Compromised

by James R. Scarantino

  Junior came out of the gas station with a six-pack of Mountain Dew. They’d drive into the forest, find a quiet spot, grab some sleep. He’d set his alarm for midnight. The soda would keep them going until dawn. He was thinking maybe breakfast at Los Amigos on Rodeo Road, fried egg over a cheese enchilada, green chile, a side of carne adovada.

  “We have the movies,” Benny said, making him forget food and see the birthmark by the lawyer’s pubes. “And she’s looking at money down the road. Just in case, save something off the model to show what happens she gets too smart.”

  Rigo watched Abel tell his son to get out of the driver’s seat. Later he’d drive. Now, in town, Abel was the one to drive them, avoid getting pulled over for something stupid. They’d checked all the lights. Everything worked. Registration and licenses up to date. No unpaid traffic tickets.

  “Have El Puerco warmed up,” Rigo said. He didn’t want to wait around. It could take hours sometimes to get the thing to the right temperature.

  “Call me when you’re heading back. I’ll unlock the gate so you don’t have to honk, draw attention.”

  Benny doing the hard work, unlocking the gate.

  Benny was good at the numbers. But sometimes he forgot how he got things to count. They’d been robbing houses for years. It had been a nice business going shopping in rich people’s mansions. Standing in one of those living rooms, Benny bubble-wrapping Indian pots, him with a pillow case heavy with jewelry, Benny had said maybe he should run the front office. Benny had caught him at the right moment, wondering how they’d turn the loot into money.

  Anyway, Benny said, you don’t have the face for dealing with people.

  Benny was right about that. Their father got tired of not being able to tell them apart. He flipped a coin and told Rigo to come to the garage, he had something for him. Close your eyes.

  Took forty stitches to close the gash from the rug knife, running from near his ear across his cheek. He’d jerked away, dragging the hook across his mouth and toward his chin.

  His father had smacked him for that. Mijo, look what you done. I was giving you a little notch. Now you’re going to scare all the girls.

  Feo, fuerte, y fiel. When the stitches came out his mother said he’d grow up to be the ideal man. Ugly, strong, and loyal.

  He’d hit all three. Started putting on muscle while Benny read about conquistadors. Loyal, he had that going, too. Same wife since high school, no women on the side, not even test-driving the ones he ran for politicians in the Legislature.

  And loyal to his brother. Him and Abel, and now Junior, were the ones who turned jobs into money that Benny could invest in land that could be a Five Guys or a Java Juice. He and Abel paid for the Vactor trucks, the car crusher, dumpsters from mining towns where they weren’t needed any more. He’d first told Benny he was nuts but El Puerco had turned out to be a good buy. It made this end of the business easier in so many ways.

  How we normally did things, Rigo wanted to tell Benny, was getting paid up front, not trusting a lawyer to keep their word. How we normally did things, we would have hit this woman in town, a lot closer to El Puerco, somewhere we could scout for days, maybe drop a dumpster nearby so it was ready. Having to go down a road deep into woods, not able to know what was in the trees, get up close, look in windows a couple nights, try the doors, listen to sounds in a sleeping house. This wasn’t right.

  But he’d do it for Benny.

  Last night, seeing how close to the outfitter’s house they could get, if there were dogs barking, if there were lights to think about, they’d run into those men on the road. Which way to the Interstate, help us, we’re lost. Fucking GPS piece of shit.

  Normally, after that, we wouldn’t be coming back. Not when everything says those guys were cops.

  Rigo walked around the van, giving it another look. He opened the back doors and checked the barrels to make sure they wouldn’t be rolling around. Abel and his boy had just about laminated the inside of the van, there was so much plastic taped down in there. The guns and night-vision goggles were in the metal trunk, locked with a combination, no way a cop could say he accidentally looked inside if they were pulled over. The drums were black plastic, locks on the lids, marked biological waste. Red stencils of biohazard symbols. A skull and crossbones. Danger repeated in Spanish.

  He came to the passenger side and Junior climbed in the back. He was a good kid. How he got tall like that, no Silva breaking five-six before, Rigo couldn’t figure. Maybe it was not growing up on beans and tortillas, getting meat and milk his whole life. But the boy was still hungry, eager to learn the business. The kind of hunger that carried you through life.

  “You good back there?”

  “It’s all good, abuelo.” Junior cross-legged on the floor of the van, relaxed. He knew what was coming and was holding steady.

  “Let’s find a place, get some sleep,” Rigo said. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  Abel started the van, the even rumble of the engine saying all was good to go.

  Marcy Thornton unwrapped a chocolate Buddha as she waited for her private tub. A couple hours at Falling Waters, Rising Sun, outside of town in the quiet of the mountains. A hot bath, massage, hair treatment—the camellia oil so much less complicated than sex—and herbal wrap to finish. She needed this. She’d seen Judy Diaz in the afternoon. Drunk again, straight vodka out of a water glass, unread motions on her desk. Her robe unzipped showing cleavage was becoming a regular thing. She was working on Benny Silva’s findings of fact. Why she just didn’t take his lawyer’s proposed order, copy it into a Word document, print it out and sign, she didn’t understand. Judy was handwriting the thing, copying a paragraph from Silva’s motion, one from defendants’ response, writing one of her own. She said she didn’t want to look so obvious.

  Right then, Thornton told herself she was doing the right thing giving Judy to Silva.

  Diaz had taken a long drink, then got back to blaming herself for getting Andrea killed. Then she was onto Lily, cursing her, throwing things, a boob coming out of her robe, tucking it back in with the hand holding her pen, leaving a mark, a jagged Z on breastbone and tit.

  Thornton decided against bringing up Fager knowing about the videos. She still needed to think that through. She’d searched court records, entering Fager’s and Silva’s names, and found no indication he’d represented E. Benny or the business. She’d been surprised to find no criminal filings against Benny Silva or Rigo.

  She’d also been surprised how much property Benny Silva had scattered around town. She’d seen only a sample on her brief tour with Frank Pacheco. Silva had the kind of money that could put him in a trophy house in the hills on the east side. But he chose to live in the single-story stucco and drive that old American car. Working with garbage trucks, dealing with porta-johns, other people’s trash, when he could be looking down on everything from up high. It told her E. Benny had discipline. He stuck to a plan, knew how to avoid attention and keep out of trouble.

  She preferred stupid clients with lots of money. Or desperate people who’d empty their pockets after she terrified them about the consequences of fighting the DA on the cheap. When it came time to reach out to her friends on the Court of Appeals, she’d have to be careful not to say too much. No apocalyptic stories for Silva. No nightmare scenarios to steer him into the course of action she wanted. She had a feeling all he would want to hear was she’d got it done.

  She hadn’t passed along Aragon’s message about Lily having been moved. On one level she didn’t believe Aragon. Cops don’t go around telling you things like that. But when Aragon said she’d be waiting if they came again, she saw the Silvas and Aragon shooting it out in the woods. She’d keep the warning to herself. Might as well see how good Silva and his people were. If anybody got killed, there was no one in the mix she’d miss.

  Besides, she hated talking to Silva. The way he’d lee
red at her, like he knew how she looked naked.

  Because he did.

  A young man in a black robe with Japanese lettering approached and said her bath was ready. She walked a gravel path lit with lanterns to a private suite with two pools. She’d learned about the communal baths. The one and only time she’d made that mistake, a fat hairy man, who took the clothes-optional route, had backed up to one of the jets and leaned forward, eyes closed. Another man had puked into the bubbling water; he’d done his hot tub after eating sushi and drinking too much sake at the restaurant. It was a great restaurant, but that image ruined it for her forever.

  Her suite was open to the sky, fenced apart with bamboo walls. She stripped, sat on the wooden stool on the pebbled floor, and rinsed before easing into the tub. Perspiration beaded on her forehead. She wiped it from her eyes and looked up. She was far enough out of the city to see the Milky Way.

  Then came the cooling berth. After she stopped sweating came a soft robe and the flat sandals they provided. Down another gravel path to her massage. She’d asked for Evan with the strong hands. She drifted off when he worked her neck muscles.

  Colors, white and lavender. Everything soft and melting. Water falling somewhere, singing as it sparkled on smooth rocks.

  Lily reaching out to her with bloody hands.

  “I’m sorry,” Evan said. “Is that too much pressure? You’re really tight here all of a sudden.”

  “No. It’s great. Don’t stop.”

  The herbal wrap with Melanie was last and her favorite. She loved how they sold it: Cocooned in warm herb-soaked linens, the therapist massages your head, neck, face, or your feet. Relaxing music leads your whole being into sighs of relief. Profoundly detoxifying, a wonderful step on a journey to freedom from bad habits.

  Judy Diaz. That woman was getting toxic. Let the journey begin.

  Wind caressing chimes, a breathy flute. Fingers in her hair, rubbing her scalp, kneading her temples, rock hard jaw muscles. The scent of herbs calming her, bringing her again to the edge of dreams. A door opening. A man laughing.

  She opened her eyes as Melanie said, “What are you doing? Get out.”

  A guy in a tight polo shirt ignored Melanie and leaned in close, bringing the smell of cigarette smoke with him.

  “Marcy Thornton, you’ve been served.”

  He dropped stapled pages on her herb-infused pillow, took a look at her ass under soft linens, and left, not bothering to close the door. Cold night air rushed in.

  She wriggled an arm out of her cocoon and held the papers so she could read.

  First Judicial District Court, County of Santa Fe, State of New Mexico.

  Walter Fager was suing her for his goddamn torn pants—one hundred seven dollars—and physical and emotional injuries sustained, the full extent to be proven at trial.

  She shivered as the damp linen sheet was rolled down her spine.

  Melanie said, “I’m sorry. Our time is up. Namaste.”

  Twenty-five

  “Three-hundred and two push-ups nonstop,” Aragon said, in the dark woods with Lewis. Pine needles under her chin, Javier’s night-vision binoculars on the ground by her hip. In dim starlight she could see her Springfield on the folded towel in front of her. She didn’t want to be lying on it when she needed to release the holster. With the towel under the gun, she wouldn’t be grabbing up sticks and twigs if she had to move fast.

  They lay under the trees by the straight section of road leading to the house. The sheriff’s deputies had left. They couldn’t wait around on the hunch that guys in a van for a Santa Fe waste disposal company presented a real and present danger to one of their citizens. They had a wingnut in his cabin outside Tecolote shooting at cars on the interstate.

  Rivera said if they needed help, give Tucker a call. He’d come himself, but he had meetings running late, then a conference call with Peking, something about espionage at Los Alamos Labs, he couldn’t say more.

  They talked to stay awake, another night without sleep but needing to be ready, alert.

  “On the back of the hands?” Lewis adjusted his body to put the shotgun on a stump by his right shoulder. “That’s the top of the wrists.”

  “That was another woman, three hundred eighty or something in fifteen minutes on the back of her hands. She has some kind of wrist problem, can you believe it? At two hundred she took a deep breath, then got back to it.”

  “I couldn’t do that many push-ups in a day.”

  “You can lift a mountain over your head, bench press a Mack truck.”

  “The burn. I get it fast.”

  “I reached 125,” Aragon said. “I was on fire. Drop me in a tub of ice cubes.”

  “What’s the men’s record?”

  “I heard it was over ten thousand.”

  “No way.”

  “Some meatless Japanese guy.”

  “So he wasn’t pushing that much weight. But dang. How long did that take? Not fifteen minutes.”

  Sometime later, the shadows different now that the stars and slivered moon had moved overhead, Lewis asked, “How far to the closest Blake’s? You nail it within a mile, I’ll buy breakfast. I’m thinking of their two-pound burritos right now and a hot coffee.”

  He’d caught her nodding. “It would be the one on St. Michael’s.” She rubbed her eyes. “From here to I-25, twenty-two miles. I clocked it coming in. Down the highway, into town. Forty-four miles total. I’ll have the number one egg and bacon burrito, green chile.”

  “No home fries?”

  “They’re inside.”

  When she caught herself nodding again, the moon now out of the sky completely, she said, “I’ve been thinking about going to Mexico.”

  Lewis yawned and stood just to move. Branches broke as he circled their position. “I bet you’ve accumulated enough time to take a year off.”

  She stood, her limbs stiff. She put her pistol in its holster on her hip. “These people who just up and disappear. Dolores Baca, Star Salazar, Fager’s client, the PCP pusher. That witness against Rigo Silva in the prostitution case. Those Jewish brothers buying real estate in Silva’s neck of the woods, back when south of Cerrillos was the frontier. I was in on the search when their wives called us to report their husbands missing. A realtor there to get keys said the place had been bought by locals. He said it was funny, two Jewish brothers switching places with two Hispanic brothers, twins, even. He’d heard the Jews decided to take their business to Mexico.”

  “Without their worried wives.” Lewis groaned. She saw his dark shape bending forward, reaching for his toes. “You don’t believe any of those people ever crossed the border,” he said with his head by his knees.

  She tried for her own toes and couldn’t reach them. Damn, was she stiff. She shook her legs, rolled her neck, swung her arms. She tried again and made it.

  “Back when the Sureños were moving in.” Now she stood tall, stretching arms toward the stars. “A bunch of them on our radar suddenly disappeared. We thought they’d gone back to LA. That was when they were pushing up Agua Fria, into Benny’s neighborhood. That had never been gang territory. Not Mann Street, not West Side Locos. Just nice old Hispanic grandpas raking the gravel in their driveways, abuelas washing bird shit off the Virgin of Guadalupe in their yards.”

  “In his lawsuit”—Lewis was out in the road, casting a shadow on silvery ground—“the watchman wasn’t available to testify. Defendants could never locate him to serve the subpoena. It was all Benny’s show, his story going to the jury without any inconvenient facts getting in the way. You hear that?”

  They both stopped moving.

  “An engine,” Aragon said. “But I don’t see anything.” She found the night-vision binoculars on the pine needles. Standing in the road next to Lewis, she looked to where the straight section started right after it climbed out of the arroyo. She wished she h
ad the department’s military goggles that read heat signatures. These hunting goggles from Javier only enhanced dim light.

  “Some kind of vehicle,” she said, interpreting the fuzzy green and black images at the limit of the binoculars’ range. “Two men walking on either side, approaching our position.” The images sharpened as they came closer. “Out of the road, Rick. They’re carrying rifles.”

  “Was that a bear?’

  Rigo Silva pushed his Army goggles hard against his face, trying to reclaim the blurred shape that had danced across his eyes.

  “I saw it, too,” said Abel, walking on the other side of the road, also with night-vision, Junior at the wheel of the van, headlights out, following ten yards behind. “It went into the woods on the left.”

  “I saw it on the right. There’s two.”

  “Got it.” Abel pulled up and Junior stopped the van behind him. “Laying low. I can see its heat in there. It’s big.”

  “Mother and cub.” Rigo scanned his side for a heat signature. “Shit. We’re between them. We have to drive past. I’m not walking into that.” He studied the thermal image on his lens. It wasn’t moving. Wouldn’t a bear run, climb a tree?

  He saw something else. Last night, the maybe-cops, saying a tree blocked the road. They’d passed that spot a half mile back, all clear. Now a tree across their path when they were almost to the outfitter’s ranch. He could see the trailer straight ahead in a clearing, heat showing someone floating above the ground, probably on a porch.

  There had been no tree here when they scouted earlier today.

  The thermal image in the woods shifted, arms in front of a body, holding something long, a black line across a white and gray body.

  “Bears don’t move like that.” He flipped the safety lever on his AK-47, the only thing left from the Sureños who’d tried to bother them once. “That lawyer put us in a trap.” Rigo leveled his sights on the person trying to hide, but their body heat was saying here I am.