Tequila Sunset

by Sam Hawken

  Across from Cristina’s desk, Robinson was interested now, listening. His second doughnut was uneaten. He made a questioning gesture with his hands. Well?

  Cristina put her hand over the mouthpiece and said, “It’s good.”

  “We let Felipe out on parole just last week,” Harcrow continued. “Put him on a bus back to El Paso with his PO’s name in his pocket.”

  “Do you have any idea why he’d want to contact me, sir?”

  “I expect he’s got something to share.”

  “How cozy was he with your Aztecas?”

  “He was right in the heart of it. Got real close to our local Indian chieftain. We could have put Enrique Garcia in Ad Seg and let him rot there, but with Flip – that’s Felipe’s nickname, you understand – telling us his secrets, it made more sense to keep him out.

  “I have to tell you, I was real sorry to see Flip go. We don’t have anybody like him on the inside now. We’re going to have to start cracking heads.”

  “So you’re saying if Felipe Morales is reaching out to us, it’s likely to be good?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Harcrow, you’ve been a big help.”

  “That’s Reverend Harcrow.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I work at Coffield, but I’m also the pastor of the local church.”

  “How about that?” Cristina said.

  “I appreciate you calling me, Detective. Say hello to Flip for me if you see him.”

  “I will.”

  Cristina pressed the switchhook on the phone and waited for a dial tone. She looked at her scribble and picked out Flip’s telephone number. He answered right away.

  NINETEEN

  ROBINSON WAS BEHIND THE WHEEL AS THEY crept along the block. Cristina pointed Flip out. “There he is,” she said. “Hurry up.”

  They pulled up fast by the corner where Flip waited. Cristina twisted around in the seat to get the back door open and Flip got in. Robinson immediately put the accelerator down and they were off, turning north away from the Segundo Barrio and toward the airport and Fort Bliss.

  “Flip?” Cristina asked.

  “Yes. Felipe.”

  “I’m Detective Salas. This is Detective Robinson.”

  Flip looked young, though Cristina had pulled his records and knew he was twenty-six. He had strong features and his eyes were quick. When he looked at her, she could see he was a thinker. She had dealt with dull-eyed gang-bangers with nothing behind them. He was not that way.

  “How long until anyone notices you’re gone?”

  “I just have to be back to my house by dinnertime. A half hour? I have to walk back.”

  “Okay, we’ll be quick.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Out of the neighborhood,” Robinson replied. “We use this car when we work and someone might recognize it. Or us. Better if we take a little drive.”

  Flip nodded, but said nothing. Cristina thought he had learned that on the inside.

  “I talked with Reverend Harcrow,” Cristina said. “He told us what you did at Coffield. He vouched for you, but I still have to ask: why call us?”

  “I can help you out.”

  “You were active with the Aztecas in prison?”

  “Yeah. I met a dude named Javier. Javier Davila. He saw I was a stand-up guy, gave me an invite into the group.”

  “It couldn’t have been that easy.”

  Flip cast his eyes down for a moment, looking at his hands. “I had to stab a dude. White boy giving one of the other Aztecas some trouble. I did it and they blooded me in.”

  “How’d you skate on the stabbing charge?”

  “Nobody ratted me out. Must have been twenty people saw it, but nobody said nothing.” He looked up again and whatever dark shadow had been there was gone. His eyes were clear.

  “Harcrow said you were close to the boss at Coffield.”

  “Yeah. Enrique Garcia. He’s the one in Coffield. One of the Originals. He’s been inside thirty years or something. Aztecas come and go, but he stays. Everybody listens to him. He got me set up out here.”

  “Set up with the Aztecas in El Paso?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. He talked me up to one of the capos out here. His name is José Martinez. Don’t you want to write this down?”

  Cristina glanced at Robinson. She could tell he was listening. “We know José.”

  “Are you watching him?”

  “Maybe. That’s not important right now. Tell me: Garcia sponsored you, said you were okay. José took you in?”

  “I think so.”

  “What do you mean, you think so?”

  “I haven’t done nothing for him yet. We just met up, did a club, that kind of thing. He hasn’t set me up with a job or anything.”

  “But you’re coming to us now?” Robinson put in.

  “I want to make sure I’m covered.”

  “Why take the risk?” Cristina asked. “Nobody knew you were dealing information at Coffield. You could just go along and get along.”

  Flip took a deep breath. “Look, I got in with the Aztecas at Coffield because they could protect me, all right? I know you saw my rap sheet; I’m not some marijuana cowboy. I’m not going back to prison for nobody.”

  “Makes sense,” Robinson said. “You’re on the inside, so why not use that?”

  “Right, man.”

  Cristina looked out the window and couldn’t tell where they were. Robinson was making a lot of turns, speeding up and slowing down, checking the mirrors to see if anyone was following them. He was doing everything right. “You understand being a CI doesn’t mean you get a free pass,” Cristina said.

  “I know that.”

  “If either one of us feels like you’re playing games, we’ll cut you loose.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay,” Cristina said.

  “Swing back around?” Robinson asked.

  “Yeah. We’ll drop him off right where we found him.”

  “I need to get your numbers so I can contact you anytime,” Flip said.

  Cristina gave him her number and Robinson recited his. Flip did not enter them into his phone, but just nodded when they were done. There would be no record in his phonebook to compromise him and that was smart.

  Robinson drove them back to the spot. Even as he slowed down, Flip was unbuckling himself and prepared to get out fast.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Cristina told him.

  “Me, too.”

  They rolled to a stop. Flip bailed out and started walking in the opposite direction as if nothing unusual was going on. Cristina watched him as they pulled away. He didn’t look back, even when they reached the corner and turned out of sight.

  “What do you think?” Cristina asked Robinson.

  “I’m willing to try him out. The worst thing that happens is he doesn’t give us any good tips, screws up on the outside and goes back to prison. Then he can start snitching on his boys inside again.”

  “He’s got balls,” Cristina said.

  “Definitely. But if he can put us next to José, then I think we’ve got something. No more sitting on the street taking pictures.”

  “You think he’s going to get that close? He’s just off the bus.”

  “If we push him, maybe he can.”

  Cristina looked back, but there was nothing but city street to see. “I guess we’ll see how it goes. I’ll write up the paperwork.”

  PART TWO

  ONE

  FLIP WAS UP BEFORE DAWN AGAIN AND, clutching another bagged lunch made by his mother, took a ride with Alfredo. This time Alfredo had the radio on, the sound turned down so Flip could just hear the norteño playing. There were more commercials than music, anyway.

  “I need to see my parole officer tonight,” Flip told Alfredo. “Can you give me a ride?”

  “Sure. Any problems with that?”

  “No. Just got to do it before my week is up.”

  “
You’re going to stick to the rules, aren’t you, Flip?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “That’s good.”

  At the warehouse they split up and Flip went to his loading dock and his team. The first truck came just a few minutes later and it was time for work and not thinking.

  When lunchtime came, Flip sat outside in the sun at one of three picnic tables set up in a grassy area beside the warehouse. His meal was simple: a sandwich, a piece of fruit and a little bag of chips. If he found himself getting hungry again before the day was through, he could borrow a dollar from Alfredo and get something from the snack machine.

  In prison the one thing they had was food. It was not the best food Flip had ever eaten, but it was hot and there was plenty of it. No one complained about not getting seconds because firsts were generous enough. Flip applied to get a job working in the kitchen, but he was funneled into the carpentry program instead.

  He’d never worked with wood before they put him in those classes, but he found it surprisingly fun and more involved than he would have guessed going in. There were advanced training courses available, where workers could sculpt trim and even make cabinets, but they started Flip off small and he found he had an affinity for it. After a while he even imagined that he could make a career out of carpentry if he were given a chance, especially with his certificate in hand. Some places would give a convicted felon another chance.

  Flip didn’t know now. Alfredo had been kind enough to get him this job and looking for another might be an insult. Shifting pallets and unpacking great cubes and pyramids of boxes onto shelves was not what he had in mind when he left Coffield, but it was work and work would keep him out of trouble. At least until José came calling.

  Thinking of José made Flip frown.

  He was beaten up his first week at Coffield by a white boy named McClain. He hadn’t done anything to start the fight; McClain just wanted someone to take his frustrations out on and Flip was a new fish. Flip had no friends then, knew no one’s name except Daniel, his cellmate. Daniel stuck his neck out for no one.

  Flip expected another beating when Javier Davila came for him. The man was hard with muscle and laced with tattoos and looked like everything people feared when they thought of a convict. They were in the chow hall where it all went down with McClain. “You got heart, chico,” he said. “Why don’t you come eat by me?”

  They sat down at one of the hexagonal, stainless steel tables that had four seats, all molded into one big hunk of metal. Omar Cantu sat on the other side of him. Rafael Zúñiga joined them.

  “How long you in for?” Javier asked. This was just making conversation. When Flip told him, Javier didn’t bother asking what it was for. The only thing that mattered was the time, not how you earned it.

  “I haven’t seen a fish with gills like yours for a long time,” Omar remarked.

  “He means you’re a target,” Javier said.

  “Bang,” Rafael added.

  Flip had bruises on his arms and the backs of his hands where McClain stomped on them. He’d only looked at himself in the mirror once, but he knew his face was a mask of dark marks, including a blue-black blotch centered on his left eye. McClain punched hard with his right. As the men talked to him, he ate his food and kept his mouth shut.

  “I hear you’re from El Paso,” Javier said.

  Flip stiffened because he’d only told Daniel that on their first day in the cell. Daniel, who took no risks, would talk to people who were interested. At that moment Flip felt more exposed than ever before. “Yeah,” he said finally.

  “I’m from El Paso, too,” Javier said. “And Omar there. We’re both natives of Chuco Town.”

  “That’s right,” Omar said.

  “Omar and me, we keep an eye out for guys who come from El Paso. Especially when they’re new fish and they got nobody to watch their back. You got an outfit to watch your back?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what I thought. Nobody with a crew would take a beating like that. McClain, he’s got the Aryan Circle watching over him. You know who they are?”

  “No,” Flip said.

  “They’re bad. They pick you out, they come back at you again and again until you can’t fight back no more. Or you’re dead.”

  “But I didn’t do nothing.”

  “You don’t have to do nothing,” Javier said. “They’ll come at you because you’re brown, hermano. But they don’t touch nobody who stands with us.”

  “Why would you want me?” Flip asked.

  “I got a soft spot.”

  “What do I got to do?”

  “First thing you do, you meet Enrique. If he says you’re okay, then we go on to the next step, but only if he says it’s okay.”

  “Who’s Enrique?”

  “El jefe.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s in the hole.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He kicked some white boy ass, is what,” Javier said.

  Across the table, Rafael giggled like a little girl. Omar was silent, just watching. Flip looked to each of them in turn, trying to think of what to say next. Way across the chow hall, he saw McClain and a bunch of other white boys gathered together at their tables. They didn’t turn their heads his way. The bruise on his face hurt.

  “Yeah, okay,” Flip said.

  TWO

  HE SAW THEM WHEN HE EMERGED FROM THE warehouse at the end of his shift. They were beyond the chain-link fencing, leaning up against a car Flip recognized. After a moment he placed one of the figures: Emilio, dressed in knee-length shorts and a t-shirt to go with the warm afternoon.

  Emilio waved to Flip and Flip looked around to see if anyone else had noticed, but everyone was saying good-bye, splitting up, going to their cars. Then Emilio motioned Flip to come over.

  Alfredo hadn’t come out of the warehouse yet. Flip checked over his shoulder once and then half-jogged to the fence line, where Emilio met him. “Hey, esé,” Emilio said. “What’s up?”

  “What do you want?” Flip asked.

  Emilio put his hands up. “Hey, don’t come at me like that, bro. I’m not trying to get up in your shit.”

  Flip glanced back toward the warehouse. Cars and trucks were easing their way out of the gate, one after another, but there was still no Alfredo. He imagined Alfredo coming out at any moment, spotting them together, and then the questions he would ask. “It’s not a good time,” Flip said.

  “I understand, I understand. José just sent me out to have a look at your place of business, you know? Check in on you.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Wrong? No. But José was talking about you. He wanted to know what kind of a place you worked.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know why. José tells me do something, I do it.”

  “I got to go,” Flip said.

  “See you around.”

  Flip left the fence and hurried back toward Alfredo’s truck. They were the last ones left in the parking area. Alfredo stepped out and locked the door behind him. The big truck docks were sealed, the warehouse closed tight. He met Flip at the truck. “Ready?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  They got in the truck together and as they pulled out, Flip saw Emilio and his nameless friend get into Emilio’s car. When they turned Flip looked in the side mirror to see if Emilio was following them, but he didn’t see anything.

  He saw no sign of them when they headed south toward downtown. Flip gave Alfredo the address of the Parole and Probation office and they found it easily; it was in the County Court Building and next to the El Paso County Jail. It cost two dollars to park.

  “You want me to come in with you?” Alfredo asked.

  “What? No, you don’t have to do that.”

  “Your parole officer might like to talk to your boss.”

  “I’ll ask him. Maybe next time.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right here.”

  Flip left Alfredo
with the truck and went around the building to get in through the front. The police manned a metal detector and an x-ray machine at the entrance and Flip had to empty his pockets. There wasn’t much to put in the plastic tray.

  He followed the signs to where he needed to go and found himself in a large room lined with rows of plastic seats, facing two glassed-in desks with little metal grilles to talk through. The women behind the glass looked bored. Flip didn’t know which one to go to, so he chose the woman on the right.

  “I’m here to see my PO, Mr. Rubio,” Flip said through the grille.

  “Sign the clipboard and have a seat.”

  Flip did what he was told. The chairs were slick and uncomfortable. Four more men waited, raggedly spaced along the rows, scrupulously avoiding looking at one another. Flip knew they had all done time; prison taught a man to keep himself to himself.

  Nearly an hour passed. From time to time a door by the windows would open and a man would come out, check the clipboard and call a name. More people came in and signed up without having to be told. Flip waited.

  At last the man called his name and Flip came over. “Are you Mr. Rubio?” he asked the man.

  “No. Follow me.”

  They went back into the area beyond the windows, where lots of little offices clustered together in a honeycomb. The man led him to a door that looked no different from any of the others – there was no nametag, no number – and rapped on the frame. “Felipe Morales,” the man said.

  “Okay,” came a voice from inside.

  “Here you go,” the man told Flip.

  The office was barely large enough for a desk and another plastic chair just like the ones from outside. Rubio was a short, round man with a brush-like mustache and thinning hair cut military-short. His tie was loosened and he wore short sleeves. “Come in and have a seat, Mr. Morales.”

  Flip wedged himself into the chair between wall and desk. He had nowhere to put his elbows, so he sat with his arms extended out in front of him, tucked between his knees.

  “The first thing we’re going to do is get you fingerprinted, but let’s get some basics down beforehand. Address and that kind of thing.”