Tequila Sunset

by Sam Hawken

  “Well, if you got to go…” José finished the drink in his hand. Immediately the girl at his elbow got up and headed for the bar. “Sure I can’t convince you to stay?”

  “No, but thank you for everything.”

  “De nada. I hope you had a good time.”

  “I did.”

  “Then it was worth it.”

  Flip came away from José and found Emilio. They left together. Flip looked back once to see if Graciela was watching, but she was already talking to another girl. Then she was out of sight.

  SIXTEEN

  MATÍAS ARRANGED FOR SIX OF THE AZTECAS to be taken from their jail cells after dark and without warning. Flashlights were shined in their faces and then black bags were put over their heads. They were chained hand and foot and forced to shuffle their way barefoot along to the interrogation rooms where they were slotted away, one after the other.

  He let them sit in the rooms for an hour without anyone coming to remove their hoods. In the meantime Matías gathered with his teammates and discussed what came next.

  Sosa and Galvan were the muscle. They would go in first and Matías would follow after they had a chance to do their interview. Each man would be in the interrogation room for no more than twenty minutes. Some would be waiting a long time to see Matías, while others would see him right away. The goal was to keep them off-balance, never sure when the next interviewer would enter the room, and they would keep this up until dawn.

  Matías found a straight-backed wooden chair and sat in the dingy hallway between interrogation rooms. The walls had not been painted for a long time and the floors were dirty enough that he would not want to touch them with his bare hands. He was impressed by the silence; even those prisoners who had been stirred awake were lying in the darkness hoping it was not their turn next and the others slept without any worry except what would be for breakfast in the morning.

  He could not even hear Sosa and Galvan at work. The doors were thick, the rooms soundproofed. It was just as well because Matías did not have the constitution to do what they did. In times like these, he was content to let experts do their work without interference.

  An officer brought a hot carafe of coffee and Matías indulged himself. It was going to be a long night and he needed to remain alert. There would be no going home until it was evening again. Already he missed having a morning shower.

  After twenty minutes both men emerged into the hallway. Galvan had his shirtsleeves rolled up and was sweating heavily. Sosa had only loosened his tie. They helped themselves to coffee.

  “Well?” Matías asked.

  “I don’t think we’ll have to work very hard,” Sosa said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Galvan said.

  “You’re just getting old.”

  “I’ll tell you how it goes,” Matías said. “I’ll be in Interview One.”

  “We’ll get started on the others,” Galvan said.

  Matías went to the first room. Harsh light cast down on the small space from a bulb inside a mesh cage on the ceiling. The table and the chairs were bolted to the bare concrete floor. A metal rail ran alongside one end of the table and the Azteca, named Meza, was cuffed to it.

  There was surprisingly little blood, but Matías knew Sosa liked to work clean. Meza’s ribs would be covered with bruises by the time they were done, but Sosa would not break a nose or split a lip. Galvan was another story and maybe Meza would not last the night when it was the big man’s turn.

  Matías put a notepad, a thick folder and a pen on the table and took a seat across from Meza. The Azteca observed him through lidded eyes, his face blank. Matías chose a look of concern that he knew seemed genuine. He did not give a shit about Meza.

  “Eberto Meza,” Matías said. “That’s you.”

  Meza made no reply.

  “You don’t have to say anything. I know it’s you. I have your records here.” Matías put his hand on the folder. “Everything you’ve done, everywhere you’ve been.”

  “So what?” Meza said.

  “Did you like your introduction to Señor Sosa?” Matías asked. “Because if you want, I can have him come in and interview you again. Or you can talk to me.”

  This time Meza was silent again, though Matías thought he saw the young man’s cheek twitch.

  “I have six dead Salvadorans shot dead outside a club and I have a tip saying you were involved. I believe the tip. All you Aztecas, you think you’re too tough to snitch to the police, but some of you are talking.”

  “Who are you?” Meza asked.

  “My name is Matías Segura. I work for the Ministerial Federal Police.”

  “What does the fucking PFM want with me?”

  “I’m interested in anything to do with Los Aztecas.”

  “I’m not an Azteca.”

  “Do you want me to have you stripped so we can see your gang ink?”

  “All you cops are maricones.”

  “If that makes you feel better.”

  Meza fell silent again and Matías let the minutes pass by. He checked his watch. Finally he said, “I don’t have all night, Señor Meza. You can talk to me or you can talk to my colleagues.”

  “What’s in it for me?” Meza said quickly.

  “That depends on what you have to say. If you weren’t a shooter, then that can mean a lot. But if you pulled a trigger, it will be more difficult for you. What do you think your friend is telling Señor Sosa right now? I only have so many deals to make before I run out of options.”

  “Who talked about me?”

  “That would be telling.”

  “I want to know.”

  “I’m sure you do, but you’ll never find out from me.” Matías would have leaned back if the chair hadn’t been fixed to the floor. Instead he put his hands behind his head and regarded Meza evenly. “I’m not the one who’s going to spill his guts tonight.”

  “It won’t be me. I won’t,” Meza said and his voice rose. He no longer looked at Matías with calculating eyes. “You can beat the shit out of me and I won’t say a word.”

  Matías collected his things. “Then we have nothing else to talk about.”

  He rose from the table and went to the door. “Wait,” Meza said. “Don’t go.”

  Matías checked his watch again. “I told you: I don’t have all night to do this. If you have something to say, say it now. Otherwise you’ll see Señor Sosa very soon.”

  “Don’t send him back in!”

  “Then you have something for me?” Matías demanded. “Information? Names?”

  “I can’t say!”

  “Then we’re finished here.”

  “¡Por favor, espere!”

  Matías had the door half open. His twenty minutes were almost up. There were five others to interview. He was torn between leaving and staying. Finally he shut the door and stood with his back to it. “Okay,” he said. “Tell me what it is that you can’t say.”

  “Will it come back on me? Will people know I talked?”

  “That’s not something that interests me. If you give good information and we can use it in court, then maybe some accommodations can be made. If you feed me a bunch of shit then you can go to hell. I’ll tell everyone you snitched to me just for fun. How long will you last then? You won’t even have to be on the streets to be killed. Los Aztecas will reach out for you and you will be gone.”

  Meza’s face turned dark and he wrung his hands. Time was ticking past twenty minutes. Sosa and Galvan would be waiting.

  “Talk to me, Eberto.”

  “Please…”

  “Oh, this is bullshit,” Matías said. He put his hand on the doorknob.

  “All right,” Meza said. “Just don’t send the other one back in.”

  Matías came back to the table and put down his notepad. He sat and clicked his pen. “We’ll start with the names of the shooters.”

  SEVENTEEN

  ON SUNDAY FLIP WENT TO MASS WITH HIS mother at El Segrado Corazón, the ancient church a
t the heart of Segundo Barrio. They met Alfredo there and afterward went to a restaurant to have Sunday lunch. It was only when he saw Alfredo and his mother holding hands that Flip realized they were more than just friends. Alfredo brought Flip a uniform shirt that he had to wear for work.

  Afterward Flip asked his mother about a cell phone and they went to the store to find one. His mother picked out a cheap, simple phone and added it to her account. Flip thought about calling Graciela immediately but reconsidered; he did not want to scare her away and she might have her own Sunday business, too.

  He spent the remainder of his afternoon shooting baskets in the driveway. From time to time he glanced up the street, half expecting to see Emilio coming down to carry him off, but he did not see anything of Emilio or anyone else that day.

  Monday morning came early. He showered and shaved and put on the new uniform shirt. It was a little tight under the arms, but Flip thought he could get used to it. His mother made breakfast and he had only just finished when Alfredo honked his horn on the street. The sun wasn’t yet up.

  “Have a good day,” Flip’s mother said. She pressed a paper sack into his hands. “Here’s some lunch for you. Make sure you eat to keep your strength up.”

  “I will, Mamá.”

  Alfredo drove a Ford pick-up truck that had been worked hard. The paint on the sides was scraped, the panels dented, and the toolbox mounted behind the cab was spotted with rust. A few loose boards and screws rattled around in the bed. Alfredo had the heater running because the morning was chill.

  “Ready to put in some time?” Alfredo asked Flip.

  Flip struggled with the seatbelt until finally it released. “Yeah,” he said.

  “You’ll do fine.”

  “Okay,” Flip said.

  They drove in silence for a while. Flip looked around the inside of the cab. Compared to the rest of the truck it was well-kept. There was not even any trash on the floorboards and the ash tray had coins in it instead of butts.

  “I wanted to ask you something,” Alfredo said.

  “Ask me what?”

  “I wanted to know if you were all right with me and Silvia.”

  “What, that? No, it’s fine.”

  “I didn’t know. Sometimes it’s hard for these things to change.”

  “My father’s been dead a long time,” Flip said. “I’m glad she found someone.”

  “She’s a good woman.”

  “I know.”

  Alfredo had nothing else to say and they didn’t talk the rest of the way. When they made the final turn, Flip saw the warehouse: a big, square building with several truck docks on the side. It was surrounded by a high chain-link fence with curling barbed wire on the top and Flip was reminded of Coffield, but only just. Any convict with ambition could scale a fence like that.

  They parked with the other employees and went in. Alfredo took Flip to the main office where they filled out paperwork for most of an hour. At the end Flip got a time card and Alfredo showed him where to use it. Then he took Flip to meet his team.

  There were four men assigned to Dock Three. Flip met Frank, Luis and Paul. All of the men were older than him and had the same sturdy look as Alfredo did. Frank showed Flip around their area: where to stand, what to do, when to do it. Their first truck arrived within minutes.

  It was not difficult work and Flip found the rhythm quickly. The trucks rolled up and the driver brought around the manifest. Everything in the truck was unloaded quickly and sorted out into its warehouse area by number. The first truck had bananas, the next jars of tomato sauce. Many of the drivers were Mexican, their trucks and products from Mexico, making the short hop across the border in the early morning hours.

  They worked hard until noon and then it was time for a break. Flip was sore from lifting and even the back support belt he wore could not completely stop the pain in his lower spine. He’d also managed to nick himself with a box cutter, though he wasn’t sure how.

  A shift was nine hours from start to finish and they were done in the afternoon. When the last truck had come and gone, Flip shook hands with his team and they parted ways.

  Alfredo found him. “I talked to Frank,” he said. “He says you did a good job.”

  “I tried.”

  “No, it’s good,” Alfredo said and he clapped Flip on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you. Silvia said you’d be a hard worker and she was right.”

  “I need to make some calls,” Flip said.

  “Sure, sure. Meet me outside when you’re done.”

  Flip waited until Alfredo was gone before he took a folded paper from his pocket and spread it out on top of a stack of Pepsi twelve-packs. He picked out the phone number on his phone and waited for an answer.

  “Parole and Probation,” said a woman on the other end.

  “Yes, can I talk to Mr. Rubio?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Felipe Morales. I’m supposed to report to him.”

  “One moment.”

  No one came on for a few minutes and Flip started to think they’d forgotten about him. After a long time a man picked up. “Rubio,” he said.

  “Mr. Rubio, my name is Felipe Morales.”

  “Yes, Mr. Morales, nice to hear from you.”

  “I need to make an appointment to see you.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Can we do that now?”

  Rubio paused and Flip heard the click of a keyboard in the background. “How’s Tuesday afternoon sound?”

  “That’s good. I work until four.”

  “The office is open until seven.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Morales?”

  Flip hesitated. His mouth ran dry and he checked in both directions. No one was watching. “Actually, there is,” he said.

  EIGHTEEN

  CRISTINA WAS LOOKING AT A PICTURE OF Freddie when her desk phone rang. She answered: “Salas.”

  “Uh, yeah,” said the voice on the other end. “I wanted to talk to someone in the gang unit?”

  “You are.”

  Robinson was away from his desk and Cristina looked around for him. He wasn’t in the squad room. She thought maybe he was swiping doughnuts from the box by the coffee machine in the hall. Robinson loved doughnuts.

  “Yeah, okay. My name is Felipe Morales.”

  “Felipe?”

  “That’s right.”

  Cristina scrawled the name on the corner of her desk calendar. “What can I do for you, Felipe?”

  “It’s more what I can do for you. Look, can we meet somewhere?”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific. What can you do for me?”

  “Look, call Lance Harcrow at Coffield Unit. He knows me. Then call me back at this number. You ready to write it down?”

  Cristina frowned. “Ready,” she said.

  Felipe Morales gave her his phone number and then hung up without saying another word. Cristina held the phone for a moment, as if expecting him to come back on, but he was gone. She put the receiver in the cradle, then picked it up again.

  Robinson returned. He had three doughnuts and a pair of little cocktail napkins. He put one of the doughnuts, a chocolate glazed one, on a napkin and placed it on her desk. The others he kept for himself. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Nothing. I don’t know. I just got a weird call. Give me a minute.”

  Cristina held the receiver between her shoulder and cheek as she looked up Coffield’s number. She dialed and waited a long second before the line clicked and the phone at the other end started ringing.

  “Texas Department of Criminal Justice – Coffield Unit,” a woman answered.

  “Yes, my name is Cristina Salas with the El Paso Police Department. I have an odd question: do you have someone there named Lance Harcrow?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Assistant Warden Lance Harcrow.”

  Cristina flicked her gaze toward Robinson, but he was eating. Lit
tle crumbs fell on his desktop and he swept them away with his hand. “Would it be possible to speak with the Assistant Warden?”

  “May I tell him what it’s regarding?”

  I don’t know, Cristina thought. She said, “I wanted to ask about Felipe Morales.”

  “Hold on one moment.”

  It was more than a couple of minutes before someone picked up again. A man’s voice came down the line, deep and unmistakably accented, Texas-style. “This is Assistant Warden Lance Harcrow. Who am I speaking with?”

  “My name is Cristina Salas, I’m a detective with the El Paso Police Department. I was told to call you by someone named Felipe Morales. Do you know the name?”

  “Before I say anything, Ms. Salas, I’d like to get your number there.”

  Cristina gave it to him.

  “I’m going to hang up now and call you back. Wait for my call.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cristina put down the phone. A weird sensation passed through her, made of confusion and curiosity. She saw Robinson looking at her. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I’m still not sure.”

  “Well, who’s Lance Harcrow?”

  “An administrator at Coffield Unit.”

  “The prison unit?”

  “Yeah.”

  The phone rang and Cristina picked up. “Salas,” she said.

  “Detective Salas, it’s Lance Harcrow. I hope you don’t mind the runaround, but I had to make sure you were really calling from the El Paso Police Department.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Now, you were asking about Felipe Morales?”

  “That’s right. I got a phone call from him just a few minutes ago, wanting to meet with me. He gave your name as a reference. Do you know him?”

  “Yes, I do,” Harcrow said. “If you don’t mind my asking, what do you do for the police department?”

  “I’m a part of the gang unit.”

  “Well, that makes sense.”

  “How’s that, sir?”

  “Felipe Morales is a member of Barrio Azteca. He was also a confidential informant during his time here at Coffield.”

  “He was a CI?”

  “Yes, and pretty darned good, too. We got a lot of useful information out of him. He helped us keep track of our Aztecas, even the ones that are hard to pick out.”