Invasion Usa: Border War

by Johnstone, William W.

  “The Flamingo Bar,” Tom said again. “How much?”

  “Oh, man, the Flamingo’s a long way an’ nobody goes there. I couldn’t get a fare back here, you know? And the people who run it, they’re a bunch o’ friggin’ bandidos—”

  “How much?” Tom knew perfectly well that the reason the cabbie didn’t want to take him to the Flamingo Bar was because he didn’t get paid off by the proprietor for steering suckers there. He didn’t care about that, though. He would take one of the other cabs if he had to.

  “Well, if you’re sure, man, it’ll cost you twenty-five bucks, American.”

  “It’s six blocks from here. I’ll give you a dollar a block.”

  “Oh, man!” The driver sounded like he was in great pain. “You know how much gas costs, man? I can’t afford to start this sucker for six bucks.” He paused. “Make it twenty.”

  “Ten,” Tom said.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Twelve.”

  The cabbie considered and then nodded. “Okay, you got a deal. Twelve bucks.”

  “And twenty more if you wait for me and bring me back here.”

  “Shit, no! How long you gonna be there? I can’t sit around all night for no twenty bucks!”

  “I thought you said you couldn’t get a fare back here from there,” Tom reminded him.

  The cabbie grinned sheepishly. “Oh, yeah, I did say that, didn’ I?” He shrugged. “Make it twenty-five bucks, and I wait half an hour. Tha’s all.”

  Tom didn’t know if half an hour would be long enough, but he supposed it would do for a start. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  The driver cranked the engine. It started with a rumble, and with a clash of gears and a squeal of rubber he pulled out and floored it, as if determined to break the land speed record for the four blocks between here and the place where he would have to turn. The acceleration pressed Tom back against the rattily upholstered seat.

  His hand slipped behind him and touched the reassuring hardness of the little pistol. He was ready to draw it if the driver deviated from the route that Tom knew he was supposed to take to reach the Flamingo Bar.

  The cabbie didn’t try any funny business, though, other than driving like a madman, and a couple of minutes later the old car rocked to a stop on worn-out shock absorbers. Garish pink light from a large neon sign in the shape of a flamingo filled the cab and spilled over the sidewalk. The cabbie turned around and said, “Here you go, man. Where’s my money?”

  Tom held out a ten and a couple of ones. The driver snatched them and said, “What about the twenty-five for waiting?”

  “You get that when I come out.”

  “Your lack of trust wounds me, amigo.”

  Despite everything, Tom found himself almost liking the guy. He was a walking, talking stereotype, but he played his role with enthusiasm.

  “If you’re still here when I come out, you’ll get your money,” Tom said as he climbed out of the cab.

  “If you come out, I’ll be here,” the cabbie said meaningfully. “Sometimes guys go in the Flamingo, and they’re never seen again, you know what I mean?”

  Tom knew, all right, but there was nothing he could do about it. He crossed the sidewalk, pushed open the heavy door, and stepped into the Flamingo Bar.

  Twenty-seven

  If the cabdriver was a stereotype, the Flamingo Bar was a cliché—dim, smoky, loud, and filled with all sorts of unsavory characters. The driving beat of Tejano music made the soles of Tom’s feet vibrate and put his teeth on edge.

  No one seemed to be paying any attention to him as he walked in, but he would have been willing to bet that wasn’t really the case. In fact, he could feel eyes on him. He just couldn’t pin down who they belonged to.

  As he walked toward the bar, he studied the crowd. It was predominantly male and predominantly Hispanic, but there were quite a few white males mixed in, those dumb college kids Keller had mentioned. There were no white females; all the women were Latinas.

  Neon beer signs behind the bar provided a mixture of light. Tom stepped up to an open space at the hardwood and caught the eye of a bartender. He gave the man a nod and said, “Cerveza.”

  The bartender took a bottle of beer from a cooler. Water and bits of ice dripped from the brown glass as he set it on the bar in front of Tom. With a practiced twist, he removed the cap.

  “Five dollars.”

  That was an expensive beer, but Tom supposed the bartender charged whatever he thought the market would bear. He didn’t argue, just dropped a bill on the bar and then took a swig of the beer. It was extremely cold and surprisingly good.

  As Tom set the bottle on the bar, he asked in Spanish, “Is Pepe around tonight?” He felt like a character in a movie saying it, as he had told Keller.

  In decent English, the bartender said, “There might be a dozen guys in here named Pepe, Señor. You can call the one you’re looking for ... like a dog.”

  He snickered.

  Anger boiled up inside Tom. He wanted to reach over the bar, grab the smart-ass’s dirty shirt, and smack his face down into the bar a couple of times. That might teach him a little respect and get a straight answer out of him.

  But it would also cause half the men in the bar to come after him, Tom reflected, and then at the very least he’d get the shit beaten out of him for no good reason. He forced himself to smile instead and drawled in his best B-movie hero voice, “I think you know the Pepe I’m looking for, amigo.”

  The bartender sneered and started to turn away. “Drink your beer and go back where you came from, gringo. You ain’t welcome here.”

  “You want to do this the hard way, eh?” The words were out of Tom’s mouth before he could stop them.

  The bartender stopped turning and glared at him. “What you sayin’ to me, man? You loco or something?”

  A small man stepped up to the bar beside Tom and said tentatively, “Tequila, por favor?”

  The bartender ignored him and continued glowering at Tom. “You’re too old to come in here and act like a tough hombre, gringo. Get out.”

  Tom shook his head. “Sorry. Not until you tell me where I can find Pepe.”

  That was when something hard dug into Tom’s side. His head jerked in surprise to the mousy little man beside him, who smiled and said, “I’m Pepe, Señor Brannon. Don’t make a scene, just come with me, please.”

  Tom knew the thing digging into his side was the snout of a gun. It seemed he didn’t have any choice in the matter. He nodded and said, “All right. Lead the way.”

  “Walk with me,” Pepe said. “Don’t try anything.”

  Tom didn’t. With Pepe close beside him, indicating which way he should go with prods of the unseen gun, Tom walked toward the rear of the big, smoke-filled room. Pepe steered him toward a beaded curtain that closed off an arched doorway. They moved through it, the beads rattling around them, and went down a narrow, dim hallway. A door at the end led into a cluttered office dominated by a large desk. Pepe closed the door behind them and told Tom, “Sit down.”

  Tom sank into a chair with torn upholstery in front of the desk. Pepe went behind it and lowered himself into a large swivel chair that seemed to swallow up his slight form. He put a short-barreled revolver on the desk in front of him and sighed.

  “The hard way?” he said. “You really told my bartender you were going to have to do this the hard way?”

  “You’re a fine one to talk. A beaded curtain? A sign in the shape of a flamingo? It’s not 1957 anymore.”

  Pepe’s narrow shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Tourists expect a certain ... ambience, I suppose you could say.”

  “I didn’t think the tourist trade amounted to much in Nuevo Laredo anymore.”

  “It doesn’t. All because of that damned Guerrero!” Pepe’s hand slapped down on the desk next to the gun. “As you’ve probably guessed, this is my place. It used to be a gold mine, Brannon, a damn gold mine. Now the gringos are too scared to come over here,
most of them, and even the Mexicanos don’t come like they used to. This is not a good time to be a crooked night club owner, let me tell you.”

  “You have my sympathy,” Tom said dryly. “Right now, though, I just want to know about—”

  Pepe held up a hand to stop him. “I know what you want to know. But I can’t tell you.”

  Tom frowned and hunched forward in his seat. “Brady Keller said—”

  “Again, I know. I can’t tell you because I don’t have the information. But I know someone who does. Will you come with me to the place where that person waits?”

  Without hesitation, Tom got to his feet. “Let’s go.”

  “I warn you, it is not a pleasant place.”

  “There’s nothing pleasant about this business. Let’s just go.”

  Tom tried to curb his impatience as Pepe stood up and sauntered out from behind the desk. The little man led him out of the office, through another door, and into an alley behind the Flamingo Bar. It was almost completely dark back here, with just enough light so that Tom could follow Pepe’s slight figure. The possibility that this could all be an elaborate trap of some kind still lurked in the back of his mind, but he had come this far. He wouldn’t have turned back, anyway, not so long as there was any chance that he could find a lead to the place Laura and the other girls were being held.

  As the two men made their way through a maze of alleys and narrow, dark streets, Tom realized that he had no idea how to get back to the bar. He was utterly lost. They went around another corner, and wheels rattled on the rough, poorly repaired concrete sidewalk. In the light that spilled faintly through a dirty window, Tom saw a grotesque figure coming toward them. The man had no legs. His torso was strapped onto some kind of wheeled platform. He pushed himself along with his arms. His hair was a wild black tangle and a scraggly beard adorned his jutting jaw. He came to a stop in front of Tom and Pepe.

  “Hola, Ramón,” Pepe said. “I have brought the gringo.”

  Ramón looked up at Tom. A tin cup dangled from a string around his neck, and Tom realized that the man was a beggar. Ramón said, “You seek Alfonso Guerrero and Los Lobos de la Noche?”

  Tom glanced around. They were on the sidewalk, in the open, with dark buildings looming nearby. Anyone could have been hidden in the shadows, eavesdropping.

  “Are you sure it’s safe to talk about these things?” he asked.

  Ramón laughed. It was an ugly sound. “What more can Guerrero do to me than he has already done? But fear not. Pepe and I have many friends here. They keep us safe. The Night Wolves and their friends cannot venture near here without me knowing.”

  “All right,” Tom said. “I’ll take your word for it. I don’t have a whole lot of choice.”

  “No, Señor. You don’t.” Ramón tapped the tin cup. “One hundred dollars.”

  Tom hadn’t expected that the information he wanted would be free. In fact, he had figured that the amount would be higher. He took out the money and put the bills in the cup.

  “I do this because I hate Guerrero, you understand,” Ramón said. “The payment is ... a token, you could say. All information must have its price.”

  “Of course. You know about the girls Guerrero and his men kidnapped several days ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need to know where he’s holding them. Where his headquarters are, because I suppose that’s the most likely place for the girls to be.”

  “One of these girls ... your daughter?”

  “My niece.”

  “I see,” Ramón said. He looked at the club owner. “Pepe, step back. There is no need for you to hear this. Some knowledge is dangerous to possess.”

  Pepe murmured agreement and moved away along the sidewalk. Somehow, that made Tom feel a little more nervous, although he had no reason to trust Pepe more than he did Ramón.

  Ramón motioned for Tom to kneel in front of him, bringing Tom down to his level. Tom remembered that Brady Keller had wanted to meet his eyes squarely, too. He couldn’t blame either of the men for feeling that way.

  “I was once one of Los Lobos de la Noche,” Ramón said quietly. “You would not think it to look at me now, would you?”

  “No,” Tom said, figuring that Ramón wanted an honest answer.

  “I was not always as I am now. Once I was a commando in the Army, and I deserted and went to work for the cartel when my colonel did. You know the story of the Night Wolves?”

  “I do,” Tom said.

  “Then you know there was a great deal of devotion among us. We would have died for each other. But when there is that much devotion, there can also be great anger, in the case of a betrayal.”

  “Guerrero betrayed you?”

  “No. I betrayed him. And he caught me.”

  Tom didn’t particularly care about Ramón’s sordid history. The man had already admitted to being one of the Night Wolves, and that made him the scum of the earth as far as Tom was concerned. Even scum could be valuable, though, and if Ramón could tell him where to find Laura, the beggar was priceless. Tom reined in his impatience and allowed Ramón to tell the story his own way.

  “The colonel wanted to know the details of my betrayal, but I would not tell him. So he took a saw and cut my toes off, one by one, and then he cut off part of my feet, and then cut the rest off at the ankle. By then I was talking. But after I had told him everything he wanted to know, he took the saw and cut the rest of my legs off ... three or four inches at a time. Then he did the cruelest thing of all. The best doctors in Nuevo Laredo work for him. He had them save my life, so that I could live out the rest of my years ... like this.”

  It was a horrible story, and hearing it made Tom even more determined to get Laura and the other girls out of the hands of that mad butcher. He said, “Even though he wanted to continue your torture, I’m surprised he left you alive. He has to know that you’d want revenge.”

  Ramón spread his hands. “But that is the arrogance of the man, Señor. He believes that I cannot touch him, that I am so insignificant he had no need to fear me. And until now, it has been true.”

  “If you know where his headquarters are, you could have passed along that information to the authorities at any time,” Tom pointed out.

  “And what good would that do? The Mexican police and military avoid Guerrero like, as you Americans say, the plague. They want nothing to do with him. They certainly do not want to be placed in the position of having to try to arrest him. Anyone who even made the attempt would be assassinated immediately, along with his family. And as for the Americans ...” Ramón waved a hand dismissively. “The Americans believe too strongly in rules and borders. They refuse to recognize that evil follows no rules and acknowledges no borders. No, Señor, I have been waiting for a man such as you ... a man who will do what is right, and to hell with the rules.”

  “So tell me,” Tom breathed. “Where is Guerrero? Where are those girls?”

  “There is an old mission, five miles or so south of town. Several years ago, Guerrero took it over and had it remade to his own satisfaction. Now it is his home and the headquarters of the Night Wolves. The girls are there.”

  Tom closed his eyes for a second and mentally gave thanks. It was like a weight had lifted from him. Freeing the girls still remained a huge, dangerous task, but locating them had been the first step. Without that, he and his allies could accomplish nothing.

  Ramón reached out and wrapped skeletal fingers around Tom’s arm. “You must hurry, though, Señor. Two nights from now, men will come to the mission and bid on those girls. Some of them will be taken away and forced to work in houses of ill repute. Their lives will be short, brutal, and degrading. And they will be the fortunate ones. The less fortunate will be bought by ... other men.”

  A shiver went through Tom. “We’ll get them out. Thank you, Ramón. I owe you a debt I can never repay, as do the families of those other girls.”

  “You know, of course, that Guerrero will not allow you to just take th
e girls. You will have to fight for them.”

  Tom nodded. “I know. And the odds will be against us. But we will fight.”

  “Then you can repay your debt to me, Señor.” A smile lit up the hollow features of Ramón’s face. “Just be sure that before you leave there, that bastard Guerrero is dead.”

  Twenty-eight

  When the conversation with Ramón was finished and the crippled beggar rolled himself away into the shadows, Pepe approached Tom again and said, “Now I will take you back to the bar, Señor Brannon.”

  “I’m much obliged for your help,” Tom said. “Whatever I owe you—”

  Pepe dismissed the offer with a wave of his hand. “Unlike Ramón, I require no payment, Señor. Brady Keller is an old friend of mine, and I am happy to do a favor for a friend of a friend. Besides, there is a chance you will break Guerrero’s power and lift his foot from the throat of Nuevo Laredo, so that men such as myself can get back to making a dishonest living.”

  Tom chuckled. “Well, you have my gratitude, anyway.”

  “That I will accept, Señor.”

  Pepe led the way back to the Flamingo Bar—whether retracing their steps from earlier or taking a different route, Tom never knew. They entered the night club through the rear door and went through the main room. “Vaya con Dios, Señor Brannon,” Pepe said as they reached the front door. “I hope your mission will be successful.”

  Tom nodded his thanks and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Pepe pulled the door closed, which muted the sound of the Tejano music without silencing it completely.

  The cabbie who had brought him here was standing at the curb, leaning on the fender of his old car. Tom was a little surprised to see that the man had actually waited for him. It had been longer than the half hour the cabbie had promised to wait.

  “Hey, buddy, you ready to go?”

  Tom took a step toward the cab, nodding as he said, “Yes, let’s head back to the bridge.”