Nothing But Trouble

by Michael McGarrity

  “I’ve got information on that license plate,” Flavio Sapian said after Kerney answered. “The vehicle is registered to Jerome Mendoza.”

  “Tell me about Mr. Mendoza,” Kerney said.

  “It’s interesting stuff. Mendoza is an MTD officer assigned to the Lordsburg Port of Entry. Single, age twenty-eight, he’s got a home address listed in Playas.”

  “I just passed by his house,” Kerney said. “What’s his connection to the smelter?”

  “Unknown. I’m going to call his supervisor after we hang up.”

  “I suggest you hold off on that,” Kerney said. “If Mendoza is involved in any wrongdoing, you’d be giving him a heads-up.”

  “Why wait?” Sapian asked. “As it stands, I have no evidence that proves a crime was committed, nor can I actually put Mendoza at the scene of the accident.”

  “I understand that,” Kerney said. “But for now you might want to treat him as a person of interest, until you have a few more facts.”

  “Such as?”

  “The victim’s identity, for starters,” Kerney said. “What if it turns up that Mendoza knew the victim? You’d look pretty foolish if you didn’t have that information before approaching him. When will you know something?”

  “Tomorrow,” Sapian replied.

  “That’s soon enough,” Kerney said. “If he’s clean, it leaves his reputation intact, and if he’s dirty, well, that’s a whole different matter.”

  “I hear you, Chief,” Sapian said. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

  Back at the apartment Johnny was nowhere to be found. Grateful for the solitude, Kerney read several chapters in the first volume of Gabriel García Márquez’s planned autobiographical trilogy before rolling into bed. He wondered what kind of story Márquez might fashion about the town of Playas. Surely it would be filled myth and magic, enriched with intrigue and imagined dreams.

  He was almost asleep when he heard someone pounding on the apartment door. Thinking it was Johnny, Kerney opened up, and two men in suits flashed U.S. Customs agent shields and invited themselves inside.

  “You’re Kevin Kerney, right?” an agent with a hook nose asked as he closed the door behind him. He was fortyish, dark skinned, and spoke with a slight Spanish accent.

  Kerney nodded. The man’s partner, a blond-headed, blue-eyed, baby-faced man, made a quick inspection of the apartment and returned to the living room.

  “He’s alone,” the man said.

  Barefoot, wearing only shorts and a T-shirt, Kerney held up his hand to stop any further questioning. “If you know my name, you probably also know I’m a cop. Let me put some clothes on, and then we can talk.”

  Hook Nose nodded and said, “We’ll watch, if you don’t mind.”

  “Come along,” Kerney said, “if that kind of thing turns you on.”

  In the bedroom Kerney fished his badge case and police credentials out of the pocket of his jeans and tossed them to Hook Nose before dressing. He looked them over as Kerney pulled on jeans and a shirt. Back in the living room Kerney asked to see some identification. Hook Nose was Supervising Special Agent Domingo Fidel. His partner was Special Agent Ray Bratton.

  “Okay,” Kerney said. “Tell me what this is all about.”

  “The man you found on Highway Eighty-one was an undercover officer,” Fidel said, “who’d spent the last six months infiltrating an illegal-immigrant smuggling ring operating in this area. He was on his first solo run across the border from Mexico with ten aliens who’d paid two thousand dollars each to be brought across.”

  “He looked like a Mexican teenager to me,” Kerney said. “Was he a fresh young recruit right out of your academy?” Many officers were assigned to undercover duty immediately after completing their training in order to reduce the risk of having their cover blown.

  “Exactly,” Fidel said. “He was supposed to bring his cargo up to a remote ranch road west of Antelope Wells and then walk them to a place where a vehicle would be waiting for him with instructions on his final destination. We couldn’t stake it out because he didn’t get the route information until just before he left.”

  “He’d made six previous runs,” Bratton said, “with the coyote who heads up the operation. Each time the crossing took place at a different location.”

  “On those earlier runs he was sent back to Mexico after the crossings,” Fidel added, “while the coyote finished the transport alone.”

  “So you don’t know the final destination,” Kerney said.

  Fidel shook his head. “Or who the coyote is working with on this side of the border.”

  “We think they’re using someplace in the Bootheel as a holding area for the illegals,” Bratton said, “before moving them on to Tucson, Phoenix, and L.A.”

  “Playas?” Kerney asked.

  “No way,” Fidel said. “We’ve had people from Homeland Security through this town a dozen times, posing as part of the team that put together the purchase agreement to buy it for use as an antiterrorist training center. The people who live here are clean as a whistle.”

  “What kind of vehicle would be used to move the human cargo on this side of the border?” Kerney asked.

  Bratton sank down on the couch and leaned forward. “It was always changed on each run. That’s why what you saw could be important.”

  “You obviously know what I saw,” Kerney said, “or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “But where you saw the vehicle the second time could be important,” Fidel said.

  “The panel van at the smelter may or may not be the same vehicle,” Kerney replied.

  “But it was similar enough to catch your interest,” Bratton said, “and it’s owned by a state Motor Transportation officer, who just happens to moonlight on his days off as a security guard at the smelter.”

  “You did a background check on Mendoza?” Kerney inquired.

  “On everybody who lives in Playas,” Fidel replied. “All fifty-six of them. Mendoza enlisted in the army at eighteen and served as a truck driver. After discharge he got a job as a long-haul driver for an outfit in El Paso. Three years ago he joined the Motor Transportation Division as a recruit and went through the New Mexico Law Enforcement Academy. He was assigned to Lordsburg upon graduation and has been there ever since.”

  “Do you think he’s your man?” Kerney asked.

  Fidel eased himself down on the arm of the couch. “Unknown, but consider this: The smelter is a sprawling, huge plant, off limits to outsiders. It’s run by a skeleton crew of ten employees who are just there to basically maintain it and deal with environmental cleanup issues. Can you think of a better place to warehouse illegals? There must be a dozen places in that smelter where you could hide people for a short time with no one the wiser.”

  “That makes sense,” Kerney said, “but back up for a minute. Your undercover officer saw six different vehicles on his runs with the coyote. Didn’t he get license-plate and vehicle information to you?”

  “The plates were stolen from trucks in the States,” Bratton replied, “and the vehicles were abandoned in Phoenix and L.A. All of them had been originally registered in Mexico under fictitious company names.”

  “Okay,” Kerney said. “Now that I know all this, tell me why you’re really here.”

  “Tomorrow Officer Sapian will call and tell you the body couldn’t be identified. Because there is no probable cause that a crime has been committed, we’d like you to suggest that he close the case as an accidental death.”

  “That’s easy enough to do,” Kerney said. “What else?”

  “Bratton here is going to join the film crew as an apprentice employee vetted by a theatrical stage employees’ union. He’ll be a gofer for the set decorator, or something like that. You’ll be his contact. What he tells you, you’ll pass on to me.”

  “What purpose does putting Bratton undercover serve?”

  “We’re after a network here, Kerney,” Fidel answered. “One that has been way too successful at not getting caugh
t. The coyote on the Mexican side is a former corrupt cop. Mendoza is a cop. There may be other officers involved that we don’t know about. Maybe some Border Patrol officers are on the pad, looking the other way. Or some of the good citizens of Playas could be supplementing their incomes. I lost a nice young kid who was doing his job, and now it’s personal. Somebody blew his cover, and I want the son of a bitch who did it, and the other son of a bitch who killed him.”

  “And Mendoza?” Kerney asked.

  “He’s under surveillance twenty-four/seven starting now,” Bratton said, “as are some of our own people.”

  Kerney walked to the door and opened it. “Did you roust me because you thought I might be a dirty cop involved in this scheme?”

  “Think of it as a reality check,” Fidel replied.

  “It’s your show.”

  “You’ll do it?” Fidel asked, as he and Bratton stepped outside.

  “Yeah, I’ll help,” Kerney said, “in spite of your bad manners.”

  Johnny Jordan and Malcolm Usher didn’t finish working on the new scenes until after midnight. It was all good stuff, and Johnny had to admit to himself that the changes totally outdid the rodeo in terms of high-octane action. He watched as Usher sent the new material by e-mail to the screenwriter in California so some fresh dialogue could be worked up.

  “I still think we could use the rodeo scenes,” Johnny said, when Usher closed the lid to his laptop. “Maybe in a slightly different way.”

  “How so?” Usher asked, looking at Johnny over the rim of his reading glasses.

  Johnny leaned back against the couch. “You’ve been talking about plot points all night long. How the film has to move the action along. So, I’ve been thinking about the opening scenes. Except for when the rancher chases the BLM officer and the sheriff’s deputies off the land, there’s not a lot of drama.”

  “The tension builds nicely,” Usher retorted.

  “Yeah, but where’s the impact? The rancher stands down the cops, who go off to get a court order to force him off the federal land. Meanwhile, the rancher’s daughter goes looking for her brother, who’s on the pro rodeo circuit, and doesn’t come back with him until the day before the cattle drive.”

  “How in the hell does a rodeo fit into any of that?” Usher asked.

  “We do a scene where the daughter finds her brother competing at a rodeo,” Johnny said. “Maybe he gets thrown and busted up at bit. He’s short of cash and down on his luck. So is his buddy.”

  Usher raised an eyebrow. “You’re talking Steve McQueen in Junior Bonner.”

  “Yeah, a great movie. Anyway, the brother and his buddy agree to help out, because they don’t have enough cash between them to pay their expenses and enter the next rodeo.”

  “And the rancher has issues with his son,” Usher added, “because he never came back to take over the ranch.”

  “Just like it’s in the script,” Johnny said. “Except now the son comes home because he’s broke, not because he wants to make amends with his old man.”

  “We’d need a real rodeo grounds to film it.”

  “There’s a nice one just over the state line in Duncan, Arizona, a little more than a hour’s drive from here.”

  “It might work,” Usher said, “if we used tight shoots to film your boys, Tyler and Clint, saddle bronc riding, and edit in some crowd background noise and a booth announcer’s voice to set the scene. We could put the girl at the arena railing with your Hispanic cowboys, Maestas and Lovato, to establish her presence, and then shoot a dialogue scene with her talking to her brother next to a horse trailer.”

  “Do you like the idea?” Johnny asked.

  “Can we get the rodeo grounds?”

  “For a song, guaranteed. It sits unused most of the year except for a short horse-racing season in the spring and a community rodeo in late summer.”

  Usher pushed the laptop away and reached for a tablet. “Are you up to pulling an all-nighter?”

  Johnny laughed. “Hell, besides rodeoing, that’s what I do best.”

  Chapter Five

  Up and ready to go at four a.m., Kerney checked the second bedroom for Johnny and found it empty. At the mercantile building the caterers had breakfast ready and Johnny and Malcolm Usher were sitting together, chowing down on scrambled eggs and bacon.

  With his breakfast plate in hand Kerney walked toward an empty table, only to be waved over by Johnny. He sat down with the two men, both of whom had circles under their eyes and slack looks on their tired faces. “Long night?” he asked.

  Johnny managed a smile. “You could say that, but we got a lot of good work done.”

  Usher nodded in agreement.

  “Why the early wake-up call?” Kerney asked Usher.

  “We’ve got daybreak and early-morning scenes in the script,” Usher replied. “We can’t plan for them correctly unless we know what the light will be like at that time of day. The same applies to our evening and nighttime shoots.”

  “We may be doing the rodeo scenes after all,” Johnny said.

  “That’s good news,” Kerney said.

  “If Charlie Zwick can find the money in the budget for it,” Usher cautioned.

  “Will that be a problem?” Kerney asked. If Johnny got what he wanted, maybe he’d stop bitching about his story idea getting all screwed up.

  “I think we’ve worked it so it won’t be,” Usher replied.

  Kerney nodded. “If you’ve got a minute, can I ask how you plan to use me on the film?”

  “You’ve read the screenplay?” Usher asked.

  “Several times.”

  Usher laid his fork beside his plate of half-eaten scrambled eggs and bacon. “Your job is to tell me what real cops would do. Anything that has to do with police procedure is your domain. If you see me planning to do something that’s completely screwball, tell me or my assistant director. Examples might be how the police would position themselves or restrain somebody—that sort of thing. The fewer glitches we have when we’re shooting, the smoother things will go.”

  “That sounds easy enough,” Kerney said.

  Usher downed the rest of his coffee. “But please don’t get upset with me if I don’t use every suggestion you make.”

  “It’s your movie,” Kerney said. “I’m not here to argue.”

  “How refreshing,” Usher said, giving Johnny a pointed look. “Enjoy yourself, Chief Kerney. I think you’ll find it fun to see how movies get made, although sometimes it can be real boring.”

  Usher left and Johnny leaned back in his chair and broke into a big grin.

  “You look pleased with yourself,” Kerney said.

  Johnny drained his coffee. “If the rodeo scenes get overhauled the way Usher and I brainstormed them, I’m going to be a happy camper. Maybe you did me a favor yesterday after all. The more exposure my clients get in the film, the better the chances that I can get them bigger product endorsement deals and more acting jobs.”

  “Are you trying to becoming a movie mogul?” Kerney asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” Johnny replied. “There’s a lot of money to be made in motion pictures.”

  “Well, you’ve got your foot in the door,” Kerney said. “But from what I’ve heard, making movies is a risky business.”

  Johnny dropped his napkin on the table. “It’s no more risky than anything else I’ve done. Hell, you can’t get anywhere if you don’t roll the dice.” He pushed his chair away from the table. “Our first stop is at the ranch. It’s quite a spread. Old Joe has sunk a fortune into it. I can’t wait for you to see it.”

  “I was there yesterday,” Kerney said, “and had lunch with your parents and Julia.”

  Johnny’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I haven’t had a chance,” Kerney said as he walked with Johnny out the door.

  “Did the old man talk to you about me?”

  Kerney shook his head. “No, he didn’t.”

  �
�That’s just as well,” Johnny said with a laugh, “since he doesn’t have much good to say about me anyway.”

  On the drive to the Granite Pass Ranch, Kerney sat in the backseat of an SUV with Charlie Zwick, the producer, who quietly wrote notes to himself. When Zwick put his pen away, Kerney asked what arrangements had been made for standby emergency personnel during the filming. Charlie explained that full-time medical services would be on-site and that the unit production manager, Susan Berman, would coordinate with the local volunteer fire departments for ambulance services to be made available. Private security officers would handle all traffic and crowd-control issues.

  They arrived at the Granite Pass Ranch road, where the day’s work began. In the predawn light Kerney stood with the crew and listened as Usher sketched out what he wanted for two scenes that occurred early in the movie. The first one would be a shot of police vehicles on the road to the ranch house. Usher, his assistant director, a young man named Marshall Logan, and the cinematographer, a guy named Timothy Linden, talked about starting with an establishing shot that would show the police cars coming into view, and using a following shot as the vehicle passed by on the way to the ranch. They’d need a camera dolly and a crane to make it work.

  As the first touch of pink coated the underbelly of the clouds on the eastern horizon, Usher had made his camera decisions and talked to his lighting specialists, Buzzy and Gus, about how he wanted the scene lit.

  Interested to learn that exterior daytime shots needed artificial lighting, Kerney eavesdropped and found out that the angle and intensity of the sun created problems that had to be controlled in order to get the proper effect on film. In addition, lens filters might be needed to either heighten or dampen the sunrise effect.

  While Usher was busy with Buzzy and Gus, Roger Ward, the transportation captain, staked out an area for the various equipment vehicles that would be brought to the location. He told Kerney at least a half-dozen trucks and the police vehicles to be used in the scene would be at the location several hours before the cast arrived, so the crew could set up.