by Dave Stanton
“Arrested? I just saw Rodrigo and Pedro this morning. Rodrigo was bloody and I think going to the hospital.”
They were silent for a moment. “Good,” Teresa said. “Maybe they will all go away.”
Juan sat on the couch, his elbows on the knees. Maybe the gangbangers would disappear. Trouble from both the police and Dan Reno and his giant amigo might be more than they could handle.
“What was the second thing?” Juan said.
“I invited Cody and Dan to dinner tonight”
“You what?”
“You can work on your project with Dan.”
“While you…” Juan said, the implication in his sister’s remark not escaping him. Juan had noted Teresa’s interest in the bear with the straw-colored hair the morning on Dan Reno’s deck. Now it appeared she wanted to take it to the next level. What could she be thinking?
He went to the kitchen, hiding his face in the refrigerator. “What will we cook?”
She came up from behind and hugged him, his head squeezed between her breasts.
“You shouldn’t worry so much, my little brother.”
“I’m not worrying. About what?”
“The future. There will be great things in store for you, I’m sure.”
Juan squirmed, not wanting his sister’s body so close. He knew she just wanted to show her affection for him, but the physical contact made him uncomfortable.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” he said, peeling her hands from his arms. “I’m more grown up than you think.”
With those words a quiet surge of confidence resonated inside Juan. In his mind he saw himself leaping a river, to a place where square-jawed men shouldered burdens of family and work and fought for what they believed in and never shied from adversity, their constitutions as formidable as the granite faces surrounding the valley in which the events of Juan’s young life would unfold.
• • •
Three doors away, Pedro lay on his bed, a bag of frozen corn on his elbow, another on his ankle. He washed down a handful of pain pills with a pull of tequila, and began punching numbers on Rodrigo’s cell phone, dreading the call he knew he must make.
“Senor Santos?”
“Yes, Rodrigo.”
“Pardon, it’s not Rodrigo. This is Pedro. Forgive me for calling, I know I shouldn’t be.”
“Where is Rodrigo?”
“He’s been taken to the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“Two policemen arrested us yesterday. They released us this morning, but first took us to the forest, where a detective beat Rodrigo very badly. Then another group of men beat me.”
“Did the police ask for money?”
“No. But they told us we must leave the area.”
“Did they file charges against you?”
“No.”
“Who were the other men who beat you? Were they la policia?”
“No, sir, they were not.”
“When can I speak to Rodrigo?”
“I don’t know. He’s at the hospital. I think his jaw is broken.”
“Keep Rodrigo’s phone with you. You will be called back.”
Pedro hung up and breathed a sigh of relief. The call had been easier than he expected. Santos was a lieutenant in Juarez’s largest drug cartel, two levels removed from Ivan Ramos, the cartel’s leader, a man whose very name caused Pedro’s heart rate to quicken. Pedro had glimpsed Ramos just once, behind the huge desk in his hacienda office. Machine guns hung from the shoulders of his bodyguards, and dozens of soldiers patrolled the grounds outside. The daily decisions made in Ramos’s office often determined who would live and prosper, and who would die. If he felt it expedient to his grand scheme, Ramos would not hesitate to order the deaths of every member of Diablos Sierra.
Pedro could only hope the recent setbacks wouldn’t bode too grimly for him and the gang. He knew of Ramos’s plan to penetrate the retail drug trade in the United States, and South Lake Tahoe was considered a key launch point in the west. Ramos was not content limiting his business to wholesale markets. There was as much money to be made at the street level, and there was no shortage of soldiers eager to cross the border from Juarez to work in US cities. Pedro had been happy to leave the poverty of Juarez for a chance at a better life when the opportunity came.
Making sure Rodrigo’s phone was fully charged, Pedro placed it on his chest and closed his eyes, hoping that when he woke the circumstances of his life would still hold promise.
11
The manager at the auto glass shop said he’d have my windshield replaced by early afternoon. Cody and I went from the shop into the cold, overcast day and took a cab back to the hotel. I fell asleep watching TV, and when I woke, Cody was in bed snoring, his bandaged shoulder protruding from the blankets. I walked outside and started down the road, looking for coffee. The streets were still soaked and the cars that passed left oily mists in the damp air. I huddled in my coat and kept walking, my boots kicking at the wet gravel on the side of the pavement.
My initial career path was the result of a happenstance event. If not for being offered a job as an apprentice investigator by an old friend of my father’s, I likely would have ended up in some other field. But employment prospects for sociology majors weren’t exactly abounding, so when the opportunity for a steady job came, I took it.
I worked for three investigation firms before setting out on my own. My last boss was a penny-pinching clock-watcher named Rick Wenger, a man I tolerated for three long years before I left San Jose for Lake Tahoe. Wenger was incompetent, and I finally concluded that if he could run a successful investigations agency, how hard could it be?
Pretty goddamned hard, I learned. There were a handful of well-established private eyes in the Tahoe area, and for the most part, I picked up their scraps. A divorce case here, a missing person there, just enough to call it a job. But my recent return to bounty hunting was turning out to be a little more interesting.
Combat tactics are usually inevitable when tracking down miscreants like Billy Morrison or Jason Loohan. Though I wasn’t quick to admit it, my capabilities seemed best suited for these types of cases. Of course, with Cody Gibbons around, violence became almost a foregone conclusion.
Somewhere in my psyche, though, I clung to the idea that a truly intelligent thought process could produce an amicable and just solution to any matter. A reasonable negotiation was certainly preferable to the use of force. I always hoped reason would carry the day. After all, we live in a modern society, one that grants unprecedented rights and freedom to its people, right? Striving for peaceful conclusions seemed not only sensible, but also in accordance with higher civilization.
I rolled my eyes and smirked as I walked. I don’t know why I had these types of conversations with myself. With most of the scumbags I dealt with, diplomacy was about as effective as trying to change a set of spark plugs with a garden rake. It was also a good way to give a subject an opportunity to escape, or worse.
When I first got into the profession, I never envisioned what it would entail. I didn’t expect to be dealing with individuals who committed the most heinous of crimes, then enjoyed a slice of pie and a glass of milk before a good night’s sleep. I also didn’t anticipate being put in the position where the only alternative to being shot was to shoot someone to death.
But, I rationalized, I was just filling a necessary social function. Our prison systems are bursting with recidivists, criminal gangs run rampant in cities of every size, and reports of murder on the streets are so commonplace they’re barely newsworthy. Ask any law-abiding citizen who’s had the misfortune of car trouble in the wrong part of town, or had a daughter pulled into a van while walking to school, or perhaps come home to find drug-crazed men ransacking their house. The perspective of a first-time victim can be illuminating.
To protect our country’s more or less decent civilians, a large, clattery machinery of judges, lawyers, policemen, private investigators, and license
d bounty hunters exist. We all get paid, to varying degrees, to keep the discordant elements at bay. If fate had dictated otherwise, I might have been immune from this world, instead selling insurance or maybe counseling couples in failing marriages. Christ, given those options, maybe I was luckier than I thought.
• • •
Later that day, as we came over the pass and the landscape turned green with fir and pine, my phone rang. Sheriff Marcus Grier.
“Good afternoon, Marcus.”
“Reno, I just got a call from Lieutenant DeHart in Carson City.”
“My old friend.”
“He said the hospital there reported treating Cody Gibbons for a gunshot wound.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“I know it’s true, damn it. What the hell is Gibbons doing in town?”
“Vacationing.”
“Forgive me, I’m not in the mood for your attempts at humor today. Why didn’t he report the incident to the police?”
“I don’t know. Let me ask him.” I put my phone on mute. “Marcus Grier wants to know why you didn’t alert Carson City PD you’d been shot.”
Cody pulled on his ear. “Tell him I got distracted by a riveting episode of Keeping Up With the Kardashians.”
“Marcus? He’s been on pain killers and sleeping.”
“Where are you two?”
“Coming around the lake into town.”
“How long will it take you to be at my office?”
“What for?”
“I’ll ask the questions. What time?”
I checked my watch. “Four o’clock.”
“What’s his problem?” Cody said after I hung up.
“I don’t know. Maybe something to do with those Nevada cops.”
“That all?”
“I’m sure he wants to know why you were shot.”
“What are you going to tell him?”
“The truth. I got nothing to hide.”
The skies turned blue as we crossed into California. The lower half of an orange sun peeked from below a stubborn bank of purple and gray clouds, like a half-lidded pupil under a thick eyebrow. I opened my window and the forest air was heavy and warm.
I left Cody at my place and walked into the stuffy lobby of the sheriff’s office at four sharp. Marcus Grier opened a door and motioned for me to follow him into the complex. The salt-and-pepper hair on his scalp was cut short, to the point his head looked shaved from beyond a few feet. We went into his office, and he sat and pointed toward my chest with his pencil.
“Care to explain the body armor?”
“Sure. I’m hunting for an ex-convict named Jason Loohan, a friend of Billy Morrison’s. I found him in Carson last night, and he took a couple shots at Cody and me.”
“He got away, I take it?”
“For now.”
“A friend of Billy Morrison’s—is he a member of HCU?”
“I’m not sure.”
Grier stood and stared out his window. A deputy pulled up, stomped a cigarette out in the dirt, and scratched his crotch.
“So, why the vest? You think Loohan’s still hanging around?”
“It’s possible.”
“I don’t like the idea of an armed criminal on my streets.”
“I don’t either.”
Grier sat back down and started to write on a piece of paper but snapped the lead. He broke the pencil between his fingers and tossed it in his garbage can.
“HCU is bad news,” he said. “They all live in Nevada, but seem to spend as much time on this side of the border. If I get half a chance, I’ll have them behind bars.”
“For what?”
“Jaywalking, drunk in public, whatever.”
“It’d be nice to find something a little more substantial,” I said.
“Let me know if you have any ideas.”
I crossed my legs and rubbed at the stubble on my chin. “Depends how far you want to take it.”
“I play by the book,” he said, his voice a thick baritone. “But if you’re aware they’re involved in anything illegal, I need to know.”
I paused, letting Grier’s comment sink in. “Here’s something,” I said. “When I popped Billy Morrison, one of Joe Norton’s boys took down my license number. They had my address later that evening, almost as if they had access to a police database.”
Grier’s bloodshot eyes narrowed, and his skin took on an almost purplish hue.
“Look, Jason Loohan probably has ties to HCU,” I said. “I want to cut him off at the knees. It would help if I could get ahold of his police file.”
He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Is Loohan from New Jersey?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Call me in the morning.” I got up to leave, but he stopped me. “How’s Gibbons?”
“He’ll live.”
“Good. Try not to let him get too crazy, would you?” Grier smiled and patted me on the back, as if we were chatting about a harmless old friend.
I shrugged. “I’ll try.”
• • •
When I got home, Cody had removed the bulky hospital bandages and was wearing a pressed, button-down shirt.
“You gonna shower?” he asked. “We need to leave in about twenty minutes.”
“Marcus Grier asked how you were.”
“For real?”
I shrugged. “He seemed genuine about it.”
“So what, I’m his good buddy now?”
“I think he wants our help with HCU. Sounds like they’ve pissed him off.”
“What are they up to now?”
“Nothing Grier can bust them for, apparently.”
“What does he want us to do about it?”
“I told him they were able to trace my license number somehow. He didn’t seem all that surprised.”
“That’s not good.”
“I’m getting the impression that if we killed them all and loaded their corpses on a wagon heading out of town, he’d be a happy camper.”
“Sounds a little extreme. Come on, hurry up. I don’t want to be late.”
The sun was setting as we drove to the Pine Mountain Apartments in Cody’s rig. It was a bright, still night, the mountains blue, early stars appearing above a wave of low clouds backlit with red light. The type of night made for backyard barbeques, bonfires on the beach, and dancing under moonlit skies. Except I didn’t feel any of that mojo. My chest was heavy with my Beretta, my thoughts preoccupied with an armed, convicted felon lurking on the edges of the twilight.
Teresa opened the door for us, dressed in stonewashed jeans and a red shirt tied at the waist. She smiled and curtsied shyly. “Welcome to the casa de Perez,” she said. The apartment was fragrant with corn tortillas, chiles, and roasted chicken.
“Smells great,” Cody said, hefting a brown bag clinking with expensive tequila and margarita mix. “You look lovely, senorita. How about a drink?”
I heard the clang of steel weights. “Juan, our guests are here,” Teresa said, as Cody followed her into the kitchen.
Juan appeared at a doorway down the hall, wearing gym shorts and a tank top.
“Pumping some iron?” I said.
He nodded. “Hi, Dan.”
“You look like you’re bulking up. How much are you benching?”
“One sixty.”
“Not bad.”
“Next semester I have wrestling in PE.”
“You keep on lifting, you’ll be a handful.”
Juan smiled and walked out to the living room. “I heard you and Mr. Gibbons fought the Diablos Sierra.”
“Who?”
“It’s what they call themselves. The gang.”
“You seen them around lately?”
“This morning. Their leader, Rodrigo, was injured, I think badly.”
“Injured?”
“Yes, and so was Pedro, but not like Rodrigo.”
“Describe these guys, Juan,” I said over Cody’s boisterous voice and Teresa’s
giggles from the kitchen.
“Rodrigo is about five-nine with no fat. Pedro is a little taller and over two hundred pounds.” The same two that the Nevada plainclothesmen arrested.
“I think they were either in a car accident or lost a fight,” Juan said.
I went over to the curtain and pulled it aside. At the picnic bench sat two Caucasians in white T-shirts and knee-length black shorts.
“You ever see these guys before?”
Juan peered out beneath my arm. “No.”
“Supper time!” Teresa walked out of the kitchen holding a casserole pan. Cody followed her, a black pot in one hand, a drink in the other.
The dinner conversation was a blur of light chatter, which remained genteel despite Cody’s occasional flirtatious remarks. Teresa was obviously excited about her upcoming debut at Pistol Pete’s, and talked of her hopes to launch a career as a singer or actress. It was easy to see why Cody was taken with her, despite his claims otherwise. She seemed to realize her aspirations were what most only dreamed of, but she spoke of them unflinchingly. I sensed a quiet confidence at her center, as if she’d faced long odds all her life but knew eventually she could overcome any obstacle. There wasn’t a hint of arrogance or conceit in her voice—just a calm, steadfast determination. It was almost mesmerizing, especially from someone so young. How old was she? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?
As we ate Juan stayed quiet for the most part, sipping what was supposed to be a virgin margarita, but I’d spotted him spiking it with a bolt from Cody’s bottle. When he went to the kitchen again, I joined him.
“Slow down there, kid,” I said, taking the bottle from his hands. “You want to get me busted for contributing to the delinquency of a minor?”
“I’ll drink you under the table,” he said.
“No, you won’t.”
After we finished eating, Cody helped Teresa with the dishes and Juan showed me some paperwork he’d prepared for my presentation to his class.
“Please use this as your guide, okay?”
“Looks straightforward.”
“What will you bring for visual aids?”
