by Frank Zafiro
“Could you have loved me?” he pleaded with her. “Ever?”
I didn’t want her to answer that. I didn’t want him to hear the truth if she said no, and I didn’t want to hear the truth if she said yes.
Isabella shook her head slightly. “Lo ciento, Pete. I’m sorry.”
Pete’s gun hand wavered. In the mirror, I saw tears spring to his eyes. Huge drops rolled down his cheeks.
“Pete…” I tried to get his attention.
“Gitana,” Pete croaked. “Gitana cara.”
The blast exploded from the barrel of his gun and Isabella disappeared behind the bar. I fired immediately after, double-tapping. The force of my rounds hurled him into the bar. His gun clattered to the floor. Pete slid down the side of a barstool.
The biting odor of cordite stung my nostrils. I approached Pete carefully. He lay motionless.
“Señorita? Are you okay?”
No answer.
“Isabella? It’s safe.”
“¿Seguro?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
Isabella rose from behind the bar and her eyes scanned the room. “Pete?”
I didn’t answer.
Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. She ran around the end of the bar to where Pete had fallen. I started to stop her, but with Pete’s gun outside of his lunge area, I let her go. While she touched his face, I secured his weapon.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered to Isabella, wondering if she were really grieving for a man she just told she could never love. “I didn’t have a choice.”
She ran her hands across Pete’s forehead, smoothing a lock of his hair. I stood silently, listening to the slowing trickle of alcohol dripping from broken bottles behind the bar and the wail of sirens in the distance.
Isabella stood and pushed her own jet-black hair back. I waited for her to turn to me for a comforting embrace, to thank me for saving her life. Instead, she shot me a glance of pure venom, turned and stalked away.
Gitana, Pete had said. Gitana cara.
Enchantress. Dear, precious enchantress.
Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to shoot her and had fired into the booze rack instead.
At least, things were clear for him now. At least, the woman had loved him for a moment, even if it were his last. I stood in the empty bar, the odor of gunpowder in the air, watching blood seep from Pete’s dead body, and waited. For what, I don’t know.
Like I said, things are blurred along the border.
Jack’s Town
“Sam-25?” the radio crackled.
Molly’s voice cut through the still night air. I was parked out on the edge of town with my boot lodged against the wide open door of the police Explorer, staring up at the expanse of stars across the West Texas sky. I’d been thinking about Isabella’s dark eyes and her hair falling down.
I grabbed the mike. “-25, go ahead.”
“I have a call,” she said, then paused. When she spoke again, her voice held a tone of reluctance. “Can you Signal 8 Dispatch, please?”
My eyes narrowed. Why’d she want me to call her on the phone? Why couldn’t she just broadcast the call over the air?
I turned the ignition key and the Explorer’s engine rumbled to life. The cell phone mounted in the center console booted up and beeped its readiness. I punched in the number for Dispatch from memory. She answered on the second ring.
“Carl?”
“What’s going on, Molly?”
She sighed. “I just got a 911 call.”
I put the Explorer in gear. “Where?”
“It sounded like a domestic,” Molly said.
“Where?”
Molly hesitated. Finally, she said, “It came from the Talbott house.”
I cranked the wheel left, driving in that direction.
“Carl?”
“I heard you,” I said, and turned on my overhead lights. “John and Wes still on duty?”
“Wes is driving John home. But—”
“Send them to back me up.”
“Copy that,” Molly said. “Carl—”
“Who called it in?”
“Doris.”
“What’d she say?”
Molly hesitated again. “Not much. Just that Jack was worse than usual.”
“Was there anything physical?”
“I asked her that. She just told me to never mind and hung up.”
“Could you hear anything in the background?”
“Just music.”
“All right. I’ll be on scene in about forty seconds. Get Wes and John up here.”
“Copy. Be careful, Carl.”
I broke the connection. The night desert air rushed through the open driver’s window. The cool bite of Fall mixed with the smell of cottonwoods.
Jack Talbott. Richest man in La Sombra, probably in the whole county. He owned a ton of real estate, plus the cattle ranch and one of the car dealerships. I’m sure he had his fingers in a few other pies as well.
I smiled grimly at that last thought. It was probably true in more ways than one.
The city road near Jack’s place was untended gravel, but the quarter mile driveway that was labeled Talbott Lane was paved in smooth asphalt. I cut all my lights and pulled onto what looked like a black stream that led to the house.
I parked short of the house, killing the Explorer’s engine. I grabbed my flashlight and got out, closing the door gently. My boots clacked lightly on the asphalt as I approached the large French doors. A giant ‘T’ boldly adorned both in the center. I knew the artist who carved the letters into the wood. He told me Jack rejected the first two attempts and then docked him for the delay.
There was nowhere to hide on the wide expanse of the porch. I tried to peer through the thickly curtained window next to the door, but the tan curtains were drawn shut. Light seeped around the edges from inside of the house. I listened for movement, but could only hear the faint strain of music and the occasional yelp from Jack’s hunting dog in the kennel around back. I moved to the side of the door and lightly rapped on it.
There was a long silence, then I heard the light sound of approaching footsteps. The footsteps stopped near the door. I rapped again.
“Police,” I said.
No response.
“Mrs. Talbott, it’s Carl Riggins,” I said, this time a little louder. “Open the door, please.”
Another pause.
I was about to speak again when I heard a click and the door opened.
The first thing I saw was Doris Talbott’s small, slender fingers. Long, manicured nails, painted a deep red, caught my eye. The nails on the middle and ring finger were torn and ragged. When the door swung open further, I saw the same red on her lips. The lipstick on her bottom lip was smeared downward toward her chin. A brighter red flared around her left eye.
“Are you all right?” I asked, stepping forward.
Doris held up her hand to stop me. She swallowed. “I’m fine, Carl. Really. Please, just go.”
I shook my head. “I can’t do that, ma’am.”
Her lip trembled. “You have to.”
“Did he hit you?”
Her hand rose reflexively to her eye. She shook her head. “No. I, uh...” Her eyes darted away from mine. “I walked into a door.”
“Into the knob?”
She squinted at me, then winced and touched her eye again. “The knob?”
“Did you walk into the knob?” I repeated.
“No. The, uh, frame. The door frame.”
I stared at her without speaking.
She stared back, blinking. “What?”
“You didn’t walk into a door, Mrs. Talbott.”
“Sure I did.”
“No,” I said, “you didn’t. That injury obviously came from a closed fist. Now why did he hit you?”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “He didn’t,” she whispered.
“Is he here?”
She nodded.
“Where?”
She
cleared her throat and wiped away the tears gingerly. “In his den.”
“Drinking?”
Her composure shifted and a sarcastic tone crept into her words. “Oh, yes. He is having himself a drink.”
I moved forward to enter the house. I thought for a moment that she might refuse to let me in, but her automatic good manners took over and she stepped aside. Once I was inside, she closed the door behind me.
“What are you going to do?”
I ignored her question. “Do you want to go somewhere else tonight, Mrs. Talbott?”
“Go somewhere else?” She shook her head. The motion was tentative at first, then stronger. She squared her shoulders, brushed back a lock of her hair and stared me directly in the eye. “No! I won’t be driven from my own home, Carl.”
“It might be safer for you.”
“I’m perfectly safe here.”
I shrugged. The haughty tone I was used to from her had returned. With that, I knew I’d never get her to go to a shelter or even a friend’s house. “Where’s the den?”
She regarded me for a moment. “It isn’t worth it, you know.”
“What isn’t?”
“Going up against Jack. He’ll win. He always does.”
“I’m not going up against anyone,” I lied. “I just want to talk to him about what happened.”
“I told you. I walked into a door.”
“And that’s why you called 911?”
She bit her lip for a moment. “I...was confused.”
“No, you weren’t.”
She didn’t answer me, only regarded me carefully.
“The den,” I said.
She pointed down the hallway to my right.
I turned and strode down the tiled hallway. My boots didn’t click on the tile surface so much as they made a satisfying thud. I took a short flight of stairs up to another hallway. This one opened up into a cavernous, almost museum-like room full of overstuffed furniture. The oil paintings on the wall depicted grand generals, including one of Napoleon on a rearing mount.
Straight ahead, the hallway continued, but my eyes went to the dark mahogany door to my left. Strains of guitar music slipped through the cracked door into the great room.
I gave the door a nudge. The music grew louder as the door swung open. The guitar had a Mexican twang to it, but the tune was classical. Jack Talbott sat in a high-backed leather chair, his eyes closed. He held a glass half-full of amber liquid in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other. Were it not for his sagging jowls and round belly, he’d have the look of an athlete just barely past his prime. His gray-white hair was stylishly combed over to disguise how much it had thinned.
I stepped into the room. Talbott must have heard the sound of my boots on the den’s hardwood floor because he opened his eyes. A moment of surprise registered in them before the veil of arrogance fell back into place.
“Officer Carl Riggins,” he rumbled over the sound of the Mexican guitar. “What’s the occasion?”
I pointed at the stereo. “Can you turn that down?”
Talbott regarded me for moment, then reached for the remote on the table next to him. He pushed a button and the music died abruptly. “I’m surprised,” he said.
“Surprised at what?”
“The music. I would’ve figured you to like it, given the obvious Mexican influence.” He smiled coldly. “But I guess where Mexican is considered, you only like what comes out of the gutter.”
Isabella’s image flashed in my head. A small ball of hate for Jack Talbott burned in my chest. I tried to ignore it. “What’s going on here tonight, Jack?”
He raised the drink to his mouth. The ice cubes clinked as he sipped. “Nothing,” he said when he finished swallowing. “I don’t even know why you’re here, unless you’re looking to buy a new Ford or something.”
“Doris called 911.”
“I’m sure it was a mistake.”
“She’s got an injury. Her eye.”
“Really?” He took another drink. “And how did that happen?”
“You hit her,” I told him.
He smiled. “Is that what my lovely wife told you?”
“She didn’t have to tell me. It’s obvious from the injury.”
“Really?” he said again. “You’re an expert on injuries, are you?”
“Enough of an expert to know she didn’t walk into a door.”
Jack took another slug from his glass, draining it.
“I’m going to have to take you in, Jack,” I told him.
He chuckled and set his empty glass on the table beside him. He clamped the unlit cigar between his teeth and shook his head indulgently. “No, Carl, I don’t think so. I think what you’re going to do is turn your ass around and get the hell out of my house.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can.” He patted his pockets for a light. “There’s no problem here. If Doris says she walked into a door, then that’s what happened.”
“You can’t hit your wife, Jack.”
He found his Zippo in his front pocket. “I can do whatever I want. This is my town.” He removed the cigar from his mouth and gave me a hard stare. “Now I’m done playing with you. Get out of my house or I’ll get the Chief down here.”
He put the cigar between his teeth and struck the lighter.
“Don’t light that cigar,” I told him, my voice low.
His eyebrows shot up. “You’re giving me orders now, Carl? In my own house?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. That’s not how it works. Like I told you, this is my to—”
I took two quick steps and whipped my open hand through the air. The blow caught both of his hands at the fingers. The cigar and the lighter flew from his grasp, clattering against the bookcase.
Talbott’s face reddened. Rage settled in his eyes. “You son of a bi—”
I latched onto his wrist with one hand and his elbow with the other. With one swift lever motion, I dumped him out of the chair and face-first onto the hardwood floor. He grunted while I ratcheted the handcuffs onto his wrists.
“What the hell do you think—”
“You’re under arrest for assaulting your spouse,” I told him. “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney.”
He let loose a string of curses, but it was nothing I hadn’t heard before.
“Let’s go,” I said. I pulled him to his feet.
“You can’t do this to me!” he barked at me. He pulled his lips back, baring his teeth. “You are finished!”
“Finished here,” I grunted in agreement and shoved him toward the door.
“I want to see the Chief!”
“You can call him from lockup.”
His eyes flared open at the word, then narrowed again. “Finished!”
I took him by the elbow and walked him out of the study and into the great room. Doris stood by a chair, her eye wide with wonder. “Jack?” she asked, her voice breaking.
“This is your goddamn fault!” he screamed at her.
“Shut up,” I told him and forced him down the hallway.
“Jack?” she called after him.
“You did this, Doris!”
I pushed him face first into the flat adobe styled wall. I flattened my hand against the back of his head, pressing my thumb into his jaw. I found the mastoid and drove the thumb into it. Jack screamed.
“I said to shut up,” I growled into his ear. “Do you understand me?”
He nodded frantically, but as soon as I eased off on the pressure, his eyes filled with venom again. “You’re going to pay for this. You are going to pay like a mother—”
I drove my thumb into his jaw again and he yelped. “Maybe so,” I whispered, “but between now and then, you are going to feel a lot of pain if you don’t stop yelling at her. You got that?”
He nodded again. I released the pressure. His eyes burned with red-hot hate, but he said nothing.
“Jack?” Doris’ wavering voice
floated down the hallway. “What do I do?”
“Wait here,” I told her. I swung Jack away from the wall. We marched out the front door. At the Explorer, I searched his pockets and found nothing. I opened the back door and guided him into the seat.
“You’re finished,” Jack told me, his voice low and deadly.
“Yeah, you said that.” I shut the door. The brief blip of a siren caught my attention and a second Explorer pulled to a stop behind mine. Wes Perez hopped out of the driver’s side. His face was etched with concern.
“¿Que pasa, Carl?” he asked, his tone worried.
Much more slowly, John Calhoun stepped out of the passenger side and made his way toward us. His perfectly combed iron gray hair, creased jeans and impeccably white shirt were familiar and gave me an odd comfort.
“I just arrested Jack,” I told them both.
Wes’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Old John’s face remained impassive, but even in the dim light of the driveway, I saw the sheen of sweat on his cheeks and chin.
“What for?” Wes asked.
“He hit Doris.”
Wes muttered a curse and glanced at Jack in the back seat of my rig.
“That what Doris said?” John stared at me from under the brim of his Stetson.
I held his gaze. “That’s what the bruise on her face said.”
John didn’t answer. He pressed his lips together and swallowed.
“You sure this is such a great idea, Carl?” Wes said. “I mean, this is Jack Talbott we’re talking about here.”
“I know. And Jack Talbott hit his wife.”
“Which I gather she’s not saying,” John added.
“He hit her. And he’s going to jail.” I looked from one to the other, shaking my head in amazement. “Why are you two so afraid of him? Why is this whole town so afraid of him? Because he has money? So what.”
Both men were quiet for a second. The ticking sound of their patrol Explorer’s engine cooling mixed with the sound of the cicadas while we all stood in the driveway and waited.
“He’s got more than money,” Wes finally whispered.
“Like what?” I asked.
Wes glanced up at me, his normally warm Mexican features spiked with worry. Before he could answer, yelling and thumping erupted from the rear of my patrol vehicle. Jack’s muffled demands to be un-cuffed and released wafted out to us. The eyes of both men pleaded with me.
