All of the tables were empty…save one. The man seated at that one stood out in much the same way as the Mercedes stood out on the street. He wore black slacks and a matching black shirt with an ornate silver tracery across the chest and shoulders. A woman was seated across from him, a young brunette in a skirt and white blouse. She held a piece of fabric that she twisted nervously between her hands. She was saying something, but her head was down. She wasn’t looking at the man in black. The man looked over at them, turned back to the woman, then did a double take and stared at Keller and Angela as they walked to the bar. The woman started to say something, but the man in black shushed her with one raised finger.
“Buenas tardes,” Angela said to the bartender, a stocky, fortyish man with thick dark hair, and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once.
He nodded. “¿Qué le gustaría ordenar?”
“Agua, por favor,” Angela said.
“Cerveza,” Keller said. He looked behind the bar for something he recognized. “Tecate.” The bartender nodded and pulled the beer and a bottled water out of the cooler. Angela started talking to the bartender, pulling the picture of Oscar out of her back pocket. Keller tuned her out and watched the man in black. Seated, Keller couldn’t tell how tall he was, but he was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and large, thick-fingered hands. His hair was thinning, but slicked back and sprayed with something that made it look hard and shiny, like shellac. His eyes were small and set close together. Those eyes never left Keller. The woman said something else. The man’s response was short and apparently so sharp, it made the woman visibly flinch. She got up from the table, her face hardening with anger. She was beautiful, Keller saw, with sculpted cheekbones, full lips, and wide dark eyes. Her full breasts strained against the tight blouse. She shook out the piece of fabric and began tying it around her waist. An apron. She obviously worked there. She raised her head and caught Keller looking at her. She straightened up and smoothed the apron down, smiling at him. He took the beer and raised it to his lips. She walked toward him, her eyes on his. She didn’t speak as she sidled past him, close enough that her hip brushed his. Keller looked over at the man in black. He looked angry enough to chew nails.
Angela turned to him. “The bartender says he hasn’t seen Oscar.” Then she saw the expression on Keller’s face. “What?”
“Give me the picture,” Keller said.
“Okay.” She handed it over. The man in black was rising from his chair, his face set and hard. “Oh, boy,” Angela said.
“Just translate for me.” He shoved himself back from the bar.
As the man in black strode down the narrow aisle between the bar and the tables, Keller advanced to meet him, plastering a big friendly smile on his face. As they drew closer together, Keller stuck out a hand. “Hey, pal!” he said in a hearty voice. “You look like a guy who might be able to help us out.”
The man stopped, his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowing with confusion. He didn’t take the offered hand. Keller heard Angela’s rapid-fire translation next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the men at the bar turning to watch the show. Keller held out the picture of Oscar, keeping his other hand extended for a friendly shake.
“We’re looking for a friend of ours,” Keller went on in that same slightly too loud voice. “Came down here not long ago. His name’s Oscar Sanchez.” Keller waited a beat. “I’m Jack Keller.” He waited for the reaction. If this guy, as he suspected, was some kind of soldier in the Mandujano Organization, he might have been told to keep an ear out for those two names.
He was disappointed. Neither name seemed to register. The guy still looked confused, but the confusion was wearing off and turning to suspicion. The guy had been temporarily disarmed by Keller’s dumb-turista approach, but it wouldn’t be long before he turned back toward his default state of anger and arrogance. Keller wondered if he should just coldcock the guy right now and get them the hell out of there.
Angela said something else. Keller caught a word he recognized. Marido. Husband.
The man looked back and forth, between Keller and Angela. Then he reached out and took the photo from Keller in his fat stubby fingers. He studied it for a moment. Keller dropped his hands back to his sides. The song on the jukebox finished. There was no sound for a long moment. Everyone was watching the three of them. Then as the opening chords of Van Halen’s “Runnin’ with the Devil” blasted out of the cheap jukebox speakers, the guy shook his head and handed the photo back. He said something to Angela, then turned and gave Keller a hard look. He took out a billfold and dropped a couple of bills on the bar. With another look at Keller, he walked out. The men at the bar turned back to their contemplation of the woodwork.
“Was it something I said?” Keller asked.
“Come on.” Angela led him back outside.
They stood under the sign, which simply said BAR in large neon script. The sign buzzed and popped as if it was going to explode into a shower of sparks any moment.
“What was that all about?” Angela said.
“I figured that guy might be part of Mandujano’s local crew,” Keller said. “I figured if we were going to ask anyone, it ought to be him.”
“So you wanted to piss him off by making eyes at his girlfriend?”
“What? No. That wasn’t…”
“Whatever, Keller,” she said. “Let’s move on.” She walked off without looking back. He followed her, baffled by the ice in her tone.
They didn’t have any better luck in the dozen or so bars, cheap restaurants, and small convenience stores where they stopped to show the picture and ask questions. They were greeted mostly with suspicion and silence. No one would admit to having seen Oscar, and the mention of Mandujano’s name seemed to make people forget not only what little English they had, but most of their Spanish as well. Finally, exhausted, they began the long trudge back to where they’d parked the Jeep. It was at least two in the morning, but the streets were still busy. The shouts and laughter had become more ragged, maybe even slightly desperate, but the party went on.
“Think that kid’s still watching the car?” Angela said. Fatigue was making her limp slightly, the pain of her old injuries flaring up.
“Nah,” Keller answered. “He’s taken the money and run by now.”
“Hope the car’s still there,” she said. “At least enough of it to get us back to the hotel.”
It was. True to Keller’s prediction, the boy had gone. In his place, slouching against the hood of the Jeep, was the girl from the restaurant. She’d changed out of the skirt into blue jeans that hugged her lush hips, but she was still wearing the white blouse. “Hey,” she said as they drew near. She sounded like she was greeting friends she saw every day.
“Hey,” Angela said as they slowed.
The girl stood up. “I hear you looking for your husband,” she said, her English thickly accented.
“That’s right,” Angela said.
“You still got that picture?”
Mutely, Angela handed it over. She looked at it for a minute. “Yeah,” she said. “I seen him.”
“When?” Keller said.
She shrugged. “Couple, three days ago.”
“Uh-huh,” Keller said. Something about her demeanor was too elaborately nonchalant. It seemed artificial. She was trying to work some sort of con, he figured. He expected to be hit up for money next. Then he noticed that she kept looking back at the car.
“So,” he said, “where was he? What was he doing?”
“Asking around,” she said. “You know?”
“Do you know where he went?” Angela said.
She shrugged again, glancing to the car, and then back at them. “Not really, but he said he’d be back. Maybe tomorrow night.”
“Okay,” Keller said. “We’ll be back tomorrow night. Gracias.”
“De nada.” The girl sauntered away, hips swinging.
“She’s lying,” Angela said in a low voice.
“Yep, hope she’s better at waitressing than she is at lying.” He walked over to the Jeep and bent over. He slid a hand up into the wheel well nearest where the girl had been leaning against the car.
“What are you doing?” Angela asked.
His fingers traced along the rough, grime-encrusted inside of the fender. He encountered something that felt as if it was made of plastic. He tugged at it. There was a slight resistance, then the object came free. He pulled it out. It was a flat black plastic box with a pair of black buttons on its face. The back was a magnet to hold it fast to the metal of the car.
“Is that what I think it is?” she said.
“Yep,” he said. “GPS tracker.”
“These guys are high tech,” she said.
“Not really,” he said. “You can buy these at Walmart now. Worried moms use them to track their teenagers. Suspicious wives use them to figure out if hubby’s going to a motel.”
“Or vice versa,” she said. He could tell she was shaken, even as she tried to keep her voice light.
“Yeah.”
“So they know we’re here,” she said.
“Pretty much,” he said. “Just not exactly where.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Depends,” he said. “Are you going to head back north and let me handle this?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Okay, then,” he said. He reared back and threw the device as hard as he could up onto the metal awning of a closed and shuttered pharmacy.
“What was that for?” she said.
“As long as you’re here, I don’t want them to find us.”
“And if you’re here alone,” she said, “you’re okay with that.”
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
“And what do you think would happen then?”
“Well, I hope we’d be able to have a civilized conversation about where Oscar might be,” Keller said.
“Yeah, because these drug lords and smugglers have such a great track record for civilized conversation.”
Keller shook his head, giving her an exaggerated look of disappointment. “That’s a little bigoted, don’t you think?” he said.
“Don’t joke about this, Jack. These people are killers.”
“So am I.”
“Are we back to that again?” she said.
“No,” he said, “we’re back to the hotel. We need to get some sleep.”
“And what about tomorrow?”
“We do the same thing again,” Keller said. “Ask around. See if anyone’s seen him.”
“And poke Mandujano in the nose some more.”
“That, too. Hey, you got a better idea?”
She sighed. “No. Not right now. I’m exhausted.”
“So let’s go.”
They made the drive back to the hotel in silence. Keller kept checking the rearview mirror to see if they were being followed. A part of him was disappointed that he saw nothing. He could feel the rush building up, the feeling he always got when he was hunting. He felt they were getting close. He wasn’t sure why, but it was a feeling he’d learned to trust.
He pulled into the courtyard and parked. They trudged up the stairs in silence. Keller was unlocking the door to his room when Angela put her hand on his shoulder. He turned around.
“Jack,” she said softly, “let’s both just go home tomorrow.”
“What about Oscar?” he said.
“I don’t think we’re going to find him,” she said.
“You’re just tired. Get some sleep.”
“What if he’s—” She stopped.
“Dead?” Keller finished. “If he is, I want to know how it happened. I want to know why. And if someone did it, they’re going to answer for it.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” she said. She put her arms around him. He hesitated slightly, but then hugged her back. She felt good against him. He ran a hand through her hair. She made a small sound, deep in her throat, then gently pushed him away. Her eyes were glistening. “Go,” she said, then turned and walked back into her room.
Keller went back into his own room. He took off his boots and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He knew Angela was probably right. Oscar was probably dead, buried out in the desert somewhere. But he couldn’t stop the hunt. The relentlessness that had made him so good as a bounty hunter was too ingrained. He could no more stop now than he could stop breathing. But what if Oscar was alive, and Keller found him? What then? He still had feelings for Angela. She clearly had the same feelings for him. But Oscar was his friend.
Keller lay there, those same thoughts running round and around in his head. He lay there, aching to get up and go knock on Angela’s door. He strained his ears, waiting and hoping for her knock on his. But there was only silence. Jesus, could this get any more fucked up? Finally, he drifted off into a fitful sleep.
In the morning, Angela was gone.
IT WAS hard for Ruben to decide. For a moment, he considered just cutting Diego down and burying him by himself. He didn’t think he could bring himself to ask someone else to face that grotesque, dangling thing that was once a man. A friend. He didn’t even know if he could get any of the older men to help him, and he knew he wasn’t going to ask his little brother. But he knew that it would take him all night, if not longer, to do the job alone. He hesitated outside the door of the barracks.
“Well,” Bender said, “get on in there, and get you some help. I ain’t got all fuckin’ night.”
Moving like a man in a dream, Ruben opened the door and went in. The men looked up from their bunks. Some of them were startled, as if they hadn’t expected him to return.
He looked at the man on the closest bed to him. His name was Dante. He didn’t say much, but Ruben recalled that he’d said he hoped to make enough money in America to bring his fiancée north as well. All of that seemed so far away now. Dante was watching him curiously, as if puzzled by the look on his face.
“Que pasa, ese?” he said softly. “You don’t look so good.”
“I need your help, Dante,” Ruben said. “We have to bury Diego.”
“Bury…” Dante looked around, as if searching for someone else to do the job.
“Please,” Ruben said. “We can’t just let him hang there all night.”
Dante closed his eyes, then nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll help.”
Ruben heard the bang and rattle of buckets outside. The men sat up, eyes widening in fear. “They’re bringing food,” Ruben said. “Dante and I have to go do something.” He saw the dubious looks on some faces, the beginnings of grins on others. He realized how that must have sounded. “They’re going to let us bury Diego.” He gestured toward Dante. “Dante and I. Will you save us some food? For when we get back?”
The pudgy guard named Bender entered. He was carrying one of the big galvanized buckets their food came in. Ruben could smell the stew that they typically got for dinner. It was a thin broth, with only a few chunks of meat and some shriveled carrots and potatoes, but at that moment, it was enough to make Ruben’s stomach growl. “Please,” he said, “we won’t be long.” The men wouldn’t look at him. Finally, Edgar’s voice piped up from the back of the room. “I’ll save you some food,” he said. “Don’t worry. Hurry back.”
“Come ON, Goddamn it,” he heard Bender shout from outside. Ruben turned and walked out, Dante trailing in his wake.
Someone had left a tattered blanket laid out on the ground next to Diego’s dangling body. A pair of shovels rested on it. Kinney slouched a few feet away, in the shadows, his submachine gun held loosely in his hands. “About damn time,” he grumbled. “Vamanos, muchachos. We got shit to do.” His glance in the direction of the women’s barracks left no doubt as to what that was.
Dante looked up at Diego’s corpse and crossed himself. Ruben could hear him whispering something under his breath, “El Senor es mi pastor,” he murmured, “nada mi falta.” The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not
want…
“How are we supposed to get him down?” Ruben asked Kinney
Kinney shook his head in disgust. He drew a long knife from his belt and walked to where he’d tied the end of the rope around the tree. With short, impatient strokes, he sawed at the rope.
“Quick,” Ruben said to Dante, “spread the blanket out. Under him.”
Dante hesitated. “Hurry,” Ruben urged as he rushed to grab the rope. He didn’t expect Kinney was going to lower Diego gently to the ground. He was right. When the rope parted, Ruben gasped as he tried to take the total weight of Diego’s body, then cried out as the rope began to slip through his fingers, abrading the skin from his palms. Dante looked up from where he was spreading the blanket, a look of horror on his face at the ghastly sight of Diego’s body descending almost on top of him. The rope was a line of fire between Ruben’s palms. He sobbed as he let go. Diego’s body collapsed to the ground, almost on top of Dante, who screamed like a woman and jumped back. The body crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut. As it collapsed, a long, piteous groan escaped the slack lips.
“Dios mio!” Dante cried. “He’s alive!”
Kinney laughed nastily. “No, you dumbass monkey,” he said. “That’s just air leaving the body. Now get to work.”
Ruben walked over and tried to straighten Diego’s body onto the spread-out blanket. He grunted with the effort, but it was like trying to move a bag of wet cement. “Come on,” he panted to Dante. “Help me.” The man shook his head, the whites of his eyes showing like a spooked horse.
Kinney ratcheted the charging lever on his machine gun. “He said help him, monkey.”
With a low moan of horror, Dante began to help. It took a few minutes to get Diego arranged on the blanket, after which Ruben wrapped the sides over Diego, obscuring his bloated and ruined face.
“I’ll say this for you, muchacho,” Kinney said to Ruben. “You got more balls than this other pendejo.” Dante didn’t react to the insult. He stayed on his knees, head bowed, whispering his prayer. Ruben put a hand on his shoulder. “Where can we bury him?” he said wearily to Kinney.
Devils and Dust Page 9
