El Gavilan

by Craig McDonald

  As they climbed out of his SUV, Patricia said, “Wear your hat, won’t you Tell? With the boots, it makes the whole uniform work.”

  “No way,” Tell said. “I’d really look like a Texas Ranger then.”

  “No, you’ll look dashing,” she said. “And if the sun gets too intense, I’ll be borrowing that hat of yours.”

  He said, “Always the ulterior motive with you.”

  “Always.” She took Tell’s arm and they crossed the dusty gravel lot toward the ball diamonds. Patricia said, “Wicked hot.” She pointed at a lemon-shakeup stand. “Let’s get a couple of those.”

  “Sure.” They were halfway to the concession stand when an old Mexican woman stopped them. She said in Spanish, “Is it true, Jefe, that you speak Spanish as good as I do?”

  Tell answered in the woman’s own tongue, “I’ll leave you to decide how well I speak it, señora.” He tipped his hat to her.

  The old woman smiled and said, “You speak very well. I’m thanking you for what you did to help my grandson. His name is Richie Huerta.”

  Tell remembered the boy driving the car he had stopped for speeding. It was Richie’s false identification—and those of his passengers—that had put Tell on the path to uncovering Able’s false identification scheme.

  “Yes. I remember Richie,” Tell said. “How is he?”

  “Bueno,” the old woman said. “He’s working hard to do all you asked of him. You made quite an impression on Richie and he won’t ever forget it. Neither will I. Or any of those who we know. I wanted to tell you how grateful I am. How grateful I am, and many others. We are calling you El Léon now. The antidote, we hope maybe, for El Gavilan.”

  Nodding and smiling, Tell wondered what this elderly woman—who was presumably undocumented herself—would think if she knew that Tell had just left a lunch with El Gavilan. What would she think of Tell if she knew of his strategic alliance with Able Hawk? He saw that the old woman was closely studying Patricia. Tell said, still speaking in Spanish, “A thousand pardons, señora. This is my fiancée, Patricia.”

  The old woman dipped her head and smiled at Patricia. “I saw your picture and announcement in El Pueblo. It’s a new newspaper in Spanish that commenced printing last week.” She shook Patricia’s hand. “You’re even more beautiful than in your photo.”

  Tell figured the new newspaper must have picked up the engagement announcement from the New Austin Recorder. The old woman said, “I wish you both all happiness. But please be careful, Jefe. You have many friends among mine now. Many more than just a week ago. But they still watch you carefully. And a good man in your position can have just as many enemies. So be careful, Jefe.”

  “I will, thank you,” Tell said. He was aware of a small crowd that had gathered around them. He was beginning to sense the old woman must be some kind of wheel in the New Austin Latino community.

  The small group of Latino men and women were watching Tell speak to the old woman, who was backing away, aware now herself of the ring forming around them. The old woman suddenly smiled and held up her right fist and shouted, “Viva Léon!”

  The call was taken up by several of those around them, and soon by others whose attention had been caught by the cheers. Tell murmured, “Oh, good Christ,” and took Patricia’s bare brown arm, smiling awkwardly and trying to get away from them all as quickly as he could and still remain politely respectful.

  Patricia leaned in and said softly, “What exactly did you do for her grandson to merit that?”

  Tell steered her toward a distant concession trailer. “I’ll tell you on the way to our lemon shakeups,” he said. “But let’s get away from these folks first.” There were still a few scattered vivas being shouted behind them in Tell’s honor.

  Patricia smiled and said, “You’re actually embarrassed by that, aren’t you?”

  “Horribly.”

  “You really seem to be their hero,” she said. “That’s kind of strange, particularly given what you did before coming here. I mean, assuming they know you were Border Patrol.”

  “I think some of it probably has more to do with the fact I’m simply not Hawk.”

  There were quieter sequels as the day ground on. Young Mexican men and older Latino men and women greeted Tell in Spanish, “Hola, Léon,” or “Hola, Jefe Léon.”

  They had lunch in a big tent set up alongside Señor Augustin’s food trailer—tacos and burritos. Evading the heat, her parents had stayed to staff the restaurant, sending in the second string to work the festival.

  Patricia ordered a cold Tecate in a waxed-paper cup. But she exchanged it for Tell’s Sprite when they reached their table. “Need to loosen you up a bit,” Patricia said. “Get you to accept these vivas with more grace.” She sipped Tell’s Sprite.

  “I ever reach that point, you should decry me for a consummate ass,” Tell said. “So what do you make of the event?”

  Patricia shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not exactly getting the cold shoulder, but on the other hand, nobody’s real friendly. Guess that’s the kind of the thing I notice now, the chilliness between the legal and illegal Latinos around here. Not to say they view me as an Uncle Tom, but in a way, maybe they do.”

  Across the midway, a painter was displaying his works for sale. All of them were portraits painted on black velvet: Che Guevara, Pancho Villa, Emiliano Zapata … Antonio Banderas and Salma Hayek. And there was one of Able Hawk. Hawk was depicted full figure, holding a Mexican flag in one hand and an American flag in the other. A hawk was perched on one of black-velvet Able’s shoulders. Smiling, Tell pointed out the painting to Patricia. She laughed and said, “That’s so friggin’ hideous!”

  “Remind me before we leave to come back for it,” Tell said. “I want it very much.”

  Patricia scowled through her smile. “Not as décor for our house … ?”

  “No, for Able Hawk’s,” Tell said. “He’ll love it.”

  She said, “Sad thing is, that’s probably all too true.” She smiled and leaning across the table, showing him the tops of her breasts and making him hard, she said, “Bet you dinner by tomorrow he’s painted one of you.”

  Tell said, “I think you just cost me an erection.” Patricia laughed and squeezed his hand.

  Across the festival grounds, a band was closing with a raucous and ragged rendition of “Volver, Volver.”

  Tell heard a new band introduced and the lead singer said in Spanish, then in English, “My nephew was recently helped out of a jam by our new police chief, Tell Lyon. So we send this song out in tribute to Jefe Lyon. Viva, Jefe Lyon!”

  Exasperated, Tell said, “Oh, for God’s sake.” He drained his drink as the band began a ragged and gravelly cover of Ry Cooder’s beautiful and stirring “Across the Borderline.” Tell tossed the cup in a nearby trash bin. His cell phone rang. It was the mayor.

  “Where are you right now, Tell?”

  Tell told him. “Stay there,” Mayor Rice said. “Need two minutes with you.”

  It took less than half a minute for Mayor Ernest Rice to reach them. Tell pulled out a chair, said, “Howdy, Mayor.”

  Patricia said, “Good to meet you, sir.”

  “Truly my pleasure, miss,” the mayor said, sizing her up—a look in his eyes of an idea forming.

  Tell said, “What’s up, Mayor?”

  Ernest Rice said, “I had no idea you’d already accumulated such stature in the Latino community.” The mayor was suddenly red-faced. Tell sensed it would be easier for the mayor to speak whatever was on his mind if Tell asked Patricia to give them a few moments alone. But he already didn’t like the drift of the conversation, so he said nothing.

  The mayor continued, “Rumor has it that you speak fluent Spanish.”

  “He does,” Patricia said. “Like a native.” Tell wanted to spank her.

  “Well good!” Mayor Rice smiled. “That’s real real good.”

  Frowning, Tell said, “Get you a chimichanga, Mayor? Maybe some fish tacos?”

  �
��No thanks, Chief,” Ernest Rice said. “You see, I’ve been asked to say a few words in a bit. I trust you know that I’m up for reelection in November, Tell. I can barely string together a sentence in English, some would say. Not a natural public speaker. Would be a great help to me if, popular as you clearly are, and speaking Spanish like you do, if you could maybe stand with me as interpreter. Maybe after that, you could say a few words yourself.”

  Tell suppressed a wince. He said, “I’m not really good at translating off-the-cuff, necessarily.”

  Mayor Rice narrowed his eyes. “Ever tried?”

  “Not so much, no,” Tell said, squirming. “But talking for myself, I can pick my own path, navigate to my own vocabulary, so to speak. Paraphrasing you on the fly … ? And for such an important speech?” Tell sensed Patricia suppressing a smile, amused by his predicament. “I’d just hate not to do you justice, Mayor.”

  Ernest Rice held up a hand, smiling. “I have the text of my speech here,” he said. “We could adjust to your vocabulary, to borrow your phrase. Tweak the phrasing so you’re comfortable.”

  Nodding and smiling a smile that felt sickly to himself, Tell accepted the slip of paper and read over the mayor’s speech. It could have been worse. As it was, it stressed inclusion and tolerance. Nothing too wince-inducing in any of that.

  Tell said, “No, I think we’re okay. I can keep up with this just fine. Certainly, the sentiments are fine ones.”

  Crawling in bed with the man who’d gotten Tell his job—as Tell would be doing delivering his speech in tandem with Mayor Ernest Rice—he could only hope that Rice’s opponent wasn’t the victor in the fall election. But then, if Tell accepted the post as Cedartown chief of police, it would all be academic, anyway.

  “So you’ll do it, Chief?”

  “Sure, Mayor.”

  “We’re on at four P.M. at the stage in the parking lot yonder.” Mayor Rice stood and folded up his speech and slipped it in his pocket. He shook Tell’s hand heartily and leaned down and gave Patricia an air kiss. “Be happy to have you join your fiancé on stage, ma’am.”

  Patricia smiled and said, “Thanks, but I’d probably break my leg in these damned heels trying to get up on that stage.”

  “Thanks again, Tell,” the mayor said, waving over his shoulder.

  “De nada,” Tell said. “See you at four.”

  When the mayor was out of earshot, Patricia said, “That was cynical and transparent—I mean him trying to get your ‘Mexican’ girlfriend up there with the two of you.” She smiled. “But I’m going to relish this show to come.”

  Tell said, “I’m going to be one hell of a lot stingier handing out my damned cell phone number.”

  “You’ll be terrific,” Patricia said. She cleared off their plates and pointed at the Ferris wheel. “Take me for a spin?”

  THEN

  It was some old codger who drove home for Able the realization of what was happening around him.

  Oh, Able sensed it before, in his way. He knew things were changing and he was seeing a lot more Mexicans in his neck of the woods. But it took old Elmer Engles to make Able see it fully.

  They were sitting in adjacent chairs in White’s Barber Shop. His barber, Jim McDonald, was finishing up Able’s haircut; Elmer was just settling in. The old man raised his chin to get his wattle clear as the drop cloth was clipped secure there around his throat. He said in a cracked voice, “Holy fucking Christ Sheriff Hawk, what’s become of our West Side?”

  Able rarely ventured that way—it was mostly city in his mind, and a part of it actually overlapped an adjacent county. He and the current chief didn’t get on at all, so Able had focused his efforts on the rest of the county, thinking to outwait the chief; something about New Austin ate municipal lawmen, usually in under five years.

  But then Able thought about it harder and realized it had been nearly a year since he’d even ventured into that neck of the woods for so much as an idle drive. He waited as the drop cloth was whipped off and Jim whisked him off with a small stiff-bristled brush. Able paid for his haircut and waved at the old-timer. “I’ll go have a look-see now, Elmer. Do it now.” He paused and smiled. “You stay away from them young women, now, you hear, Elmer? You ain’t seventy no more.”

  * * *

  Able drove slowly down the four-lane, looking at strip malls that had gone native. Spanish signage and a profusion of taqueria trailers littered the outlots. The Giant Eagle advertised a Latino shopping selection. The library was touting its ESL magazines and books on audio. Mexican groceries and bars proliferated.

  It was like someone scooped up several blocks of Juarez and dropped it all in the middle of the Buckeye State. Able was aghast.

  He drove back to headquarters; got his people pulling crime reports. By the time he finished surveying stats from this little Mexico festering in his county, Able was seething.

  FORTY SEVEN

  Able Hawk crammed his barrel chest into the bulletproof vest and then wedged his head into a flak helmet. Smiling, he checked his four deputies who were now similarly armored.

  “Here’s the rundown my lads,” Able said. “One of the bastards who beat Shawn O’Hara near to death mentioned he was doing it to avenge a brother put out of work by our little raid out to the Morales brothers’ shithole farm a few days back. This brother was a meth cooker, I expect. Anyway, Shawn’s attacker was stupid enough to put a name to this brother of his. So we’ve gone back and matched that name, ‘Javier,’ with the cheerful assistance of some of the ones we’ve got in custody from the raid. We’ve already picked up Javier Acosta. Javier, in turn, gave us the finger on his brother, who was Shawn’s lead attacker. We go to take him down, now. His name is Jésus Acosta. Figure that Jésus, in turn, will give us the names of the others who fucked up that sorry-ass reporter.”

  Deputy Troy Marshall looked down at his body armor. “We expecting they might have some serious firepower, Sheriff?”

  “We expect, I’m afraid,” Able said. “The old boy we go to see has ties to the Morales brothers. Through his sibling, we know that. But maybe, also, this Jésus has ties to that badass Mexican gang ‘MS-13.’ Or so I hear through the Mexican grapevine. So, as I say, our quarry today is Jésus Acosta. I want this little bastard alive and talking, boys. That said, if Jésus were to lose a few teeth—short of a broken jaw—I wouldn’t look askance at the man who rendered same. As to legs, I’ll only say that it would be something like a Biblical balancing of the scales if Jésus were to sustain a broken kneecap, or even two. Particularly viewed in light of what he did with a baseball bat to Shawn O’Hara’s leg, I mean. Suppose what I’m saying is, if this Mexican thug’s leg was to be broken to the far margins of medical repair, I’d shed no crocodile tears. Blows to the groin are also acceptable, given the plumbing damage he did that reporter. Old Testament, eye-for-eye balance. And frankly, we do not want Jésus spreading his evil seed. Now let’s go and get this sorry cocksucker.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Able was standing over a half snarling, half crying Jésus Acosta. The boy’s front teeth were broken off at the gumline and blood trails ran down both sides of his mouth and spilled down over his pointed chin … drying in the sparse and curly strands of a goatee there.

  Jésus’s right leg was twisted at a severe right angle to his thigh. “I can’t feel my fucking foot,” Jésus whimpered.

  “Nerve damage, likely,” Able said. “Probably a permanent thing. Would have gone easier for you if you hadn’t put a round in Deputy Marshall’s leg, Jésus. You just better hope Deputy Marshall doesn’t have nerve damage in his leg. Now, Jésus, I want the names of those that helped you beat Shawn O’Hara. This is my day off and I resent working on my day off.”

  Jésus said, “Gordo maricón,” and spat blood clots at Able. “Fuck you, old man! Chupa mi huevos, maricón!”

  Able said, “Hey, I know them fuckin’ Mexican cuss words and I know what they mean, cholo. And you best be choosier with them words, ’cause withou
t your front teeth, Jésus, you’re the one talking with a fucking lisp. Provoke me and I’ll go to work on your cock like you animals did to Shawn O’Hara’s. Maybe put you in the ‘tranny’ stakes. Then who’ll be the maricón? Will your boss back in Mexico, Guzman, want you back then?”

  With the toe of his boot, Able abruptly nudged Jésus’s broken leg a few inches backward and Jésus screamed, tears flowing again. “See, you can feel something after all,” Able said. “Ain’t that fine news for both of us? Now, names. Names right now, or I’m going to see if I can shove the toe of your numb foot into what’s left of your ear.”

  The sheriff motioned and a deputy got down next to Jésus and started taking down names.

  “He gets through giving you those,” Able said, “you get him going on names connected to MS-13. About damned time we engaged those gangbanger cocksuckers. Time to shut their sorry business down in Horton County and fire a shot back across the border at the cartels.”

  Able nodded at a deputy. “You see to the paperwork and details here on out? My plate’s still full and I’ve got other places to be.”

  * * *

  Later, Able dropped by the hospital to briefly check in on Troy Marshall. The bullet had passed through his deputy’s calf, just missing most of the muscle and the Achilles tendon. Troy said, “Friggin’ luck ain’t it, Sheriff? Did two tours of Iraq and worst I got was a cut from a jagged piece of rebar during a night operation. Had to come home to Ohio to get my ass shot. How’s the one who did it to me?”

  “Jésus lost most of an ear,” Able said. “Four teeth knocked out and another six they may have to pull if they show no signs of tightening up. And his right leg’s fucked up, but good. He may yet lose that leg above the knee. Docs say it’s the worst compound fracture they’ve ever seen and his kneecap is like baby powder. Nerves were severed and an artery cut. Not much blood getting down there to the foot, I guess. Vicious little punk deserved much worse. But Jésus gave up his friends that helped beat Shawn O’Hara. Our Jésus proved to be a fine little Judas. They’re all MS-13 members. So we’ve made a good first dent in that gang of Mexican cocksuckers. We’ll make a bigger dent in days to come once the rest start talking. We’ve got ’em all in custody now. Being as they’re illegals, due process is off the table to my mind.”