by Chris Fabry
“Yes.”
“The case I found in the well. Do you know what was in it?”
“I assumed it was money or drugs.”
“That’s what I thought. Until I opened it and found a high-powered rifle. I’ve never seen one like it.”
Maria gasped. “A gun?”
“Fancy thing with a scope and enough ammunition to take out a regiment down at Fort Huachuca.”
Silence on the other end.
He weighed his options. Speak or just let her think? He chose to wait. To sit with the night sounds.
“Why you?” she said, and the way she said it made him feel like the camel’s nose was under the tent. Like there was a longing in her that went past survival.
“I can help you, Maria. We can see this through. Together. I’ll get you to your people or some other place that’s safe.” With all the passion he could muster, he added, “For some reason I found you out there. For some reason this has worked out between us. I can feel it.”
A car passed slowly at the end of the block, then backed up.
“I don’t know. Even if I could get a car, I’m lost. I don’t know the city.”
“Find someone you can trust and bring them. But hurry. Tell them Ron called. Tell them anything you have to.” He glanced down the street. “There’s a Denny’s restaurant on the corner of Oracle and River. I’ll be waiting.”
“I don’t think I can—”
“I have to get rid of this phone now. Just get there, Maria.”
20
J. D. WALKED THROUGH the heat toward the Denny’s. Night sounds of cars passing and the headlines he saw on newsstands made him think about how the world spins on small choices made in darkness. Hidden drones drop payloads on unsuspecting targets. Men in dark corners of the world illumine similar dark corners with explosions. Lives are taken behind closed doors. Others are spared because of mistaken coordinates. Locked up in the human heart are decisions, thousands every second, of life and death.
It felt like chance that moved J. D. along, but he knew it was more, even if in his heart he did not want to admit it. Chance meant that everything in his life was of his own doing, his own striving. It meant he was making his own story, writing it on some cheap napkin he took from a dispenser at a diner. He carried the weight of his choices, paid his own tab, made his own breaks, and if he was lucky, lived with the consequences. It was all on him.
This was frightening, but not as daunting as believing he was being drawn on his current path, heading toward an eventual confrontation with destiny, an enemy, and even himself. If this unchained melody had already been playing when he stepped behind the guitar, then his life had a point, a purpose, and was shaped and guided by something bigger than himself. The light and dark, life and death, verses and choruses, no matter how well or poorly they rhymed, were all part of the bigger picture he couldn’t see as he moved in the oppressive heat.
He had memorized the 520 number of Maria’s call in case he needed it later and then tossed the phone over the fence at the used-car lot. As sirens split the night, he opened Ron’s wallet. No cash. When he made it to the Denny’s parking lot, hunger pangs hit and he could taste the coffee and chicken-fried steak. The sign in front of a bank across the street said it was still 102 degrees. The old saying about Tucson was that it was a dry heat. Say what you will about the lack of humidity, but it was still an oven.
A homeless man pushed a Safeway cart filled with empty cans and bottles. He wore a dirty Diamondbacks hat and a tattered white T-shirt stained with what looked like chewing tobacco. Shoes that were barely attached to the soles. Thin, hairy arms.
“Excuse me, sir. Do you think you could spare some change? Just to get a cup of coffee.”
“Wish I had it to give you,” J. D. said.
“Aw, come on, man. Just fifty cents?”
J. D. pointed at the shopping cart. “You got more in there than I have. Just lost my truck and everything in it.”
“Sad story. Sorry to hear it. You must have a credit card or something.”
“Yeah, I got one, but I can’t use it.”
“That don’t make no sense. How could you not be able to use a credit card? You go over your limit?”
He shook his head and looked at the special on the sign above the restaurant. He could go for some scrambled eggs, biscuits, and gravy. So what if the cops saw the transaction. He could think of it as his last supper. Wait to pay until Maria showed up. If she showed up.
And then he got the plan. Beautifully laid out in front of him like a five-course meal.
“You want to eat?” J. D. said.
“I thought you didn’t have no money.”
“Park your vehicle and let’s go.”
The man’s eyes widened and he ran the cart into some gravel beyond the pavement and followed J. D. inside the freezer of a restaurant. They waited to be seated like the sign at the front said. The waitress took one look at the homeless man and then at J. D.
“He’s with me.”
She stared slack-jawed at him, like he was speaking in an unknown tongue, then grabbed two menus and placed them at a table in the back where no one could smell them. At least that’s what he figured.
J. D. ordered the special with coffee and the man asked for a burger and fries with a milk shake, looking at J. D. for the okay. He nodded and said, “Whatever you want.”
The man’s name was Freddy and he had come from St. Louis ten years earlier searching for a construction job that didn’t pan out. Life had been difficult growing up in the Midwest and had only gotten worse once he headed west.
“It’s all the illegals here, man. Why is somebody going to pay me when they can hire somebody across the border for half of that? If I owned a business, I’d hire ’em too.”
Freddy spoke as if he were hard of hearing, loudly and over the table. When J. D. talked, the man leaned forward and squinted, concentrating on J. D.’s mouth and working his tongue.
“How long have you been on the street?”
“Last three years. No, four. I had me a girlfriend when I first moved out here. Lived off of Ruthrauff. Nice girl but she got tired of me not having a job. I was just as tired of it as she was, but I couldn’t convince her.”
He laughed and coughed something from his lungs. When his drink came, he opened the straw with filthy fingers, then sucked down the thick shake and smiled. “Not as good as Mr. Jack, but it’s close. Makes you cool down deep on the inside. Wish I could have one of these every day when the sun comes up.”
J. D. kept an eye on the parking lot. He asked the waitress for a pen when she returned with the food, and she rolled her eyes and unhooked a Bic from her apron. He pulled out a credit card from the wallet and wrote something on a napkin, Freddy watching like a dog would study a man opening a can of Purina.
“Why are you giving me something to eat like this?” the man said. “You religious?”
“Do I look like it?”
“I don’t know. You act like it. There’s three kinds of people in the world. There’s the no-looks, the guilty givers, and religious people. The no-looks turn away from you and hope you don’t talk to them. They don’t want nothing to do with you. The guilty give you change or a couple of dollars because it makes them feel better. You tell them ‘God bless you,’ and they smile real big. But the religious, those are the ones you gotta watch out for.”
“How so?”
“They want to give you food, not money. Never give you money because they figure you’re going to drink it away. Which is true, but still, it’s my choice.”
“They bring you into restaurants?”
“Sometimes. Most of the time it’s fast food. The Lord seems to be partial to the dollar menu. Egg McMuffins and double cheeseburgers. I’d rather he was partial to Mr. Jack.”
Freddy laughed again and the milk shake rattled. He hardly had teeth to chew the burger, but he made a valiant effort. He doused the whole plate with enough ketchup for a regiment and doused it
again when half his fries were gone. He used enough salt to make Lot’s wife jealous.
“I have an ulterior motive for bringing you with me,” J. D. said.
“You have a what?” Freddy said, cocking his head.
“I’m waiting on someone.” J. D. slid the credit card toward him. “When they pull in, I’m going outside. And I’m leaving this with you.”
The man took the card and squinted. “Yeah, like they gonna believe I’m you.”
“It’s not my card either.”
Freddy pulled his head back like a turtle receding into its shell. “This don’t make no sense.”
“Denny’s wants to get paid.” He showed him the napkin. “That’s the guy’s signature. Just do it like that and you’ll be fine.”
“They gonna want a picture ID.”
“They’re not going to get one, are they?”
He rattled again. “No, that’s sure the truth.” He said his th’s as f’s. “What am I supposed to do with the card after I pay?”
“Is there a liquor store still open around here?”
The man licked his lips and tried to wipe some ketchup from his mustache. “You can’t buy after 2 a.m. What time is it?”
J. D. checked his watch. “It’s 1:45.”
“If I leave now, I can probably make it to the Albertsons at La Cañada. If not, you have to wait until 6 a.m. That’s when they start selling again.”
“It’s not for me. It’s for you. Here’s what I want you to do. After I leave, wait as long as you can. Order something else. A piece of pie if you want.”
“I was just looking at that lemon meringue in the case up front,” Freddy said.
“Get a whole one. You can put the rest in your cart and take it with you.”
“Yeah, maybe they’ll give me a box.”
“After you pay and sign the slip like I did, take off. And when the grocery store starts selling, go and buy whatever you want.”
“With the card?”
“Yeah, that’s the point. I want you to use it.”
His eyes grew big. “I could get me a room for the night.”
“There you go. Get two double beds. One for you and one for the pie.”
“Now you’re talking.” A cloud came over him and he put down his burger, licking a black finger. “Why are you doing this? You’re getting me in trouble with this card, aren’t you?”
“You’ll be fine.”
“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”
“You could say that.” He glanced out the window. Was Maria on her way? Had Muerte reached her?
The man sat deep in thought. “If I get caught with this, they’re going to throw me in jail.”
“No, just tell them what I’m about to tell you. Are you listening?”
He nodded and picked up his burger again.
“I found someone in the desert, half-dead. I tried to help, but this person is wanted. Not just by the police. Some bad people want her dead.”
“Her? You found a woman in the desert?” Freddy cursed. “I wish I had me some of that luck.”
“No, I don’t think you do. I’m having you use this card to throw them off until I can help her again. You tell them that when they find you.”
“I don’t know, man. Last time I was in jail, it didn’t go well.”
“Then just skip out. Rent the room and sleep for a while and hit the street. Leave the card on the dresser. You don’t have much to lose, and you’ll be helping me.”
“Helping you by spending somebody else’s money. Never heard of such a thing.”
“Think of yourself as the government. They do the same.”
He laughed again and rattled the cup. “I suppose you’re right.”
The waitress came back and refilled J. D.’s coffee three times before he said he was okay. He wished he had used the restroom after the second cup. A silver Toyota Camry pulled up in front of the restaurant at 3:15 and sat with a window rolled down. J. D. felt something in his chest. Something like hope.
“That’s my ride, Freddy. You okay with the plan?”
“Sure thing, but my name’s not Freddy. It’s Ron. Ron Barfield.” He smiled and laughed/coughed and reached to shake J. D.’s hand. “You stay safe with that desert lady of yours.” He looked through the window to try to see Maria. “Whoo, I wish I had some of that luck.”
“Instead of buying some Mr. Jack, maybe you can check into a detox,” J. D. said.
“I knew you was religious.”
“Might help you.”
“Been there a few times. Didn’t take.”
“I hope we meet again, Freddy.”
He waited until the waitress headed to the kitchen for an order and quickly exited, climbing into the backseat of the Camry. Maria sat in the passenger seat and a woman who looked like she could be her younger sister drove. The girl looked in the rearview mirror with frightened eyes.
“This is Rosana,” Maria said.
J. D. glanced at the restaurant and saw the waitress at the table talking with Freddy. “If you don’t mind, let’s get away from here, Rosana.”
The car chugged onto River Road and moved across three lanes to make a left on Oracle. The engine misfired and the sharp left turn brought a clacking sound from the front wheel. The cloth seats were worn and there was an old-car smell that brought back memories from his childhood. They passed the used-car lot where several squad cars huddled. He told Rosana to drive toward the interstate.
“Do the people who helped you know where you are?” J. D. said.
“No,” Maria said. “Rosana is the only one.”
“Mis padres me van a matar.”
Something about her parents. “Do you have a phone?” J. D. said.
“Yes, she has a cell phone,” Maria said.
J. D. directed her to the interstate, then south on I-19 to Valencia. She stopped in the mostly empty parking lot of a twenty-four-hour Walmart and the car idled like a purring cat.
Rosana looked at Maria, then got out. The girl was tiny and wore skinny jeans. Legs like matchsticks. Maria hugged her and spoke in Spanish. Rosana was in tears when she walked into the store.
“I hate leaving her here, but it’s probably the best way to protect her,” J. D. said.
“Where are we going?” Maria said.
“Someplace they won’t expect.”
“Which is where?”
“I don’t know.”
21
MUERTE SAT IN A METAL OFFICE CHAIR with his feet on the windowsill, watching the gathering light pool in the cloudless sky. He had rested fitfully through the day and finally felt a breakthrough with a phone call after midnight.
His contacts were working, as well they should with the amount of money he was offering. The woman he had spoken with had new information about J. D.’s past, but it didn’t help him find the man. As Muerte suspected, the girl had been tracked to the religious group that had been a thorn in his side for many months. They had invaded Herida with their food and games for children and evangelistic events, but because of a directive from on high, he and his men had let them continue. Religion, it had been said, was the opiate of the masses. If talk of faith and Jesus calmed the residents and kept them docile, he would allow it. Their religion made them more sheep-like and easier to direct. Still, there was something dangerous about the group. He could sense it in his gut. Strength and determination in the face of poverty and ignorance.
With this much time, Maria could have gone anywhere, but something told him she was nearby, waiting. She couldn’t get back into Mexico without her passport, and the Border Patrol had recovered that. She was on their radar, or so his contacts inside the Border Patrol had told him. He did not want her in their hands, revealing what she might know of his plan, if anything. The faster he could eliminate her, the better.
He had seen the strength in her, even as a young girl. But he could never have foreseen this trouble. If he had simply taken care of her in Mexico . . . But he hadn’t wanted to t
ip his hand.
The best news of the night came from a phone call about a mysterious rifle that was suddenly available. It had been recovered from an abandoned SUV on the city’s west side, and when he heard its description, he knew. Muerte had arranged for the delivery and the payment to be made. He would have the rifle later in the afternoon, and everyone would be happy.
A squad car pulled up to the church and someone got out. Muerte watched the man pause at the car parked in the lot and pull a note from the window. He glanced at the church and came through the office door and stopped abruptly when he saw Muerte. A look of shock covered his face like the tattoos on his arms and neck.
“Hello, Pastor. I assumed that was your car in front.”
The man’s eyes shifted toward the rear door. Muerte revealed his gun and told him to sit.
“I was admiring your library. Very impressive. Quite a variety of theological treatises, though you could use some help with organization.”
“What do you want?” He said it abruptly, without deference or respect.
Muerte pushed the slight aside. “Do you know who I am?”
The pastor nodded.
“Good. Then we can dispense with the introductions and with convincing you I mean what I say. I have watched your group from afar. I’m sure the work you do south of the border is rewarding for you and your congregation.”
“The people need help. They need hope.”
“Yes, but hope can be dangerous, can’t it? It makes people do things they were not meant to do. Hope can cause people to think they’re more powerful than they actually are. To do things contrary to their nature.”
“Hope in God is the only thing that will last.”
Muerte paused a moment and noticed a trickle of sweat running down the pastor’s forehead. “Why do you do this?” He put his hand out to the cluttered desk and bookshelf. “Why do you spend your time here? Studying. Talking. And then you travel across the border to people who cannot repay you. What’s in it for you? Do you have another wife in that town?”
“I don’t do it for money or anything else. It’s a call on my life. A mission.”
