Death Club

by Ty Patterson

  ‘KASPAR!’ Bevcic yelled over Zeb.

  A head poked out of the house.

  ‘Get your ass over here before Carter kills me.’

  ‘You’re finding this funny?’ Zeb asked the Ukrainian in bemusement.

  ‘Mr. Carter,’ Bevcic went all formal. ‘I am one of the most feared gang bosses in the city. People tremble when I go to them. You cut through my gang as if we were nothing. In my country, if one can’t find humor in that, one might as well be dead.’

  Kaspar came out of the house before Zeb could question the gang boss any further. The hood raised his hands and shuffled over to them.

  ‘You okay, boss?’

  ‘Do I look okay?’ Bevcic chuckled. ‘Mr. Carter wants to know if Klattenbach said anything before disappearing.’

  Kaspar was smart enough not to ask stupid questions, perhaps he felt the silent menace standing behind his boss. ‘We weren’t that close. We shared a drink once in a while.’

  ‘He spoke about his daughter,’ his voice rose in remembrance. ‘She was everything to him. He said something about saving her. I asked what he meant, but he didn’t reply.’

  ‘Anything else? Like a place, a name, a person?’ Zeb prompted him.

  ‘No, man. Like I said, we weren’t buddies or anything like that.’

  Zeb suppressed a sigh, grabbed Bevcic by the shoulder and started walking backwards. ‘Go back to the house. Come out after half an hour and find your boss.’

  ‘Don’t kill me. I’ll fold my gang. I’ll stop all activities. I’ll do it right now. I’ll give away money. Just don’t kill me.’ Bevcic spoke rapidly, desperately.

  ‘Bevcic, shut up.’

  ‘Mr. Carter?’ Kaspar called out when he was halfway to the house. ‘I just remembered. There was this time we were drunk. Maybe a week before he went. I was telling him about this guy in our gang who died.’

  ‘Get to it,’ Zeb snapped.

  ‘Yeah.’ Kaspar hurried. ‘Klattenbach said something about a fight.’

  ‘A shootout?’

  ‘I was too far gone. I just remember a fight.’

  Chapter 12

  Miguel knew he still had a long fight ahead of him, but he took a few minutes to breathe deeply. America! It even smelled different from Mexico, from Tenosique, his home town.

  It had been a long and arduous journey to get to America. It had started many months back, when Maria, his wife, and he had finally saved enough to pay a coyote. They both had this dream. Get to America. Find jobs, even if it was picking oranges. Give the opportunity for six-year-old Juana, their daughter, to grow in a free country.

  Miguel worked as a bicycle courier in Tenosique, deep south in Mexico, close to the Guatemalan border. It was a town that had seen its share of drug dealing and cartel activity. Miguel and Maria, both had their lives threatened several times for not peddling drugs. A gang had once come to Maria and had asked her to join their prostitution ring. She had spat in the hood’s face and that had started Miguel’s current problem.

  The gang was the Crescents, one of the few gangs in the country which boasted an English name. It was growing fast and used extreme cruelty to wrest control from the Sinaloa and the other cartels. Miguel had been furious with Maria for spitting at the hood, but she had retorted angrily if he wanted his wife to be a prostitute. His Maria had cojones he thought glumly, knowing the Crescents wouldn’t let the matter lie.

  He was right. They burst into his shack on the edge of the town late at night. Two gangsters had grabbed Maria and another had scooped up Juana.

  A bald man with glittering eyes and a crescent tattoo over his right eyebrow, had crouched in front of Miguel who was restrained by two men. The bald man removed a gun from his waistband. His left hand held a knife.

  ‘You know who we are?’

  Miguel nodded dumbly. He knew. He wished for the millionth time that Maria had held her tongue.

  ‘You want to go to America?’

  Miguel stopped struggling. This wasn’t the way interrogations worked. Normally the gang just killed people, after torturing them. So far they hadn’t been tortured.

  ‘Si, señor.’ It didn’t hurt to be polite if that bought them more time. He tried to control his fear and reassure his wife and daughter with his eyes.

  ‘Señor?’ Glittering Eyes pointed at himself. ‘No one’s called me that before.’ His smile had no warmth and didn’t reach his eyes. ‘How much money you got for your passage?’

  Miguel hesitated, wondering if he should answer. The hood’s gun came up and that punctured any resistance. He mentioned a figure, the entire savings he and Maria had. There was no point in lying. The intruders would find the money if they searched his shack.

  ‘Good. Good,’ Glittering Eyes tapped his gun against his thigh. ‘That will cover it. I have good news for you, chollo. You are going to America. We will make sure you get there.’

  ‘You will carry something for us,’ he announced in a tone that brooked no refusal. ‘That’s why we are here.’

  Miguel’s insides twisted. Drugs, he thought. They will make me a mule.

  Glittering Eyes read his thoughts and his unpleasant smile came on again. ‘Not drugs. Something less dangerous. But very important. So important, that we will keep your wife and daughter with us. Till you deliver the package in America.’

  Miguel’s cold fear turned to hot rage when the man’s words sank in. He lunged, growling furiously and the next moment sprawled on the floor, dazed, as a barrel struck him on the temple.

  ‘If you don’t deliver … well, Hector here, fancies your woman. And he also likes them young. I think he’ll have some good times with Juana.’ Glittering Eyes’ mocking voice came to him from far away. They know my wife and daughter’s names. Miguel moaned softly and knew that his dreams had just turned to dust.

  Glittering Eyes crouched beside him, grabbed his hair and raised his head. ‘Chollo, you wouldn’t think of saying no, would you? What do you think, Hector?’

  Hector had a lizard tattoo on his face and more ink on his bare arms. He spat the matchstick he was chewing on and leered at the women. ‘I think he’ll refuse.’

  ‘We can’t have that, can we?’ and with that Hector casually shot Maria in the shoulder.

  It was much later that Miguel figured he had been on a short list along with other possible illegals. The cartel had been watching him as it had been the others. It was probably Miguel’s fitness and endurance – he and Maria cycled great distances – that convinced them he was the right man.

  Glittering Eyes, who went by Pico, and his men corralled the family into a truck that night and headed north. They stopped at Fresnilo for a short break and pushed on towards the border, reaching Hermosillo by nightfall. The family was shoved into a room above a cantina and spent the night there.

  The next morning, the coyotes, the men who would escort Miguel and several other chollos, met them, along with more gang members. The other chollos were a mixed bunch, most of them young men of Miguel’s age, but a few women as well. Miguel was given a satchel, the package he was to deliver, and was asked to open it. He thrust his hand inside and brought out two aluminum flasks, the kind that kept coffee hot. They were sealed.

  ‘You break that seal, Maria dies and Hector has fun with Juana,’ Pico threatened. Miguel didn’t need any more convincing. The previous night, Hector and Pico had beheaded a snitch in front of Maria and him. He knew the drug runner meant it.

  The coyotes and the chollos set off that night and the last Miguel saw of his wife and daughter, were their tear streaked faces.

  The crossing was a blur to him. On to the Sonoran desert from which point onwards they moved stealthily. Trotting rapidly occasionally. Suddenly dropping to the ground or hiding behind whatever cover they could find when the Federales or the U.S. Border people patrolled.

  They walked through the burning heat of the morning across the desert, the coyotes urging the chollos on, cursing, swearing, and slapping them, if they slackened.
They ruthlessly left behind the slower moving illegals as the bunch of people moved across terrain that had no shade and no distinctive marking. Just an endless brown that undulated gently as far as the eye could see.

  One time an aircraft buzzed them and they scattered in panic, each man to himself. The coyotes got them bunched up again when no further threat appeared and when the sun started waning and the air started getting cooler, one of them pointed to something that glinted in the light.

  ‘America,’ he said. That one word was enough to set the illegals running even though the coyotes yelled at them to slow down. The chollos didn’t listen. America was close by. That glinting meant freedom.

  The glinting was a barbed wire fence that one coyote explained was what passed for the border in that part of America. He led the bunch of migrants to a section which had been torn and stood aside for the chollos to cross.

  It was thus that Miguel found himself in America.

  The coyotes allowed them a few minutes of respite and then set off at a fast trot which they maintained for several miles. ‘Arizona,’ one coyote replied when Miguel asked him where they were. ‘Near Arivaca. There you will get further instructions,’ the coyote glanced at the satchel around Miguel’s neck. They were on a ranch, Miguel gathered from the chatter of other chollos, and had to make fast time since the rancher was known to shoot first and ask questions later.

  The coyote ranged beside him, his lips crooking upwards in a high-pitched laugh. ‘If you fail, we get to share Maria and Juana.’

  Hatred. Miguel felt it course through him and for a moment thought of attacking the coyote. He seemed to feel the waves coming off the chollo and took a step back, fingering his gun in his waistband.

  ‘Do your job, chollo. Then you will see your family.’

  They continued walking through the night, taking more care than ever now since they were on American soil. It was not just the Border Patrol they had to watch out for. Ranchers, vigilante citizens who had enough of the illegal crossings, drones, and motion detectors. All those had to be navigated.

  ‘You will separate from this group at Arivaca,’ the same coyote panted. ‘You will be given some money and told where to go.’

  They reached Arivaca, which was twelve miles from the border, at seven pm. The town, Miguel’s first American town, was a disappointment. It was just scattered buildings on either side of a road. There were a couple of stores, what looked like a water tank in the dark, some shacks not dissimilar to the shack he had back in Mexico.

  Where were the tall buildings? The cars? He swallowed his disappointment and asked the coyote who chuckled at Miguel’s ignorance.

  ‘This isn’t a city. This is just a small community. Wait till you go to the big cities.’

  They had stopped running now and had split into smaller parties of twos and threes, as they shuffled quietly in the darkness, stopping every now and then whenever they saw movement or some Americans driving past.

  The coyote peeled Miguel away from the rest of the illegals and took him to a large white building that looked like a church. ‘School,’ the coyote whispered.

  They went to the back of the building where a Jeep was waiting along with two other men. ‘He is yours,’ the coyote said and shoved Miguel at the two men. Both men were short and wore dark clothes and hiking boots. Both could have passed for American or Mexican. Both had short hair and light facial growth. One man pointed silently at the rear of the vehicle and when Miguel climbed inside, he and the other man had a whispered conversation with the coyote. The coyote pulled out his phone and after a brief conversation, gave more instructions to the two men.

  Miguel didn’t like any of it. He felt vulnerable and uneasy. ‘Where will they take me?’ he asked the coyote.

  The coyote ignored him, continuing his conversation with the two men. ‘Tucson,’ he answered when the meeting broke up and the men climbed into the front of the Jeep. ‘They will tell you what to do there.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Miguel replied, hating the whine that had crept in his voice.

  ‘Will you like it if Hector rapes Maria?’

  Tucson was the large city Miguel was hoping for. Bright lights. Huge buildings. Lots of big cars and SUVs. People. American people who spoke in their distinctive drawl. He watched round-eyed as the Jeep navigated the city and brought him to what looked like a bus station. A long, pale, corrugated sheet building with the name GREYHOUND on its front.

  The driver dismounted and held the door open for Miguel to climb out. ‘You are on your own, from here on, buddy.’ He was American. He handed over a bundle of notes to Miguel and a phone, a basic phone with a small screen and a keypad. Not one of those fancy ones. ‘That’s three hundred dollars. You have to reach Miami in three days. Travel by bus, always. Use that phone every day. Only one number on it. Call that number and let them know where you are. Don’t forget.’

  ‘Call now,’ the second man suggested. He too was American.

  Miguel gathered his scattered thoughts and tried to control the growing panic in him. Things were moving too fast for him but there were his wife and daughter to consider. He pressed a button on the phone and the screen lit up. He pressed another button and the stored number came up. He dialed it.

  ‘Chollo, your dream has come true, hasn’t it?’ Pico chortled from Mexico. ‘Now, do your business and your family will join you and you can live the American Dream.’

  ‘This is too much for me. How will I travel to Miami?’

  ‘Those men will give you a map and bus timings. It is simple.’ Pico responded sharply.

  ‘I can’t do this. I will get caught.’

  He heard Pico bark an order at someone and he nearly dropped the phone when Maria shrieked loudly. ‘Now can you do it, chollo?’ Pico whispered softly.

  He nodded dumbly, his fingers trembling, and then realized Pico couldn’t see him. ‘Si, Si.’

  ‘It is very easy, chollo. Traveling in America is easier than in Mexico,’ Pico reassured him. ‘Once you reach Miami, I will tell you who to meet and where.’

  ‘Make sure you call me every day. EVERY DAY,’ Pico’s voice hardened.

  ‘Si, señor. What if the police catch me?’

  Pico replied promptly as if that scenario had been thought of too.

  ‘In that case, open the flasks.’

  Chapter 13

  Zeb wiped his mouth, capped the flask, tossed it on the seat beside him and floored his Yukon. He was heading back to Dalton the day after Bevcic’s interrogation. He had scoured the internet for fights but had gotten too many hits and in disgust, had flagged the word for Meghan to look into.

  Going to Dalton was a whim. It’s not as if I have any lead to pursue. Klattenbach was a boxer. MMA was one of his hobbies. I can ask his wife about that. Meghan can check if he enrolled for any fights.

  He reached Dalton in the afternoon, checked into the same hotel and after freshening up, headed to Tony’s restaurant. The manager remembered him and after effusively greeting him, ushered him to a corner table from where he had a good view of the restaurant and the street.

  He powered his screen and checked if Meghan or Werner had any hits on any fights. There were none. No developments on the state police investigation either. That didn’t surprise him. He left a tip on his table, thanked Tony and left the restaurant. Back to the hotel, where he backed out and headed to the desert.

  To the scene where he had found the body.

  He drove slowly, the Yukon’s shocks absorbing every dip and rise and smoothing them out for the driver. They didn’t dump the body there for all to see, he decided when he topped the rise and located the spot where he had found Klattenbach.

  Easier ways to hide a body and many other better places to do so. Maybe they were planning to bury the body, but I got there. In which case, they had eyes on me?

  Hands on hips, he looked around at the vast land. Garav and I circled. We didn’t find anything. The state police would have also checked out the area.
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  There was a flaw in that argument, however. The police would have searched the area much later, giving enough time for any observer to vanish.

  Still don’t get why anyone came here to bury a body. Or what went on here. It’s government land. No land dispute. No precious metals or oil. Nothing here.

  A droning sound made him look up. An aircraft, flying low. The next moment he was running to the Yukon and on reaching it, yanked the door open and grabbed binos from his backpack.

  The aircraft was further away, but still close enough for him to note its tail number. He fishtailed and raced back to Dalton and took a table at Tony’s. He logged onto the internet and got Werner to search for the aircraft.

  Werner disappointed him. It said the aircraft was registered to a private company in Los Angeles and this wasn’t its regular flight path. Okay, but were there any planes that regularly flew over the desert?

  ‘No,’ Werner scoffed. ‘It’s not a commercial route. But maybe you should check out crop-dusters.’

  ‘Why don’t you check out and let me know,’ he typed in irritation.

  ‘I will. If you say please.’

  Zeb wasn’t one to bury his head in his hands, but he came close to it. The twins. They had a lot to answer for.

  Werner came back with three aircraft, all within two hours driving of Dalton. They belonged to local ranchers who used the planes for crop dusting, surveying their ranches, and for transport.

  ‘They don’t have to file flight plans,’ Werner warned him.

  ‘Is this your way of making excuses?’

  Werner didn’t reply.

  Zeb called the three ranchers, one of whom confirmed he made regular runs over the desert, specifically that section of the desert.

  Ed Lappuch stumped across his porch when Zeb came up on his driveway and stood silently while the sixty-year-old rancher appraised him from under bushy eyebrows. ‘You came up all the way from Portland just to see if I flew Louise every day?’