The Devil's Bones

by Larry D. Sweazy

  His dream of returning to paradise would come true soon.

  He was left a pauper in a prison system that relied on bribes and payoffs to survive. It was lucky for him that he could speak both Spanish and English, and Tito quickly came under the protection of El Príncipe, Jorge Estavantes, The Prince of cellblock C, as a translator between the Americans, who were mostly there on drug charges, and the Mexicans.

  Inmates with no money spent their days in small cells with as many as twelve other men and only two bunks—they earned money shining shoes, doing laundry, or scrubbing the floors of the células del visitacíon, visitation cells for conjugal trysts that cost an inmate ten dollars a night. The Americans could receive money from the outside, and buy comfort and security at a relatively cheap price. It was because of this system, allowing wives and girlfriends to spend the night, that male-to-male rape was uncommon. Tito's main worry during his nine-year stint was the warring drug cartels that continued their territory battles on the inside.

  He had lived comfortably once El Príncipe marked him with a tattoo on the nape of his neck. Before then, though, life had been hard. His heart grieved for Aidia, and he had to fight for his life, for his own space, more than once in the packed cell he was first assigned to. But once the crude devil's face over a set of crossbones was etched into his skin with blue ink, he had his own cell, his own toilet and shower that he paid for with money he would owe to El Príncipe. From then on, rape or harm was out of the question. Being in debt was far more agreeable to Tito than spending his time in prison constantly looking over his shoulder.

  The big hole was very much like the orphanage, and just like when he was boy, Tito looked to the day when he could cross the big river. Except now, instead of running away in the middle of the night, he had to pay off El Príncipe before he could truly be free.

  Tito looked to the sun overhead and picked up his small linen bag of belongings. His instructions were simple: Go to the corner of Juarez and Belden, take a seat in the small café, order cabrito, and wait.

  He jingled a few pesos in his pocket and caught the first bus downtown. Flat-bed trucks, loaded with soldiers, passed by every few minutes as Tito stared out the dirty window, guns sticking up in the air, bored looks on the soldiers' faces. There was a war on with the cartels, but it was a war the government could not win. The cartels outnumbered the soldiers four to one in Nuevo Laredo, and everyone knew who was really in charge of the city. But people bustled through the streets as if it were a normal day.

  It had been so long since Tito had seen so many people. He was overwhelmed, a little frightened now that he was on his own. He stared through the smog and exhaust from all of the cars and searched the distant horizon for blue skies, trying to fight off the loneliness he was beginning to feel.

  The café was no bigger than two cells put together, and only three people sat inside. Garlic and vinegar filled the air. A man with a giant belly led him to a table in the corner away from the other patrons. The table was covered with a plastic red and white checkered tablecloth, dotted with cigarette burns. Flypaper dangled overhead, and a painting of a mountain hung on the wall. The painting was yellow and faded, a copy of a copy that had probably been there as long as the restaurant had been in business. The man smiled at Tito as he ordered cabrito, barbecued kid goat, and a draft of Negra Modelo.

  “No se apresure,” Tito said. Don't hurry.

  The cook smiled again, nodded, and disappeared through a swinging door next to the cash register. Folk music played on the radio, accordions at a fast pace with a group of male harmonies matching each note. Outside, cars and bicycles zoomed to and from the Historic District, and Tito let his mind wander to his days in Monterrey, with Aidia, as he turned his attention back to the painting overhead.

  He had thought about searching for Aidia, see if she was still alive. But it was an easy choice not to. Aidia had abandoned him, and besides, she was nothing to him now. Her home was not his home. His home only existed in his dreams. No, he would go north, not south. He would go forward, not backward. It was the only thing he knew to do—the only thing he had ever wanted to do. Aidia was an old woman—probably ordering around another boy in his place. But he never regretted fighting for her, even though he had not meant to kill Chavez.

  It was hard for Tito to believe so much time had passed since he had left El Refugio. He hoped Cirilo had had a better life than he had.

  The food came, and it looked like a feast compared to prison food. Tito sat still and stared at the tender meat covered in thick spicy tomato sauce and fresh vegetables until he could no longer restrain himself. He devoured the meal in a matter of minutes. The beer tickled his throat, the taste very different from the homemade beer and wine that the inmates made from fruit and bread. He wanted another beer but could not bring himself to spend the money. He was going to need every peso and dollar bill he had in his pocket.

  Tito finished his meal and did as he was told; he sat and waited. He watched people come and go. Two beautiful women came into the café and ate their meal a few tables from him. He could smell their perfume. Their long black hair glistened as if it had just been washed with rain water. He could almost taste their skin, and he had to keep reminding himself not to stare. It had been a very long time since he had been so close to a woman, and he realized how much he missed their company. And how much he wanted to touch them, hold them privately in the darkness and truly become a man.

  The women left without noticing him, and he continued to wait. Daylight faded into night, but the pulse of the street outside the café did not lessen. He sat transfixed, watching the world go by, wondering how long he should wait, and what it was that he was waiting for. He thought of running, not paying his debt, but Nuevo Laredo was El Príncipe's land as much as the prison was. Tito did not know the streets, and he was much too old to beg or sell his body, which he would not do. Moments of anger pulsed in his heart as he took stock of his life. How could he not be angry? Not be enraged? He did not ask to be in Mexico—and yet, it was all he knew now. Was it a stupid little boy's dream to push north to a place he did not know?

  The answer came quickly to him: Yes—even if it is for revenge. He had to find out what had happened to his mother. He had to find out what happened to him. There were those in the faraway land of Dukaine that were in debt to him, and he was bound and determined to collect on that debt. Just like El Príncipe was collecting from him. Prison had taught him to be smart with his anger. He could kill a man if he had to.

  Finally, the cook began to place the chairs on the table. Tito locked eyes with the man questioningly. The cook laughed.

  “Grab the mop, little pollo, we will leave soon,” the cook said with a huge smile on his face. “El Príncipe did not tell you I was his uncle?”

  Tito shook his head as he stood.

  “Jorge always was a distrustful little fuck. It has served him well, I suppose, lost inside the walls of el agujero grande. His mother will not even go see him these days. Did you know that?”

  Again, Tito shook his head no, grasped the mop, and began to slop the floor with murky water that stung his nose with bleach. He did not take his eyes off the cook.

  “There is no place in heaven for asesinos. Murderers are assigned to hell, even though my dear sister prays for her son every day, asks the dear Lord for his mercy, she does not believe it will do her any good. Her son is a very bad man, but you know that, don't you?”

  “He was kind to me,” Tito said.

  The cook laughed again. “Only because you're an asesino who speaks English. He is not done with you yet, amigo. I would withhold judgment about his kindness if I were you.”

  Tito wanted to ask the man his name, but he knew better than to seek information that was not readily given. The less he knew, the better off he was. His gut told him not to trust the fat man, but he was not in a situation to do anything else.

  “My nephew promised you passage across the border?”

  “Sí,” Tito
said, nodding.

  “And you will be free of his debt?”

  Tito nodded again.

  “Your life will be at risk. Now is the time to run if you are not willing to die. I will turn my back, if you like. But do not stop. El Príncipe will find you and take no mercy on you. Either way, you risk dying. Which way is it, pollo? We leave now.”

  Tito stopped mopping. “I am ready to go.”

  The cook took off his apron and walked to the swinging doors. “Once you're on the other side it will not be any better for you there than it is here. I hope you know that.”

  Tito said nothing. He followed the man outside and climbed into the passenger seat of a plain white van. The city lights flashed by quickly and soon they were on the highway, Interstate 35, fighting for a position among the hundreds of semi-trucks that headed north. The fat man remained silent for the entire drive until they exited the highway a few miles from the border.

  “The migra will be plentiful on this night, pollo. The moon is full.”

  Tito took a deep breath, thought about all of the stories of the Border Patrol he had heard, and pushed them aside. He did not answer. He did not want the cook to know he was scared, excited, and sad. How could he not think of his mother's story about being duped by the coyote? He could only wonder if something worse awaited him.

  They drove two hours to the west, getting farther and farther out into the open country. Darkness wrapped around them like a charred blanket. The night air was hot—but sweet. Finally, the van slowed and the cook turned onto an unmarked gravel path that led up to a ramshackle house.

  “There are others,” the cook said, shutting off the engine.

  Tito followed the man into the house. There were at least twenty people packed into the small front room. It smelled of urine and sweat.

  “Espera aquí,” the cook said. Wait here.

  Tito stood next to a man dressed in peasant's clothes, a few years younger than himself. The man looked to the floor and grasped his wife's hand, who was standing next to him. They were mumbling, praying.

  For the next hour each person in the room was led to another room and disappeared behind closed doors. Tito heard murmurs and whispers of those that came back out. When it was his turn he knew what to expect, and he understood the cook's warning about his life being at stake.

  The smell in the room was even fouler than the room packed with people. It was a chemical smell, a thousand times worse than the bleach in the café. Cardboard boxes filled the room with the exception of a table that sat in the middle. A bare light bulb dimly lit the room. The cook and another man stood waiting next to the table.

  “Ah, it is your turn,” the cook said. He motioned for Tito to sit at the table. “Swallow all of these until you can swallow no more.” The table was loaded with buckets full of white sausages. Two bottles of cooking oil sat next to the buckets. “But be careful, do not puncture the packet, pollo. It is mostly pure ephedrine that we get from China. It is used to make meth. Poor man's cocaine. One packet is enough to send your heart into a racing frenzy.” The cook laughed and shook. “You will look like you're being electrocuted. But don't worry. It will not last long. And then you will be dead—free of all your debts on this earth.”

  Tito picked up a packet carefully and stared at it. This was his ticket to paradise.

  “Dip it in oil so it will slide down faster,” the other man commanded.

  Tito looked up, saw the man's beady eyes and a scar that ran down the side of his throat, and decided he had no choice. He had come this far. It only took him ten minutes to digest as many as the packets as he could.

  An hour later all of the people in the house were packed in the back of the cook's van. Women coughed. Men stared into the darkness. The van was packed so tight with migrants Tito could barely move. Oddly, no one spoke, or when they did, it was very little, hushed—each with their belly full of deadly drugs. Fear was the only taste, the only smell inside the van.

  After a long bumpy ride the van stopped. The cook shepherded them all out and made them stand in a single line. He pulled Tito to the side.

  “You are to make sure everyone gets across. There is another van on the other side. They will take you to a house where you will wait. From there, you and some of your group will be taken to Chicago—but it will still be dangerous. The truck you will be in will be loaded with meth underneath as well as inside your body. The migra and American policia will not take any mercy on you. They are at war with us, too. Ask no questions. Do as you are told. But do not even think you can outrun my nephew in America. He is everywhere. If you betray him, he will hunt you down and have you killed—even as he sits in his lowly prison and awaits his journey to hell.

  “Once you arrive in Chicago and dispense the meth, you are free to go wherever you want. Your debt to El Príncipe will be repaid. You should be able to find plenty of work this time of year.”

  “I am going home. To Indiana,” Tito said.

  “Then you will not be far. There are many tomato fields in the north near Chicago.”

  Tito watched as the others waded into the river, knapsacks over their shoulders, heads down, all listening for the migra's trucks. He walked to the riverbank and looked over his shoulder. The cook was sitting behind the wheel of the van smoking a cigar. He hung his head out the window and hollered, “¡Buena suerte!” Good luck!

  Tito put his foot into the river, followed the line of people as the water reached his waist. He looked up. The sky was clear. The stars glistened. The man in the moon smiled. In the distance, a coyote howled and a truck engine started. Headlights flashed across the river, and then grew dark. Tito stopped. He could not go back. Not now.

  A van drove to the bank and sat idling. Tito quickly realized it was the van sent to pick them up. He pushed forward, running in the water as fast he could, splashing the river water everywhere until he was thoroughly soaked from head to toe.

  He stepped out of the river and looked back at Mexico. The cook's van was gone. The city, Nuevo Laredo, lit the night sky in the distance like dusk after a long, gray day. Darkness covered all of Texas, but in the east, dawn was starting to break and the Big Dipper was falling behind the hills. He'd never been so happy in his life.

  Tito genuflected for the first time in years, dug out the St. Christopher's medal around his neck, kissed it, and then caught up with the rest of the mojados.

  CHAPTER 29

  August 22, 2004, 9:05 P.M.

  Buddy Mozel's face was twisted and scarred by years of plastic surgery. His skin was shiny, pulled tight on his forehead. One eye and cheekbone was higher than the other. Age had not been kind to him. What hair he had left was pure white, thin wisps exposing scars on his skull, and his eyebrows were nonexistent. His once regal Roman nose was crooked and tiny spider web veins had risen near the surface of his skin, a purple roadmap that reached under both eyes and vanished in the glare of the single overhead light. An ornately carved cane bearing a lion's head on the handle supported his skinny frame. But, for Jordan, there was no mistaking Buddy Mozel's presence or his stature. Buddy's shoulders were squared, though thinner, and he was dressed in fine casual clothes, navy blue slacks and a blue and white striped oxford shirt.

  “It's been a long time, Jordan,” Buddy Mozel said, extending his hand.

  Jordan had to duck inside the small travel trailer. He tilted his head, shook Buddy's hand, and tried to restrain the look of shock that must have been on his face. “Yes, it has.”

  The trailer was a typical weekend camper, and Jordan suspected it was José's year-round home, but he didn't know that for sure. It was probably less than twenty feet long with a low rounded ceiling covered with blonde wood. The front room, if it could be called that, consisted of two bench seats with a small table that folded down between them. The seats, covered with fading orange flowery upholstery, could be converted into a bed. A small sink, along with a dorm-sized refrigerator and a hot plate, rounded out the tiny kitchen. Beyond the kitchen, the
camper held a tiny bathroom and a bedroom big enough for a twin-size mattress. There were a few personal effects in the trailer. A collection of votive candles with religious figures sat on the counter next to the hot plate along with another plastic Jesus, sitting in a chair with lambs at His feet.

  Buddy sat down on one of the bench seats and motioned for Jordan to sit. José closed the door and remained standing, looking outside.

  The windows were open and a small metal fan circulated warm muggy air. Tree frogs and crickets sang outside. Somewhere in the distance a great horned owl hooted forcefully, celebrating darkness, starting the night's hunt.

  Jordan sat down and adjusted the .38 so he could be comfortable. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

  “Go right ahead,” Buddy said.

  “You should let me look at your wound, Señor Jordan,” José said, stepping away from the window next to the door.

  “I'm fine.” The bleeding had subsided, but the pain remained. The right side of his shirt was covered in dried blood.

  “Are you sure?”

  Jordan lit a cigarette and put his hand out to stop José. “Seriously, I'm all right.”

  José nodded and returned to his post next to the door.

  Jordan turned his attention back to Buddy Mozel, still a little unsettled by his appearance. Buddy had been a handsome man. Not only because he had money for nice clothes and fancy cars, but his genes had all cooperated and joined together to form that special kind of physical magnetism that attracted both men and women—albeit on different levels. The accident had butchered what nature created, and it was obvious there was not a man on earth who could restore nature's original creation. To see Buddy as a shadow of his former self saddened Jordan, regardless of his feelings toward the SunRipe owner—though he had always been much more forgiving of the man than Spider had been.

  Buddy sighed and looked down at the table. “I never meant for it to come to this,” he said softly, almost a whisper.