Tularosa

by Michael McGarrity

  “The entire supply train was sacked by a band of Warm Springs Apaches led by a chief named Victorio. Nothing was ever recovered.”

  “Does it match the inventory?”

  “I don’t know. That information wasn’t available. The person I talked to said it was probably in old War Department records. But I think Gutierrez found the spoils of that raid.”

  “That’s extraordinary,” Sara said. “If you’re right, Gutierrez was moving the cache in stages.”

  “And we showed up during the last run,” Kerney agreed.

  She flicked the papers with a finger. “But moving it where?”

  “Gutierrez would need an agent to manage the sale. The best way to sell it without getting caught is to a foreign buyer.”

  “Where does that take us?”

  “Juárez,” Kerney said. “We’re only forty miles from the border. Mexico is too close not to be his first choice. Customs should be able to tell me who the big smugglers are. Chances are Gutierrez at least put out feelers in Juárez, trying to connect with somebody.”

  Sara shifted position and started pulling at her ring. “You’re assuming the transaction hasn’t been concluded.”

  “I am. The postmark on Gutierrez’s letter is dated last week. His notes indicate that he sent some samples to a buyer to prove he was selling legitimate goods. Besides, why would Gutierrez have any inventory left if the deal had been consummated? It wouldn’t make sense.”

  “I’m way overdue for a leave.”

  Kerney shook his head. “Don’t even think about it. You’ve got a career to protect.”

  Her expression turned serious. “You shouldn’t go in alone.”

  “There’s no risk.”

  “I’ll query Interpol and see what they can tell us.” Sara chewed on her lip reflectively before continuing. “I’ve got an investigator in Juárez, Eddie Tapia, working an AWOL case. He knows the area like the back of his hand.”

  “That would help. Can you contact him?”

  “I should hear from him by midmorning.”

  “I can’t wait that long. When he calls, give him my description and ask him to keep an eye out for me.”

  “He knows who you are,” Sara replied. “He was on your tail for two days.”

  Kerney laughed, stood up, and tested his knee. It almost buckled on him. He started for the door, a grimace of pain on his face.

  “Where are you going?”

  “It’s late and I’m leaving.”

  Sara motioned for him to stay. “You can sleep in the spare bedroom.”

  The invitation was appealing for a lot of reasons, but he kept moving. “I don’t want to impose.”

  “Don’t be silly. You look like you won’t make it ten feet without collapsing. The spare bedroom is made up and the hall bathroom is right next to it. You won’t disturb me a bit.”

  “Okay, you talked me into it. I’ll get my gear.” He was almost dragging his right leg as he went out the front door.

  UNABLE TO SLEEP, Kerney flipped the covers back, sat up, and painfully lifted his leg over the side of the bed. His thigh and calf muscles were cramping badly, the result of too much time behind the wheel frozen in one position, no exercise, and the persistent strain on the leg from his unnatural gait. He turned on the lamp and stared at the leg with loathing; it hadn’t hurt this much in over two years. Hobbling to the hall bathroom as quietly as he could, he sat on the toilet seat, ran hot water in the sink, soaked a towel in water that scalded his hands, and wrapped it on the leg, gently rubbing the warmth into the muscle. When the heat dissipated, he wrung out the towel, ran more hot water, and repeated the process. He was starting a third application when a tapping at the closed door came and he heard Sara’s voice.

  “Are you all right?”

  “More or less,” he answered.

  “Can I come in?”

  “I guess.”

  Sara slipped inside the small bathroom, misted with condensation. On the toilet seat, dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts, Kerney held his calf with both hands, a steaming towel against the skin, a look of pure suffering on his face. Kerney’s rebuilt knee had an abnormal bulge. The scar on his belly seemed to cut his torso in half.

  “Would a heat pad and some ointment help?” Sara asked.

  “Very much.”

  “I’ll get them. Go stretch out on the bed.” She left quickly.

  In the bedroom, Sara put a heating pad on his lower leg and rubbed ointment on his thigh. As she kneaded the muscles, her eyes drifted to the scar, but she said nothing. After switching the pad to the thigh, she worked on his calf before ordering him to roll over on his stomach. She rubbed more ointment on his leg and, using the heating pad and her strong hands, eased the tightness.

  After a long time she stopped, and the room was silent except for their breathing. Kerney couldn’t see her. He started to turn over and felt her hand pressing between his shoulder blades.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Much better,” he said.

  “How much better?”

  “A lot.”

  “Good,” she said softly.

  The light went out, and he felt her weight on the bed. Her fingers traveled down his back and tugged at his shorts as she stretched out beside him.

  CHAPTER 9

  FRUSTRATED, Eddie worked the streets of Juárez near the bridge to El Paso, trying to locate Lieutenant Kerney. After a failed attempt to reach Captain Brannon by phone the previous day, Eddie had continued his search for Yardman. When he made contact with the captain at midmorning, she had told him to drop Yardman, find Lieutenant Kerney, and back him up.

  Still in his humpback disguise, Eddie questioned street vendors, cops, cab drivers, and merchants along the boulevard, asking about a tall gringo cowboy with a limp. He kept his cover story simple—the gringo had ripped him off. It got him a lot of sympathy but no leads.

  Captain Brannon hadn’t given Eddie much to work with. She had told him that Kerney was trying to get a line on the major smugglers in Juárez. That meant Kerney could be anywhere in the city, if he was in the city at all. Just about everything could be bought or sold on the Juárez black market, and you didn’t have to cross the border to conduct business. With no clear direction from Captain Brannon, Eddie felt as if he were spitting into the wind.

  Early in the afternoon, he gave up trying to find Kerney directly and started buying information about big-time smugglers, hoping he would get lucky and intercept the lieutenant. All it bought him was repeated opportunities to get thrown out of fancy clubs, trendy restaurants, and expensive casinos.

  Eddie settled on the steps in front of the hacienda across from the Little Turtle, wondering how he could wangle his way inside without getting kicked out on his ass. He knew the Little Turtle was a front for drug distribution, and it had been mentioned frequently on the streets as an after-hours playground for the criminal elite in the city. It was worth a try to see if he could get in.

  While he waited for the fat cop, Dominguez, to put in an appearance, Eddie made almost twenty dollars. The hacienda was a high-class whorehouse catering to a well-heeled clientele. Glumly, Eddie decided it was about the only interesting bit of information he had gathered during his search for Kerney. The day had been a complete bust.

  At the end of the plaza, Eddie saw Dominguez strolling casually among the cars parked along the sidewalk, chewing on a toothpick. Halfway down the block, Dominguez spied him and hurried over. Eddie waved, reached for some pesos, and had them ready for Dominguez when he arrived.

  The money disappeared into a pocket and a smile crossed Dominguez’s face. “Señor DeLeon wishes to speak with you, my little friend,” he announced.

  “Por qué?” Eddie inquired.

  “A small matter. Come with me.”

  Dominguez waddled officiously toward the Little Turtle, and Eddie followed. At the entrance, Dominguez told him to wait and went inside. After a few minutes, he reappeared, looking quite pleased, rubbed
Eddie’s hump, and told him to go in.

  Eddie stood in the open doorway. The Little Turtle was a long, deep, and softly lit hall with ornate chandeliers suspended over gaming tables. Dark mahogany dining tables circled the periphery of the gambling area, and an elaborate mezzanine with a polished staircase and railing jutted out over the room. A long antique bar with a full-length mirror behind it was under the mezzanine at the back of the hall.

  The afternoon clientele was a prosperous group. Businessmen in suits sat at the bar, while artist types held court in the mezzanine, crowded together around small café tables. Several young couples were seated near the bar, enjoying drinks and appetizers. The gaming tables were busy. Most of the gamblers were middle-class, male, and fairly young.

  For a fleeting minute, Eddie wanted Isabel at his side, wearing her prettiest dress. They would have dinner, dance to some music, play a game or two at the tables and meet new people.

  “Jorobado,” a voice said, pulling Eddie away from his thoughts. “I am glad Dominguez found you.”

  The man looking down at him was in his mid-thirties, with a fair complexion, brown curly hair nicely trimmed, and prominent blue eyes. His nose was narrow and his strong jaw ended at a square chin. A purely Hispanic face, Eddie thought, without a drop of Indian blood.

  “Señor?” Eddie replied deferentially. It had to be DeLeon, Eddie thought. The unbuttoned sport coat was silk, the trousers hand-tailored, and the linen shirt was open at the collar to display an expensive gold chain around DeLeon’s throat. He wore a Rolex Oyster watch on his left wrist and a large diamond ring on his right hand.

  The man smiled casually. “Dominguez tells me that one of my employees was rude to you. More than rude. You are owed an apology. Come.”

  Eddie didn’t move. “It was a small matter, señor, easily forgotten. It is of no consequence.”

  DeLeon turned back. “But it is, my friend. Tradition is very important to me. No one who works here may insult a jorobado. It could bring misfortune. Duffy must be taught a lesson.”

  “Who, señor?”

  “The gringo,” DeLeon explained. “Come.”

  Eddie followed him through a door by the bar into the old cantina. The former saloon had been gutted to create a large modern kitchen, an employee dressing room, and two small partitioned sleeping quarters at the front of the building on either side of the door to the street. Duffy was in one of the partitioned areas, asleep on a cot, his face buried in a pillow, his leg chained to the bed frame. The cot was bolted to the floor.

  DeLeon shook Duffy roughly to wake him. The man rolled over, opened his eyes, and sat up quickly. He had the look of an addict who had gone too long without a fix: sunken cheeks under the beard and bleary eyes that blinked rapidly.

  “Mr. DeLeon,” the gringo said in English, scurrying to his feet. “What is it?” The leg chain clanged against the metal frame of the cot as he got up.

  DeLeon pointed to Eddie. “You were rude to the hunchback. Apologize to him immediately. Wait one minute.” He switched back to Spanish and asked Eddie if he understood English.

  “A little bit,” Eddie answered haltingly in English.

  “Go ahead,” DeLeon ordered Duffy.

  “What did I do?” Duffy asked.

  “It is a tradition in my country to treat hunchbacks with courtesy. You spoke harshly, and attacked him for no reason. Apologize,” DeLeon demanded.

  “He was outside the cantina,” Duffy explained, whining. “I just told him to get out of the way.”

  “Apologize,” DeLeon repeated.

  “Sorry,” Duffy mumbled to Eddie.

  DeLeon slapped Duffy hard across the face. “Be more respectful, Duffy,” DeLeon said sarcastically. “He cannot possibly believe you if I do not. Humbly ask his forgiveness.” There was ice in DeLeon’s voice.

  Duffy did as he was told, his eyes searing into Eddie’s.

  “I hope that gave you some small satisfaction,” DeLeon commented, as he walked Eddie back into the Little Turtle.

  “You were most kind to do it, señor.”

  DeLeon brushed aside the comment. “I have a dilemma about you. I would invite you to stay as an entertainment for my customers, if you were not quite so threadbare. You can see the Little Turtle is neither a clip joint nor a bordello.” He put his hand into his pocket. “Let me give you something for your trouble.”

  Eddie wavered for a moment before responding, searching for the right gambit. If he could stay, it might get him closer to finding Kerney. “I cannot take your money, señor, unless I earn it. If you will allow me to make myself more presentable, I would welcome the opportunity to entertain your customers.”

  DeLeon’s smile returned. “What is your name, little man?”

  “Eduardo. Most people call me Eddie.”

  “You may stay, Eddie. Use the dressing room to clean yourself. All profit that you make, you can keep.”

  “Thank you, but the sight of me undressed usually offends. Perhaps I could bathe elsewhere and return later.”

  “That is not necessary. I will have the door guarded to protect your privacy. If you are provided with the implements, can you sew?”

  “Yes, señor.”

  “Good. We will dress you in a cook’s uniform. I may call upon you to serve a special guest or two, as a diversion.”

  “I would be delighted to do so.”

  “Excellent!” DeLeon said, clapping his hands together. “Come to my table when you are ready.”

  “Gladly, señor,” Eddie replied.

  EDDIE WANTED DESPERATELY TO stand under the shower until the ache in his back went away. He didn’t dare do it for fear that the guard at the door would get impatient and come in to hurry him along. He washed quickly, grateful to at least feel clean, then put on the artificial hump, tightened the harness, and dressed in the cook’s uniform. It hung loosely on his frame, so he undressed, tacked the sleeves and cuffs with a needle and thread, put it back on, tucked in the shirt, and inspected himself in the mirror. He looked comical but not disreputable.

  The cook’s helper guarding the dressing-room door took Eddie to the kitchen, where the staff teased him good-naturedly about his costume. He gladly accepted the offer of tamales, frijoles, and strong Mexican coffee, eating the meal with a gusto that pleased the cooks. He stayed with them until the bartender came to tell him DeLeon was waiting.

  His entrance into the casino caused quite a stir. Wearing a chef’s hat provided by the chief cook, he paraded behind the waiters, mimicking their movements. Two small children, sitting with their parents in the dining area, giggled at the charade. They came running up when he finished, clutching coins to give him. Eddie let them rub the hump and promised they would have good fortune. He got a round of applause from guests in the mezzanine and gamblers at the tables. He picked up the coins from the floor and went to DeLeon, bowing formally.

  “Señor? I am respectable now, qué no?” he asked. DeLeon sat at his private table at the end of the bar next to a small dance floor and bandstand.

  DeLeon’s laugh was hearty. “Yes. Very much so. You are a very amusing jorobado. I may have to give you a job. You make my place a carnival. I could use you in the evenings and perhaps even later, after hours.”

  “I could stay for a few days,” Eddie countered, “until I must leave to be with my family again.”

  “You have a wife?” DeLeon inquired.

  “No woman would have me,” he answered. “I live with my brother and his family.”

  “And where do you live, Eduardo?”

  “Piedras Negras.”

  “Your home is a far distance.”

  “It is a poor place with few opportunities. I must travel to earn a living.” Eddie turned his palms up to signify resignation to his lot in life.

  DeLeon toyed with the cellular phone on the table, his eyes reflective. “You must let me decide what is best for you, Eduardo. Consider seriously my offer of a job.”

  Eddie kept smiling, but he heard the
warning in DeLeon’s velvet words. There was only one response he could make. “I am at your disposal, patrón.”

  “Good.” The cellular telephone rang. DeLeon dismissed the jorobado with a wave of his hand. “We will talk later about the terms of your employment.”

  Eddie thanked DeLeon for his kindness and was sent back to provide more entertainment for the customers. He worked the gambling tables and the bar with all the peppiness he could muster, wondering what in the hell he’d gotten himself into.

  ENRIQUE DELEON stood on the freight dock behind the Little Turtle watching the off-loading of a panel truck of computer electronics. It was a special order of single inline memory modules, expansion boards, and microprocessors, hijacked from a semitrailer on a highway outside of Phoenix. The driver had been paid well to orchestrate a breakdown and leave the truck unattended.

  The electronic components would go to a Mexican assembly plant and ultimately wind up in cut-price computers shipped back to the United States. Besides the money he would make, DeLeon enjoyed the knowledge that he was helping Americans cut their economic throats. The current trade agreement with the United States was nothing more than exploitation of Mexican businesses. Most of the profits flowed north.

  He checked the paperwork brought to him by the warehouse foreman. Everything was in order. The mordidas he paid to make the shipment legal and untraceable were minor compared to the profits. Delivery to the assembly plant was scheduled for the morning. Enrique employed a Japanese style of management. He stocked no unnecessary inventory and shipped only at the point of need. It made his business even more profitable by cutting the overhead for labor and storage.

  He walked through the warehouse, greeting the few employees on duty. Aside from the computer consignment, the only other scheduled delivery for the next day was VCR components to another large American company operating in Juárez. He used the old mercantile storeroom only for small, highly valuable commodities. It was made of hand-cut stone, three feet thick, and supported by huge timber beams. His other facilities, sprinkled throughout the city, were much larger but held no charm. He admired the old stone walls, the floor paving bricks, and the rough-cut beams in the building. The restoration was expensive but the results were splendid. He must do more with old buildings. When the hacienda was rebuilt, he would look around for another project. It gave him a feeling of fulfillment to preserve the heritage and history of the city.