash in the real dough, and to retire early in luxury.

  The problem was he was forty-two and getting through the next six years pretending to be one of the guys was killing him. He didn’t want to be that tweedy, friendly person anymore. He didn’t want to be the conciliator; he didn’t want to go to any more fucking community centers and talk to black preachers about how to keep their little savages off crack. Fuck them all, he thought. Let them all smoke crack until their brains run out of their heads and let them stab and shoot one another until all of them are dead. He didn’t give a shit. He only wanted out; he wanted to have a house in Rome and an Italian mistress who looked like a young Sophia Loren, and what’s more, he could have it … because as director of the DEA he was going to be making four million dollars a year, paid directly into his numbered Swiss bank account by Eduardo Morales.

  He held his hands over his head, felt the chill come through the floor.

  It had all been within his grasp, that is, until Michaels came along. Michaels, that little faggot, began to dig, to run background checks on everyone at the top level in the Agency. Sooner or later, Michaels would have used his connections and his status to look at Brandau’s Visa and MasterCard bills.