Shadow Boys

by Harry Hunsicker

  Shirley, Mason’s stepmother.

  A woman who fancied herself better than a two-room shack in Cockrell Hill. A woman who worked at an upscale French restaurant on Lovers Lane, serving rich men from North Dallas, sleeping with more than a few. Shirley with the golden hair and the breasts like melons, ripe and inviting.

  “Are you taking the pills I prescribed?”

  “Yes,” Mason lied again.

  The meds dulled the edges of his existence, smoothed over the rough patches.

  Mason didn’t like things smooth. As time went on, he realized how much he liked the anger, how comforting it felt.

  “What are you thinking right now?” Corinne asked. “Your expression. You seem . . . upset.”

  Mason unclenched his hands, unaware of when he’d balled his fingers into fists.

  Corinne said, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Mason forced himself to smile.

  She jotted something on her pad.

  “My mind drifted. Where were we?”

  Corinne put down her notes, crossed her arms tight. “Our time’s up.”

  Mason stared at her for a moment, realizing that she was afraid. He chuckled and stood. “See you next time, counselor.”

  - CHAPTER SIXTEEN -

  Lew Sterrett Justice Center—the Dallas County jail.

  I’d put who knows how many people in there over the years.

  Now it was my turn.

  My expired DEA badge earned me a private holding cell on the second floor, down the hall from a guy whacked out on angel dust or bath salts. Lysol Alvarez’s girlfriend Sawyer went wherever they took pretty young women who’d been caught holding a couple ounces of cocaine.

  About an hour after they locked me up, Piper appeared outside my cell, a badge clipped to her waistband. Behind her stood a sheriff’s deputy.

  “Impersonating a federal agent.” She clucked her tongue. “That’s a no-no.”

  I’d called Piper, not anybody at the office. She could get me out quicker. And the office—i.e., Theo—didn’t need to know about this any sooner than necessary.

  “Don’t forget the drugs,” I said. “There was a felony amount in the duffel bag.”

  “Looks like that’s gonna get stuck on the two hoods. The one who got shot in the ass squealed on his partner.”

  “Small mercies.” I stood and stretched.

  Piper looked at the deputy. “Cut him loose.”

  The deputy unlocked my cell. He said, “We hope you’ve had a nice stay.”

  Piper opened the door.

  “If you have access to the Internet,” the deputy said, “please consider rating our facility on Travelocity.”

  “Everybody’s a comedian.” Piper steered me toward the exit while the deputy laughed.

  We walked past the cell holding the duster. He was naked, huddled in the corner, arms outstretched as if warding off the attacks of creatures only he could see.

  Piper opened a metal door at the end of the hall and we found ourselves by the intake area for the south tower.

  “What about Sawyer?”

  “What’s a ‘Sawyer,’ ” Piper said. “Is that some jailhouse slang you picked up in the last hour?”

  “Sawyer was the woman arrested with me.” I lowered my voice. “She’s Lysol Alvarez’s girlfriend.”

  “Lysol—my favorite sociopath.” Piper shook her head. “Why were you with his girlfriend?”

  “I wasn’t with her. I was talking to Tremont’s grandmother and—look, it’s too long to get into right now.”

  “It always is.” Piper used her badge to cut to the head of the line at the checkout station. She gave the jailer my intake number and got a manila envelope that contained my personal effects.

  “What’s Sawyer’s last name?” she said.

  I shook my head.

  “Just run the first name then.” Piper spoke to the jailer. “Sawyer. Like Tom and Huck Finn.”

  He tapped a keyboard and then looked up. “Nada.”

  I remembered what Lysol had told me about a child molester arrested one week before. I leaned in front of the Plexiglas divider and said, “Can you do a search for people arrested last week on a specific date?”

  The guy in line behind us, a biker the size of a Deepfreeze, told me to hurry the fuck up. Piper growled at him, literally.

  The jailer looked at me over his reading glasses. “What do you think this is, a Holiday Inn?”

  “How long would it take you—”

  “C’mon, Dillinger.” Piper dragged me toward the elevator.

  On the ground floor, we navigated our way through the throngs of people coming to visit relatives or friends. Then we left the building.

  Outside, it was early evening. The sun was setting across the Trinity River. The clouds above the Calatrava Bridge were orange and purple, clean and refreshing after the grayness of the jail.

  I sat on a bench a few yards from the jail entrance and opened the envelope. It was almost all there: money, keys, cell phone, pocketknife. But no DEA credentials.

  “They took my badge.” I put everything in my pocket.

  “You’re not an agent anymore.” Piper shook her head.

  “I need you to look up somebody for me. A man who was arrested at the Iris Apartments a week ago.” I explained briefly what Lysol had told me.

  She pulled her smartphone out, tapped on the keypad. “The mainframe’s down. Again.”

  “How about something to eat. Maybe grab a bite at Sam Browne’s?”

  “Can’t. Sorry.” Her voice was soft. “I, uh, have plans tonight.”

  “Plans?”

  “Yeah. That’s what people do. They make arrangements for an activity at a mutually-agreed-upon time.”

  “You’ve got a date with Delgado, don’t you?”

  “Jon.” She knelt in front of me. Put a hand on my leg. “You and I are not together anymore.”

  I shoved her hand away. “What was last week then?”

  A few beers at a Mexican food joint had led to dinner and then a hurried drive back to my place, where we’d shed our clothes and fallen into bed. Despite no longer being a couple, we somehow managed to follow this same pattern once a month or so.

  She stood, looked across the Trinity River toward West Dallas.

  “Why did you arrange a meeting with Delgado for me?” I said.

  She didn’t reply.

  “This kid, Tremont Washington, he wasn’t a loser,” I said. “He wasn’t a druggie either.”

  “Delgado knew about you already,” she said. “He knew about us, too.”

  At the curb, a black Suburban stopped, blocking traffic. It was clearly an unmarked police vehicle.

  “He asked if you’d be good at something like this.” She paused. “I said yes. Then I set up the meet.”

  “Somebody snatched Tremont,” I said.

  “Or he looked sideways at the wrong gangbanger.” Piper put on a pair of sunglasses. “And now he’s dead in a ditch somewhere.”

  I didn’t reply. She’d made the most probable assumption, but something bothered me about her scenario.

  The driver’s door of the Suburban opened and, speak of the Devil, Deputy Chief Raul Delgado stepped out. He was wearing a different suit, navy with charcoal pinstriping. He saw us and waved.

  “Going to the opera?” I said. “Or a charity fund-raiser?”

  “Do you think I just want to be friends with benefits for the rest of my life?”

  The air seemed to get thin.

  “That’s what we are now, Jon. Two losers who bump uglies on occasion. Nothing more.”

  Delgado headed toward us, maybe thirty feet away.

  “I’m a cop now, back where I belong,” she said. “And you, you’re all corporate with the law firm and
your Armani suits.”

  “It’s Hugo Boss,” I said. “My sport coats. That’s who makes them.”

  She smiled at Delgado and waved.

  “I do have a couple of Zenga suits.”

  “Whatever, mister GQ.” She spoke to me while looking at Delgado. “We decided this was for the best, remember? Time apart. Get to know ourselves. Yada yada.”

  I remembered. While the Justice Department was trying to figure out who to charge with what, we’d gone to Colorado, searching for Piper’s mother and looking for a little peace and quiet. But tranquility was not part of our makeup, and trouble seemed to fill our lives like smoke in a pool hall.

  Then the money ran out, and we headed back to familiar turf—Texas. She’d gotten the job with the Dallas police. Judge Clark had arranged for my position with the law firm, introducing me to Theo Goldberg, the managing partner.

  Delgado approached, smiling magnanimously.

  “I took care of things.” He looked at me. “You won’t be charged.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I stood.

  “Sorry you were arrested,” he said. “I was unaware until Piper told me.”

  I didn’t reply. Piper stared off in the distance. An awkward silence descended upon our little group, or perhaps that was just my imagination.

  Several uniformed officers, muscular white guys with buzz cuts, were walking toward the jail entrance. As they went, they stared at us, not exactly friendly looks.

  Little-known fact: cops invented the evil eye, a scowl that could draw blood. These guys were masters. With my record at the DPD, I figured they were looking at me.

  I ignored them, as was my custom.

  Raul Delgado did not. He stared back, his look matching theirs in animosity. The officers maintained eye contact until it was long past polite, their heads turned sideways. Then they looked away.

  “Friends of yours?” I asked.

  “Nobody likes the brass,” he said. “Especially an uppity Mexican like me.”

  “Leave it be.” Piper touched his arm. “They’re not worth the effort.”

  Raul Delgado took several deep breaths, turned back to me.

  “Your little adventure today,” he said. “What have you learned?”

  “Lots of things,” I said. “Such as, you didn’t tell me Tremont had a job.”

  Delgado crossed his arms. “I’m not familiar with every detail of the young man’s life.”

  “Now would be a good time to tell me all the details you do know,” I said. “Especially why you’re so interested in him.”

  “Piper and I have an engagement in a little while.” He looked at his watch. “A dinner gala.”

  Piper shook her head, rolled her eyes. Delgado didn’t notice.

  “A gala?” I glanced at my former lover. “How droll.”

  “Raul’s giving a speech.” She gave me a venomous look. Then she mentioned the name of a charity dedicated to empowering women in third-world countries, the kind of organization most cops couldn’t even fathom existed.

  “But there’s a slot in my schedule right now,” Raul said. “Perhaps we could go somewhere and talk.”

  “Here’s to slots.” I headed toward the unmarked Suburban. “I’m riding shotgun.”

  Ellis County, Texas

  1987

  Blood on his shirt.

  The new Explorer uniform that Bobby bought him last week.

  Raul Delgado tried to wipe away the stain, but the liquid just smeared, greasy and thick.

  He was almost eighteen.

  Six years since the last time blood coated his clothes, that of his brother, in the back of the squad car.

  Now there was no vehicle in sight. There was nothing but the cottonwoods along the creek bank, their leaves rustling in the summer breeze.

  Beyond the cottonwoods lay the gaunt expanse of Bobby’s ranch, acres of pastureland, flat like an ironing board and baked brown by the sun, scarred by lines of barbwire fencing.

  Raul’s hands hurt.

  He looked at his fingers.

  They were swollen, knuckles bruised.

  A few feet away lay Wayne, Junie’s boyfriend-who’s-just-a-friend.

  Wayne was facedown in the mud at the edge of the water. He was shirtless. His pants were around his thighs.

  As Raul watched, a trickle of blood seeped from Wayne’s face, staining the mud red.

  Raul looked at his hands again. Flexed. The movement hurt.

  He wished he could figure out what he was feeling right now but couldn’t. There was nothing inside him but emptiness. He tried to summon a mental picture of his brother, Carlos, someone he could talk to in his mind, try to explain what happened, but he couldn’t even do that.

  From somewhere nearby came a keening sound, a soft wail that was almost lost to the wind and the quiet babble of the creek.

  Raul wondered if he might be in shock. He knew the wail was important but he couldn’t stop looking at Wayne’s body and the flow of blood that was becoming thicker.

  The wail grew louder.

  He turned away from Wayne.

  To his right, maybe ten feet away, sat Junie.

  She was under a cottonwood. Her hair was tangled, one cheek smeared with mud. She was wearing what was left of her school uniform—a plaid skirt, saddle oxfords, and a white cotton blouse.

  The buttons had been popped off the blouse, one sleeve torn away. The skirt was ripped. In the dirt a few feet away were what appeared to be her panties, a ball of white cotton.

  After a few moments the disjointed events snapped together like Legos, and Raul relived what happened as if a grainy piece of film were unspooling in his mind’s eye.

  Five minutes ago.

  He arrived at the ranch in the old pickup, returning from the feed store with a couple of salt licks. Part of the chores he helped with around the ranch.

  He parked by the barn. Got out.

  Bobby was on duty for another hour. Junie was still at school. Or so he thought.

  He saw Wayne’s Camaro behind the barn, out of sight from the house and driveway.

  The T-tops were off. Inside there was an overflowing ashtray and two cans left over from a six-pack of Coors, the metal sweating in the heat. The upholstery had the faint tang of marijuana.

  Raul was contemplating why Wayne’s Camaro was hidden when the screaming started.

  Down by the water.

  Junie’s voice. Scared.

  A shriek that pierced something deep inside Raul.

  He ran toward the sound, ran like his life depended on the speed of his feet.

  Junie was Bobby’s child. He must protect her.

  The screaming grew louder as Raul slid down the creek bank, the brush clawing at his skin and clothes.

  A flash of white.

  Wayne’s bare ass on top of Junie, his stupid mullet hair dangling over her terrified face.

  The Explorers taught a one-afternoon lesson on hand-to-hand combat, how to wrestle a suspect to the ground and make an arrest.

  The only thing Raul remembered from the lesson was that feet were very powerful, resting at the end of the largest group of muscles in the human body.

  Raul used this information, deciding in an instant that he most definitely wanted to be powerful at this particular point.

  So he kicked Wayne in the ribs with the toe of his cowboy boots, putting everything into the swing of his leg.

  Wayne squealed like a hog about to be butchered. He rolled off Junie.

  Raul kicked him again. In the stomach.

  Wayne tumbled a few feet toward the water.

  Junie was screaming and crying.

  Raul jumped on top of Wayne and pounded him in the face and throat.

  Again and again.

  And again.

  Bl
ood flew everywhere as Wayne’s face assumed the texture of ground meat, and a gurgling sound emerged from his larynx.

  After a minute or so, Raul stopped, breathing ragged.

  He stood. Kicked Wayne in the side again, rolling him onto what was left of his face.

  Raul stared at the unconscious figure until he heard the wail. Then he looked over at Junie.

  She was huddled in a ball, shaking.

  He took off his bloody shirt, put it around her shoulders. He was not wearing an undershirt. His bare skin was slick with sweat.

  “Are you okay?”

  She didn’t reply. Her face was pale.

  He saw no obvious injuries like broken bones or bleeding wounds, so he said, “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  He ran to the house, a good seventy-five yards away. He dashed into the kitchen and called Bobby’s beeper, entering the ranch’s phone number followed by the family code for an urgent situation: 911.

  He grabbed a first-aid kit and sprinted back to the creek.

  Everything was more or less as he left it. Wayne hadn’t moved. Junie, however, appeared to have gotten smaller, crawled into herself somehow, huddling, wrapped in Raul’s shirt, eyes wide.

  He knelt beside her, touched her arm. “Are you hurt?”

  First Aid 101, again courtesy of the Dallas Police Explorers: evaluate the situation.

  She slapped at his hand, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was angry, getting close to hysterical. Her face had turned red.

  “I called your dad.” He held up the first-aid kit. “Please, let me help you.”

  At the mention of her father, Junie’s eyes opened wide.

  “Noooo.”

  In addition to being shaky with adrenaline and terrified by what he had seen and done, Raul was confused.

  Why didn’t she want her father here?

  He would arrest Wayne, put him in prison where he belongs. Bobby took care of things like this. That was his job.

  She shook her head frantically.

  “Junie.” Raul touched her shoulder. “It’s okay. Everything will be all right.”

  She continued to shake, started to cry again. After a moment, she pointed to Wayne.