Once More to Die

by Jim Johnson

  “I was working for the mob in Tampa. Guys like Santana, some independent contracting.”

  “Doing what?” she asked sweetly.

  Tommy squirmed. “Whatever they wanted. I was a fixit man.”

  “With a gun?”

  “Goddamnit, yes. With a gun. But I never killed anybody who didn’t need killing.”

  “Tommy,” she said with a soft voice, “I am not being judgmental. Look what you and your guns have done for me?”

  “Don’t mean to be touchy.”

  “Go on,” she told him.

  “One day, one of the Santana bunch, their son, young, maybe twenty, raped and beat up the daughter of another guy in the leadership. He, um, contracted me to discontinue this young man. Since I knew the girl, I was eager. She was actually very nice. She could cook anything anytime anywhere. Brunette, full of life. Ah, shit, I don’t wanna remember. So I took the mother fucker out clean. Fine. But I got a thing against rape big time. Maybe you noticed?”

  “I’ll say.”

  “I’ll tell you about it one day. So, anyway, turns out this asshole rapist kid had done it before and brutally. Back in the day you could buy a judge. So the Santanas bought a judge and the kid got off. Well, I was much younger and anger burned like a long fuse so, um, ah, I took out the judge for free.”

  “An equal opportunity contractor.”

  “That’s me. It worked well since I used the same gun I used for the kid and therefore the bullets matched. I figured that would divert suspicion onto the victim’s family—not to add to their misery, but I knew they’d probably appreciate the whole thing anyway, the perp and the accomplice judge going down. Since they were innocent, they couldn’t possibly be nailed for the double deed because they didn’t do it. The whole thing worked on several levels and it was one of my happier professional—ah, accomplishments.”

  “Professional accomplishments?” He could tell she was trying to keep emotion off her face. He wasn’t sure if he liked that or not. Oh, well, she wanted to know, let it be on her.

  Tommy smiled. “Well, needless to say, that pissed off law enforcement, including the feds. Turned out that judge was popular. He mentored young lawyers and raised money for scholarships to law schools. Probably a cover to get good local PR. He looked a lot better with a hole in his forehead. An informant tipped ’em off and they couldn’t pin either hit on me, but they got me on RICO. From some federal laws called like Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. I was in the business and they linked stuff to me; it wasn’t difficult.”

  “This informant would have been your substitute in the body bag?”

  “You betcha, María Elena. Maybe it was a good thing they sent me to prison because Santana wanted me dead. They too suspected, but didn’t know and couldn’t prove I done it. But that don’t matter to the mob. In prison I was safer from them because where I went, most of ’em hated Santana and I was friends with the brothers and Hispanics and especially bikers. They were all tight knit and kept my back covered.”

  “Now we know the origin of the reward. Must be big.”

  “They’d take me out anyway as a favor to their counterparts. Vegas, Chicago, Tampa and Miami. Peas in a pod. They all got unwritten reciprocal agreements, professional courtesy. Anyway, this Santana is old and when he’s gone, the memory is gone. It ain’t institutional, since that whole mob out of Tampa has been whittled down by the locals and the feds.”

  Another two Harleys approached in the other lane, these going more slowly—maybe seventy. As he flew past them at a combined speed of probably 140 plus miles per hour, he guessed they were maybe twenty minutes out. He was uncomfortable talking about himself and his past. He did realize that he’d just confessed two murders to María Elena. While that might be deemed hearsay, still he trusted her with his life. And she was smart enough to realize that.

  She must have sensed his sudden silence. “I don’t know anything, Tommy. Um, I consider that stuff well done as it became practice for your skills which in turn saved me a few times.” She touched his cheek. “I know this is a different world—hell, a different universe than the one in which I used to exist. You’ve trusted me with these damning experiences of yours; I should have trusted you with the fact I was married, and married to Don Diego García.”

  “Yeah, you should have. Listen, María Elena. I should have trusted you. Hell, I do trust you, that’s obvious. I just didn’t feel it was the right time to lay out my whole life in front of you. Some of it wasn’t pretty. I been stumbling around in the dark. I don’t even know how to go about a relationship. It ain’t something I ever did. When I reacted to you being married? I should have remembered you saying not long before that about staying with me until we’re both old, even though I’ll beat you there by a mile.”

  “Thank you, Tommy.” She smiled gently. “That’s all you need to say. There is an old Cuban proverb, ‘A love that lasts forever takes but a second to come about.’”

  “Well, Pocahontas, I don’t even know what the fuck love is. All I know is I am very comfortable around you and that’s where I want to be for a long, long time.”

  “Tommy, that’s the nicest thing anybody ever said to me.”

  His smile was crooked.

  She reached over and ran her hand through his hair. “Not a spot of gray. You’ll be around forever.”

  The intersection of two long roads in the middle of nowhere came up on their horizon. He could see a couple of buildings. It was just as he remembered it.

  Glad to change the subject, he said, “I was going to ask you to play arm candy, but I think your intelligence can guide you through this if you take your cues from me or just use your brain. Otherwise, one misstep and we’re in bad trouble.” He pointed at her chest. “Undo the top two buttons. Got to show some more skin. And yours looks outstanding.” He grinned at his pun.

  The buildings grew and one became a gas station and quick stop and the other became a sprawling biker bar. Maybe thirty Harleys sat out front, all nosed out. Tommy backed the Jeep in and parked on the far end of the row of choppers. He eyed the line of hogs admiringly. Extended front forks, saddlebags, odd paint, lots of chrome.

  “Let us go in,” he said, “and commence going on the offense.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY: HER

  They walked through a pair of doors with frosted glass. Inside the first set of doors was another, two batwing doors. They pushed through alongside each other. She was wearing what Tommy had dictated for this: Daisy Duke cutoffs and a shirt tied in a knot in front exposing plenty of her flat stomach below and cleavage above.

  Tommy paused and they waited for their eyes to adjust from bright overwhelming sunlight to the traditional dim environs of a bar. On the far side several pool tables were in use. The bar was horseshoe shaped and surrounded by many tables with traditional red and white checked plastic table cloths. The whole establishment shouted cliché. An old fashioned jukebox played old country favorites. Right now, Patsy Cline was falling to pieces.

  María Elena looked around. It was obvious that Tommy was counting people and assessing. Every one of thirty bikers had stopped what they were doing and were watching the two newcomers. Two guys in mechanic coveralls were obviously from the gas station across the road. Half a dozen women were scattered about. Tommy led her to an empty table alongside a wall. She felt sixty or so eyes on them, most undressing her. Well, she told herself grimly, if you got it, strut it.

  As they sat, the waitress came over, nervous. She looked her question.

  “Two Bud drafts,” Tommy told her. María Elena recognized it as protocol, even though she didn’t want a beer.

  Life slowly returned to normal in the bar, though most of them looked their way frequently.

  The waitress brought two icy mugs of Budweiser and set them down. She backed away. María Elena nodded her thanks and the woman looked back at her strangely. Maybe people didn’t thank the wait staff in bars like this.

  Johnny Cash walked the line.


  Tommy held his beer in front of her. “To us, María Elena,” he said quietly.

  “Me, too,” she replied and they clinked glasses. The beer was cold and good.

  Occasionally, bikers would walk by or stop and look and go back to the bar or their tables. María Elena smelled the cigarette smoke which hung in the air. She was surprised this bar was clean and neat. Smokers used ashtrays. They belied the stereotype biker.

  Eventually, a grizzled bear of a man walked over and sat down. “Welcome, strangers.” His hair was brown and tumbled down his neck and he wore a heavy three-day growth on his face. María Elena categorized his eyes as mean and intelligent. He drank some of his own beer. “I’m Bear.”

  María Elena noticed the noise level in the bar had dropped perceptively and that most of the patrons were watching the three at the table now.

  “Been around long?” the Bear asked.

  “No, passin’ through,” said Tommy.

  “Any reason you’re stopping in here?”

  Tommy nodded. “Looking to score some hardware, you don’t mind. Maybe trade, maybe cash.”

  “You don’t fuck around,” said the Bear.

  “Not today, not ever,” said Tommy.

  The Bear looked at María Elena speculatively. “I can tell you’re carrying already.”

  “Call a cop,” said Tommy.

  “Trade for the hardware?” asked the Bear, leaning forward, interested.

  “Cash and maybe some assorted handguns, a rifle, a shotgun, stuff we don’t need right now. And some credit cards.” He was referring to the credit cards of the late six hoods from near Nogales.

  The Bear looked hard at María Elena again and undressed her with his eyes. “Get a lot for her.”

  Somebody killed the jukebox as Marty Robbins died in El Paso.

  María Elena was becoming more uncomfortable by the minute, but she followed what Tommy had tasked her with. She favored the Bear with a bored smile.

  “You don’t need that kind of trouble,” Tommy told him.

  The biker looked at María Elena again and shook his head grinning. “Babe like that, you could get a lot for her.” His repetition was making his point.

  She was squirming inside. She had to remind herself to trust Tommy and play along.

  “Not interested.”

  A series of smoke rings arced toward a lazy ceiling fan.

  “She’d bring maybe a good bike, a blonde chick slightly used, and any two of three weapons.”

  Tommy shook his head slowly as to not offend. “Thanks anyway.”

  “I had a score yesterday. Toss in a couple grand.” He grinned. “And a pound of weed.”

  “Nope.”

  The Bear began to look angry. María Elena saw everybody in the bar was watching now. He checked around the bar and turned back to Tommy. “I got thirty of us, you got one of you. Maybe we take her anyway.”

  Tommy froze him with a wary eye. “Nope. Two points: First, she’s worth six of your guys easy. She proved that very recently. Second, it don’t matter. The real count is one of you: you. One of us: me.”

  A murmur ran through the bar.

  María Elena was proud that Tommy said she was so good. Tommy had given her instant street cred.

  The Bear sat back in his chair and scratched his large belly. “Shit, I like that.” He eyed María Elena with new appreciation. She gave him her best “Aw shucks, me?” look.

  “We do business or not?” Tommy asked mildly. María Elena noted that he’d been using his left hand to drink and his right lay on the table near his waist, so that if necessary he could get to his gun faster. Then she watched the Bear and saw he was doing the same.

  The Bear said, “Not that you scare me shitless, but what can I help you find?”

  “A couple of AK’s or AR-15’s if you can find some, full auto model. No knock-offs. Something auto with power anyway. A long range rifle with a good scope if no AR-15’s. Ammo. Some nine mike ammo.”

  “You starting a war?” asked Bear.

  “Just a little sports hunting and target practice.” Tommy smiled thinly.

  “How I know you ain’t the feds?”

  Tommy shrugged. “You don’t.”

  Jesus and Mary, he had balls, thought María Elena.

  “Got any bona fides?” asked the Bear.

  “Used to did, not anymore, I don’t think.”

  “They were?” The Bear emptied his beer and held up three fingers on his left hand.

  Tommy thought for a moment, his eyes far away. “Big Bobby. Downtown Brown. Partly Sonny. Chains. Sensitive Sammy. The Sarge. Cookies Galore.”

  “No shit? Way back in the day. Jesus, I only heard of them guys.”

  “Mostly dead and gone,” said Tommy.

  “Yeah, it happens, don’t it?”

  “To the best.”

  “You got a name?”

  “Atkins.”

  The Bear thumbed toward María Elena. “She got a name?”

  “Yep.”

  The Bear waited and Tommy said nothing else. María Elena gave the Bear a sly grin.

  “Jesus,” said the Bear.

  The bartender, not the waitress, brought three mugs of beer. As he put them on the table he stared at María Elena’s cleavage. He was a brother, and he was much older than Tommy. He wore a long, gray ponytail. His eyes flickered to Tommy and returned to her, then he stood upright abruptly and peered at Tommy. “Christ on a crutch.”

  “Hello, Phil,” said Tommy. “How you been?”

  Phil shook his head. “Been saving. Fixin’ to retire. Lookin’ to sell this joint.” Phil turned to the Bear. “Don’t fuck with this guy. Goddamn, Bear, he’s the fucking Vicar.” He looked at Tommy again. “You’re different now. Was young and raw back in the day. Same guy, older, but you don’t look much older like I do.” His gaze switched back to Bear. “He’s a motherfucking legend.”

  The Vicar?

  “Well fuck a duck,” said the Bear. “The Vicar. Whatever happened to you?”

  Tommy shrugged. “I went away, did some other stuff. The feds got me eventually.”

  “And here you are in the flesh.” The Bear shook his head. “A fuckin’ legend, no? You don’t look that old.”

  Tommy nodded at María Elena. “She don’t think so either.”

  María Elena gave her now-obligatory half-smile.

  “Goddamn, looking at you, I’m inclined to believe you.”

  “Those are my credentials.”

  “What you been doing since your hard time.”

  “This and that. South Flordia. Lately around Nogales.”

  The Bear squinted. “We got rampant rumors today about six dead hitmen down there. Know anything about it?”

  “I don’t kiss and tell. Nobody in his right mind would own up to something like that.” Tommy shrugged.

  “No connection between her and my six guys and your mention of six guys a minute ago?”

  Tommy smiled thinly without comment.

  The Bear nodded and was more respectful. He pointed at María Elena. “One last time, seein’s as you’re the Vicar. I can up my offer. Change the blonde to a redhead you wouldn’t believe. And guaranteed she ain’t been rode hard and put away wet. Up the ante five, six thousand and a new bike, less than a grand on it.”

  María Elena guessed he meant thousand miles. Her grin told the Bear, “Thanks for the offer, I’m flattered, but I’m with him, the living legend,” and was demure all at the same time.

  “Tempting, Bear, I’ll pass this time,” said Tommy.

  Phil the barkeep said, “Probably be advised to drop it, Bear. Be safer anyway.”

  The Bear looked like he didn’t want to take that advice, so María Elena said, “That was flattering, Mr. Bear, thank you very much.” She favored him with a grateful smile. “That must be short for Teddy Bear.”

  The Bear sighed and sat back and the situation was defused. His intelligent eyes belied the stereotype he was portraying.

  The
Bear and Tommy went off to make the trade. María Elena felt conspicuous in the biker bar, a woman alone. But she knew she was covered by the umbrella of the Vicar, Tommy in another one of his guises, and the Bear. Mostly, the bikers ignored her, but several watched her openly or obliquely and she didn’t know whether to be flattered again or take offense.

  She went to the bar and talked to the bar tender.

  “Mr. Phil, can you tell me something?”

  “And that is?”

  “Tell me where this Vicar thing came from?”

  “You mean the origin of the term?” He leaned forward on his elbows. “Those were the days. Wild and crazy. Nobody knew the Vicar when he showed up. I disremember what name he used, but it was something French sounding.”

  María Elena nodded. That fit with his tour in the French Foreign Legion.

  “Pretty soon the Mexican mules—drug runners and such, the Vicar was terrorizing them big time, not to mention the human traffickers, the so called guides and coyotes who got paid to bring illegals in, were all scared to death of him. He was getting a reputation. Some wiseass biker called him the Vicar, since he brought the wrath of God down upon them. And he put the fear of God in all of them.” Phil laughed, his pony tail bouncing. “And he sure did.”

  “He terrorized them?”

  “Constantly.”

  ”Why?” she wanted to know.

  “Money, honey. They brought drugs into this country for money. The bikers at the time, especially the Vicar, made a living off them, and a good one at that. Tipped me big time, they did, I was able to buy this place. Pickings been slim since that crew been gone. They’d take the money off the drug runners, or they’d take the drugs and resell ’em wholesale. Mostly it was easier to get them on the way out with their money than to have to resell the stuff. And the human traffickers. They mostly carried the money they made with them, since most of them got partway into the desert and told the people they were guiding they needed more money to finish the trip and make sure the INS didn’t catch them.” Phil shook his head. “It was almost as if he had something personal involved.”