by Steve Curry
Perro probably thought his smile was charming or maybe disarming. To me it was just annoying as Hel. Or maybe I was just irritated at being kept in the dark deliberately. His introduction in English had convinced me that the little cutie driving the van was fluent enough that I didn’t want to discuss our “business” in front of her. Probably because I still had no stinking idea what our business was.
The trip was long enough that I got bored with fuming before we had to stop for gas. Somewhere in New Mexico Pedro spoke his rapid-fire Spanish at the girl driving and she pulled over into a truckstop just a few miles down the road. As far as I could tell there was very little town except for the truck stop itself. There were signs for casinos and other entertainments everywhere. The casinos themselves seemed rather few and far between.
Somehow when you hear the word Casino you expect something like Caesars Palace or Treasure Island. Half of these places just looked like fairly well maintained large adobe or stucco hotels. They were surrounded by lots of sand and cactus with some easy to maintain gardens of the same materials as well as volcanic looking chunks of rock here and there. Each of them seemed to have some link to Native American lore.
There were Buffalo, Horses, Eagles, Wind, and Thunder in most of the titles. Logos often had some form of Kachina or Dancer on them if they weren’t overwhelmed by southwestern wildlife like stampeding buffalo. Las Vegas, this was not.
As drab and uninspired as the casinos were, our truckstop was worse. It bordered on dilapidated. If a building could look both aged and weary, this one managed it. Old man Pedro reached between the seats to hand me a credit card. “Use that for gas. Use cash for food or anything else. Everyone take a few minutes. Get some food. Stretch your legs and use the facilities.”
He repeated in Spanish what I assumed were the same instructions. Likewise in Spanish, the little old lady spoke to our driver Elena. The girl nodded and then said something to Pedro that I didn’t catch. He must have understood though since he produced a handful of cash and laughed again as he passed it to the girl.
I got out and pumped the gas while he maneuvered his chair down the ramp with a couple more phrases that seemed to reassure or placate Senora Dolores. As I was finishing he rolled up for the first explanation he’d really bothered to give me.
“They pay me to get them across then got no money for a bag of chips or a coke.” He shook his head and chuckled again. I wasn’t sure if he was amused by them or by me. Maybe he was chuckling at giving money back to his clients.
“Is that what we’re doing? Smuggling illegals across?” I watched his reaction. That didn’t mean I missed the arrival of the bike bearing it’s heavily muscled Hispanic rider and my duffel bag. Without looking in our direction the motorcyclist rode up and dismounted to fill his own tank. Apparently, he had some of his own money because he didn’t bother coming to beg from my fake wheelchair-bound companion.
“No, we’re smuggling an Illegal across. Just the one. Elena has all the right papers and stuff but I made her mail them back home to Arizona. For now, she has a different name and IDs. No use giving anybody information that might get someone arrested or deported eh?” He irritated me with that smug grin of his again. He also nodded cheerfully and started to wheel himself away.
“Wait up and I’ll give you back your card. Gas is almost done.” I was still waiting for the click of the pump that would tell me we were full.
“No worries. Not my card. I’d probably get rid of it if I were you.” He said it over a shoulder and barely loud enough for me to hear. I just shook my head and folded the stolen card over and dropped it into the trash. Before I got rid of it though I read the name. Pedro Perro definitely did not look much like a Tyrone White.
The biker walked in right beside me. We kind of thumped shoulders without him bothering to even acknowledge my presence. Maybe he was just taking his job serious about not knowing any of us. Maybe he was a world-class asshole too and meant to prove how tough he was by shoving me aside.
That’s fine. I was here on a job. No need to prove I could fold him and his bike up into a compact block for disposal. There was plenty of temptation, just no need. He wasn’t carrying any bags so I looked back at the bike. Sure enough, there was my duffel sitting strapped to a motorcycle by nothing more secure than bungee cords.
I felt the steam under my collar. Maybe it wasn’t his worry. That gear had been put in his care though and I didn’t really want to have to replace two or three firearms and a few odds and end of other combat-ready gear. About the only thing missing was my new tactical vest with the thin chainmail shirt stuck to its underside. Ballistic plates are great for bullets but a knife can slip right through some of the stuff they use these days. The chainmail was good enough quality to turn aside most blades...or claws.
I had taken two or three very heavy strides back towards the door on my way back to the bike outside. That was far as I got before the little scoundrel in his wheelchair darted out and blocked my path. This time his voice was still quiet but intense enough to make up for any lost volume.“No sir. You don’t know him. He don’t know you. And you got nothing to do with that bike. Got it?”
I started to push past the chair but the long thin fingers that wrapped around my bicep were stronger than I had imagined. I looked down at Perro and flexed my arm in preparation for ripping it out of his grip. I don’t much like being pawed at or grabbed. Probably has something to do with making a living grabbing people and restraining them.
Before I could jerk away he released his grasp but kept his eyes locked on mine. “Look I get paid to get people where they go. I’m a coyote. That’s what people call guys that smuggle other people around. Most of em are pretty bad guys. Just take the money and do as little as possible. Maybe let some people cook or choke to death in a train car or the back of a truck or something. Some of the real assholes take a little bonus from the cuter girls and women. Maybe even sell them to other dudes. I don’t do that. A little cash is all I take and I don’t leave nobody locked up anyplace to die.”
He gestured for me to push him around the grocery section which was mostly empty. I pushed while he continued in his rapid and intense explanation.“Elena paid me to get her Abuela, her grandma, to someplace near Sedona. Elena been working for some rich people here for a few years. She earned enough money to get her own place. Now she wants her grandmother over to take care of. Makes some more money and talks to some people and bingo...she finds me to get Abuela Dolores across. The old lady is kind of special and the little girl can make you wanna do stuff for her just by blinking those big eyes so I take the job.”
We were almost still alone so I slowed stopped in one of the aisles to look at some beef jerky. I didn’t really want any of this processed salty crap. But it gave Perro time to finish. This was more info than I’d gotten from the secretive little weasel since I’d met him. “That’s all I get paid for. No fake IDs or social security or nothing. That costs a lot extra. They just paid me for grandma.”
He jerked a thumb towards the bike outside. “This asshole is her cousin from down near Matamoros. I ain’t paid to get him across and I don’t like him. But asshole knows some people I don’t wanna cross comprende? So walk soft and stay away from him. He’s trouble we don’t gotta mess with. Just deliver the old lady and then we head back down to start working on your deal ok?”
It took some restraint, but I jerked my chin down in a sharp nod. At least I knew the bag was warded to a degree. If it was turned inside out the runes painted into it would have been visible. Somebody who studied and understood the potential of the elder futhark would have been able to guess at their purpose.
Ok Runes might need some explanation. Historians will tell you that they’re a germanic permutation of an older alphabet from the Mediterranean. That’s probably true as far as it goes.
Runes are much more than that though. In the North, back in the days of Beowulf and Sigurd Snake-in-the-eye, we had a lot of beliefs that have faded to a degr
ee. Written language probably seemed like magic to the first of our people to encounter it.
Before that our histories always came down through skalds who memorized the tales and stories that helped us identify important people and events. When people could make marks on a hide or cloth or even carved in stone, then come back and tell you word for word what the marks said; well that seemed like magick.
Already we had a respect that bordered on fear for the power of language, song, words of any sort. For centuries it was illegal to compose a love song or poem and then utter it aloud. Words can be strong enough that such an act could be considered a form of enchantment. I’m pretty sure we lost more than a few bright and creative fellows with romantic intentions over what now seems like such an innocent act.
Fathers and brothers were careful of their womenfolk in my time. A woman had rights and responsibilities just like a man. Sometimes an especially good marriage would elevate not only the newlywed, but also his or her family depending on the match.
Anyone jeopardizing such a pairing with their own suspect incantations or creative performances could expect a thorough beating at the least. There was also the distinct possibility that an indiscrete romantic poet might find himself bleeding to death on a mountainside or locked into his hut while it burned.
I guess what I’m saying is, we already had a respect for the spoken word. The runes just gave us a handy tool to use in enhancing the fear and faith into an actual tool of magic and power. Most of us used them in certain ways and could recognize the meaning of runes created by another.
Everyone had their own personal perceptions about the meanings and uses of each of the twenty-four runes. At least there were twenty-four of them in the system I used. Some systems used runic alphabets from other places and times to achieve fewer runes or rarely more of them. Each of those letters though had centuries of lore behind them that helped shape what each was capable of. The practitioner just put his own spin on them with his will and his perceptions.
Anyone who used elder Futhark runes would probably guess that my duffel was made to be durable, fire resistant and tougher than normal cloth. A very astute Runemal or wise man of the runes might also notice that there were runes made to shift the eyes and thoughts of others away from the duffel and its contents. It wasn’t foolproof by any means. Given a choice between that bag and looting someone else’s property though, most people wouldn’t even pay attention to my stuff.
Maybe that would be enough. With a second nod that lacked some of the initial irritation, I turned away and took the necessary angry strides to reach a long hallway that advertised all of the necessary facilities up to and including hot showers and laundry machines. Behind me, I heard the fake quaver of Perro. “I’ll keep an eye out til you can push me back in the van Mister Medic.”
More fake nonsense like that did little to improve my mood. Maybe if I hurried I could get back and have a chat with Old Pedro before the ladies rejoined us. In my experience, modern womenfolk (and frankly a majority of women from other places and eras) took considerably longer than men in situations like truck stops and restaurants or almost any endeavor that might include some grooming opportunities.
I’d taken care of some necessities and grabbed a dozen tamales with an energy drink. That made it a bit of a juggle to push the wheelchair and handle my lunch all at once. Perro took the bag from me though and held it on top of the blanket that covered his lap and legs. In that fashion, we made it to the van without mishap. We didn’t get to have my private conversation though.
When I opened the rear of the van, Senora Dolores was already back in her place and looking around with just a hint of confusion. Ahead of her and back in the driver’s seat was the petite Elena. They were talking quietly when we got there but stopped their soft whispering as soon as the door opened. I hadn’t heard more than one or two sentences from the cute little Elena. Most of the time if she spoke it was to Pedro Perro or her mother and it was in a soft but very pleasant sounding Spanish. Pedro supplied the only explanation I was likely to get for their current conversation. “Abuela doesn’t remember much since I let her out of the boat. It was hard on her and she’s old. She’s just wondering where we are.”
He turned back to the two ladies and spoke in the rolling tones of Spanish. I recognized Santa Fe and a couple of other names that I knew from some maps I’d seen here and there. From what I gathered we were just a little south of Santa Fe and were well on our way to their destination. The cousin on his bike must have been in a bigger hurry than we were. He blew past the van in a roar before we were out of sight of our last stop.
None of us made it much further though. Less than half an hour after we left the truck stop there was a roadblock with a state police cruiser and two or three of the familiar green border patrol trucks. Leaning on the hood of one of the trucks was our biker buddy. He looked terribly uncomfortable with his hands holding him at an awkward angle and his legs wide apart.
Elena was breathing noticeably faster as she pulled in behind a short line of cars waiting to be cleared. I didn’t know how to help her anxiety. I was having a hard time controlling my own. In addition to the biker being handcuffed, I saw my duffel open on the back of the state trooper’s car. As much as I wanted that gear back, there was no way I was going to put a claim on it while I was sitting with at least one illegal alien and one smuggler who specialized in people.
I was still looking at my gear with a feeling of remorse or maybe just longing when a tap on the other window signaled the approach of one of the officers at the roadblock.
“I’m going to need your license and registration ma’am. Everyone else please get out a picture ID to…” His pleasantly bored drone of words was cut off by a deep voice with the hint of a British accent behind me.
“These aren’t the Drones you’re looking for.” I looked back to see Pedro making a mystical gesture with his hands while the blanket he’d had on his knees was now over his head like a hood or shawl or something.
“Right. These aren’t the DROIDS we’re looking for...asshole.” The mixed native American and Mexican looking cop peered expectantly at both Elena and me before giving up with a sigh and turning back to the Coyote. “How about you Viejo? You got the right paperwork?”
“Viejo? I ain’t that damned old you jackass. The wheelchair is just a disguise. Tell you what, tell that cute young bride of yours to expect me next week. I’ll let her tell you how much of an old man Viejo I am.” Pedro was glaring but I suspect he might have been inwardly delighted by the exchange with the jaded old border cop.
“Yea, well we ain’t sure you’re going anywhere yet are we Perro? I ain’t seen any paperwork on anybody in this junk heap. Three to one I can book you for the old lady. Maybe the young one too. You’re probably ok with the gringo though. Unless you’re importing some of those Russian spies or terrorists or something we get fliers about every few months. So how about it? You got my paperwork or do I bust all of you and start doing some digging?” He still looked bored, but that might have been one of those Indian stereotypes at work. Maybe he was just being stone-faced and phlegmatic to go with his heritage.
That stern scowl curved abruptly the other way though when our cruise director tossed a brown envelope over Elena’s shoulder. She jumped at the impact but picked the envelope up very gingerly and offered it up in a hand all but trembling with her anxiety.
The cop showed no hesitation at all. He practically snatched the brown paper out of the girl’s hand and opened it to show a stack of green bills. Good old fashioned American currency ensuring the fine and revered tradition of corruption at the local level. “Yessirree bob. Those aren’t the droids we’re looking for alright.”
He leaned back out of the window and rolled his arm from the shoulder in the international cop signal for “get your ass on down the road”. At the same time, he barked over a shoulder for the benefit of the other cops around. “This one’s clear. Paperwork in order and an old guy looks like he b
etter see a doctor quick...smells something awful in there.”
That last bit was spoken just loud enough to get a laugh from the nearest cop, and plenty loud enough to get a smile from Elena and a scowl from Pedro. As we started to pull away he stuck his head back into the window for one brief second. “Perro I catch you sniffing around my wife and the only thing you’re sticking that little pink thing in is going to be a shotgun barrel. Think about that.”
Despite the threat, the cop smiled and waved as we drove off. I waited until the assorted border guards and cops couldn’t see me before I waved forlornly at my guns and gear receding into the distance.
3
It took me almost to the Arizona border to finish grieving. The shotgun was easy to replace. There was a knife in that bag though, that had hours of work in modifications and runework invested. Just as bad, my favorite little quirky revolver that fired .45 slugs or .410 shotgun shells was now the property of the state of New Mexico. Once the grieving was over though, the brooding and the stewing commenced.
Perro had told me he didn’t like the bike guy. He wasn’t being paid for that guy’s passage and thought the arrogant thug was an asshole. Maybe Perro didn’t want to hassle with whatever weight his former escort could employ. If the guy was stupid enough to get pulled over without proper ID and carrying a load of weapons of suspicious origins then that wasn’t the coyote’s fault was it?
Sure it wasn’t. And I had a bridge for sale in Arizona. That grinning snarky little son-of-a-bitch had used my gear to get rid of someone he both feared and disliked. Which meant somebody needed to replace my stuff before things got out of hand. I mean come on, I was sent down to get a freaking divine wolf out of trouble he couldn’t handle alone. If this was something an immortal dire wolf couldn’t handle, there was no way I was going in waving a toadsticker like the one at my belt.
