The Bones of Wolfe

by James Carlos Blake

  I show a pained smile and head for the door.

  When we get to the airfield the runway’s still hazed with a residual mist. Our plane is the same one that took us to Monterrey, and Jimmy Ray Matson is once again our pilot. We take off on schedule, and as we climb to cruising altitude, Jimmy Ray says, “I gotta tell you folks we might have to deal with a touch of headwinds for some of the trip. A little mild turbulence is all, nothing to be scared of and won’t slow us but about fifteen minutes. Now, I don’t mean to scare nobody, but I have to tell yall that a twin-engine plane runs double the possibility of engine failure, that’s the plain and simple truth of it. I mean, two engines, double the chance, right? But the good news is, if one of the engines does quit, the other one is still totally and fully capable, all on its own, of getting the plane all the way, and I mean all the way . . . to the crash site.” He guffaws without giving us a glance, and I strongly suspect this isn’t the first time he’s entertained himself with that one.

  “Thank you for that comforting information,” Rayo says. Jimmy Ray laughs louder.

  We open the breakfast sacks and extract the food and coffee.

  “Why’s Charlie being so nice, giving us breakfast?” Rayo says. “I thought he was mad at us.”

  “He is,” Frank says. “But why be a dick about it?”

  “No thanks, I done ate,” Jimmy Ray says, though nobody offered. “But I gotta say, that coffee smells good.”

  “Got a cup?” I ask him.

  He stretches an arm into the cabin to hand me a white plastic mug emblazoned with a Jolly Roger. We each pour some of our coffee into it—mine and Frank’s black, Rayo’s with cream and sugar, making the mix in Jimmy’s cup the color of weak mud—and I hand it back to him. He makes a face at the look of it but says, “Much obliged.”

  I tell him we have to talk business back here and would he mind giving us some privacy.

  “Oh, yeah, sure thing. Got me a mix of my boys Kris, Willie, Waylon, and Johnny right here.” He takes off his hat and switches to a different set of headphones and starts moving his head in time to the music. He’s got it turned up high enough that I faintly hear the strains of “The Highwayman.”

  The Garcías’ ranch is just north of El Paso and about a dozen miles shy of the New Mexico line. We begin our approach toward its rudimentary runway alongside a range of pale gray mountains. Frank and I have been to El Paso a few times before, but this is Rayo’s first visit to any desert region, and she’s hunched up against her window, gawking down at the craggy panorama of the Franklin range.

  “It’s so desolate it’s beautiful,” she says. “Most of the mountains around Mexico City are way bigger, but these look a little spookier somehow. All those dark canyons.”

  Jimmy Ray touches us down as lightly as a leaf and taxis toward the far end of the strip, where two large black SUVs and an aviation fuel truck are parked. We stop a short way from the SUVs, and a pair of men emerge from one of them as Jimmy cuts the engines. The truck then drives up close enough to the plane to access the fuel ports.

  Jimmy’s informed us the El Paso temperature stands at 100.6, and I feel every gradation of it as we alight.

  “Good lord!” Rayo says as she steps off the plane. Having grown up in Mexico City’s generally cool climate, she’d had to get used to Miami’s heat and humidity during her college years, and when she moved to Brownsville she found its summers of clammy swelter little different from Florida’s. But desert heat is something else. The air can get so drily hot it’ll cause your nose to bleed spontaneously. It can evaporate sweat almost as fast as you exude any, a phenomenon that fools some people into thinking they’re not really that hot. Then suddenly everything’s looking a little pink around the edges and, next thing they know, they’re flat on their back.

  The two men coming toward us are our cousins Félix García and his youngest son, Cayetano. Félix is in his sixties and is an underboss for an organization that specializes in smuggling wetbacks over to this side and American motor vehicles into Mexico. Cayetano’s in his early twenties, a fast learner and reliable as they come. They greet me and Frank with hugs. When we introduce them to Rayo Luna, Félix looks her up and down and says to Frank, “I’ve never understood why your family has all the best-looking women.”

  Rayo smiles and says, “Well, it’s easy to see your family has the best-looking men.” She hugs and cheek-kisses Cayetano, who responds with a blush. When she hugs Félix, he pulls her tighter against him and runs his hand over her butt. She draws her head back and grins. “Well, now I guess we know who the real wolf in this family is.”

  He releases her and gives her a crooked smile. “I beg your pardon, señorita. I’m just an old fool who doesn’t get many chances anymore to hold a beautiful woman. My hand could not control itself.”

  “No offense taken,” she says—and kisses her forefinger and taps it on his lips. His grin looks like it might break his face.

  “Let’s get going,” Frank says to me, starting off toward the SUVs, “before these two run off and get a room.”

  Both vehicles are Grand Cherokees, both with armored bodies and ballistic dark glass. Félix says the brakes felt a little spongy on the one he drove out here and we should take the other. “Keys are in it, maps in the console,” Cayetano says. He tells us the Chihuahua license plates and the registration paper in the glove box are in the name of José García, probably the most common name in Mexico as well as that of a recently deceased uncle. A cardboard box in the back seat contains three burner phones he bought in Juárez, should we for some reason need to get rid of our own cells. There are also two pairs of high-power binoculars, bottles of water, sunglasses, and adjustable-headband baseball caps of different colors. Under the rug in the cargo space there are three sets of stick-on business signs, each of them two and a half by three feet. They go on the front doors, easy stick-on, easy peel-off. A plumbing business, a carpet business, a cabinet business—the kinds of companies people are used to seeing in residential neighborhoods. No addresses on the signs, just fake phone numbers except for the Tucson area code. “I thought the signs might be good to have,” Cayetano says. “Never know when they might come in handy, you know?”

  “Good thinking,” Frank says, and pats the kid on the shoulder. Cayetano grins proudly.

  Again there are hugs all around. This time when Félix hugs her, keeping his hands off her ass, Rayo gives him a deep kiss on the mouth and pulls away with a laugh, then jogs off to the Cherokee and hops into the back seat.

  “Jesucristo,” he says, staring after her. “What a woman!”

  Frank pats him on the back and says, “See you when we see you.”

  “Vayan con dios,” Cayetano says.

  “You drive,” Frank tells me, and goes around to the passenger side.

  We put our pistols under the seats.

  In just a few minutes we’re on I-10 and crossing the New Mexico border. At Las Cruces the interstate cuts west, and a few miles outside of town we turn off into a Border Patrol checkpoint to get a quick inspection from an agent before we’re permitted to proceed. From there it’s smooth sailing. We’ve reckoned we’ll get to Tucson right around sundown if we hold to the speed limits and allow for stops to get fuel and a bite to eat. Rayo remains captivated by the desert, remarking on the bare mountains and mesas and buttes, the scrubby hills and sandy flatlands, the pale immensity of the sky.

  We pass a road sign advising that DUST STORMS MAY EXIST.

  “Now there’s a pronouncement whose logic cannot possibly be refuted,” Frank says. In a bad imitation of Aunt Catalina, he intones, “Would you grant me that, Francis? That dust storms may exist?” and gets a laugh out of us.

  We’re closing on the Arizona line when my phone buzzes. I look at the screen and hand the phone to Frank, who says, “Yeah,” into it, then turns to Rayo and mimes a writing motion. She’s had a pen and small notebook close to hand in readiness for this call. “Go ahead, I’ll repeat it to my partner,” he says to
the caller.

  “Richard Moss. Lives alone,” he says, and in the rearview I see her write in the notebook. He says, “Residence,” and repeats an address, then “Phone,” and repeats a number. Then “Tortuga Station Post Office,” and gives her another address.

  “Get it all?” he asks her. She gives him a thumbs-up and starts tapping keys on her phone.

  “Okay, man, many thanks,” Frank says to the caller, then deletes the call from his log.

  “Here he is,” Rayo says, and passes her phone to Frank. I glance over and see a street map with a highlighted route on it.

  “Our exit’s on a main avenue at the southeast end of town, and it runs straight north to his neighborhood,” Frank says. “Two turns off it and we’re on his street. Piece of cake.”

  Rayo unfolds a street map on her lap and runs a finger over it. “The Tortuga post office is only two blocks north of him,” she says. “It’s a small neighborhood. Nothing much east of it but open desert.”

  Frank widens the scope of the map on her phone and says, “Yeah. You can’t live much closer to wilderness and still be in a town.”

  At Lordsburg we stop for fuel and burgers and sodas, then get rolling again.

  It’s after six when we exit into Tucson and head for Moss’s house. The sun’s still above the western mountains, and looming over the north side of the city directly ahead are the imposing Santa Catalinas. Saguaro cactus, tall and stately with its multiple upraised arms, is everywhere, the first saguaro Rayo’s seen outside western movies.

  I pull into a minimart gas station at a commercial intersection and fill the tank, then Frank has me wheel into the shopping plaza just across the intersection, where he’s spotted an office supply store that’s given him an idea. We park at the far end of the lot, where we can attach business signs to the Cherokee’s doors without attracting much attention. Frank chooses B&R CARPETING, and I place them on the doors while he goes over to the office supply place. Before long he comes back with his purchases—a clipboard and a small ream of all-purpose requisition forms—and Rayo and I commend him for his cleverness. Together with the door signs, the clipboard should satisfy the curiosity of any neighbors who may take notice of us when we arrive at Moss’s house.

  He binds several of the forms to the clipboard, prints “B&R Carpeting” in large letters in the blank block at the head of the top form, enters Richard Moss’s name and address and phone number in the pertinent lines just below that, and then on some of the lower lines scribbles a few illegible words and some numbers with “sq. ft.” after them.

  The house shadows are almost to the street when we roll into Moss’s neighborhood. It’s clearly a new tract of houses whose most salient features are the largeness of the homes and the smallness of their lots—the tiny yards covered with gravel rather than grass—and a dearth of trees except for a few bony mesquites and a green-bark kind that Rayo identifies for us as paloverde. There’s not a person in view, not another moving vehicle on the street, as we go down his block. Every garage door is closed, only a few cars parked on driveways. The drapes or blinds are drawn in most of the windows.

  Moss’s house is at the end of the street, his driveway bare, the garage door down. No telling if he’s home. I park in the driveway, and Frank and I put on black Arizona Diamondback caps, get the Berettas from under the seats and the suppressors from the travel bags and attach them. We jack a round in the chamber, snick the safety on, stick the pistols in our waistbands and cover them with our shirts. Frank hands me the clipboard, and we get out. Rayo squirms over the console and slides into the driver’s seat. She’s attached a Quickster to her Glock and sets the pistol in the console, then covers it with a half-open map. She’ll give us a horn toot if she spots any sign of possible trouble. If we hear the horn we’ll zip out the back and come around the side of the house. Even for unlikely contingencies, it’s best to have a plan.

  We go up to the door and Frank presses the bell. I casually look down the street to see if anybody’s checking us out, but there’s nobody outside or at a door or window. He’s about to ring the bell again when the door’s opened by a lean but potbellied man who looks to be in his forties. Close-cut brown hair, Denver Broncos T-shirt, tan cargo shorts over very pale legs, tennis shoes but no socks.

  “Yes?” he says, his watery brown eyes curious and wary.

  “Mr Moss?” Frank asks him.

  “Yes? Who are you?”

  “My name is Jake Barnes, sir. This is my assistant, Nick. I apologize for being so terribly late. You’re our last call and I know we were due more than an hour ago, but it’s been one glitch after another today. Then to top it off, my phone went on the fritz and I couldn’t call you about the delay. I’m really sorry about all that and I hope it hasn’t inconvenienced you too much. It won’t take but a few minutes to get the floor measurements and come up with the estimate.”

  “Estimate?” Moss says. “Who are you?”

  “B&R Carpeting, sir. We had an appointment.”

  He looks past us at the Cherokee. “You’ve made a mistake. I don’t need carpeting.”

  “You don’t? Well now, that’s odd. We have an order form.” Frank turns to me and I hold the clipboard so that he and Moss can both see the name and address on the top lines. “If that new secretary fouled things up again,” Frank says to me, “I’m really going to let her have it.”

  “Well, somebody goofed,” Moss says. “I hope you straighten it out.”

  He steps back and starts to close the door, but Frank moves up onto the threshold and offers him his hand. “Our mistake, Mr Moss, and again, I’m very sorry to have disturbed you.”

  The man gives him a puzzled look but mechanically accepts the handshake—and Frank clamps his other hand on Moss’s upper arm and pushes him backward into the living room, Moss blurting out, “Hey! What . . . hey!”

  I go in right behind them, my hand on the pistol under my shirt, and shut the door gently and stay beside it, scanning all around, seeing no one else.

  “This is housebreaking!” Moss says. “Assault! I’ll call the police!”

  In one quick move, Frank shifts his grip to both of Moss’s elbows and presses his thumbs into the crooks. Moss yelps and his knees buckle, but Frank holds him up by one arm and gives him a quick one-hand frisk, then steers him to the sofa and shoves him down on it. Moss massages his elbow tendons and stares up at Frank in wet-eyed terror. On each of the end tables is a lighted lamp, and the lit doorway on my right reveals the kitchen.

  “Is there anyone else in the house?” Frank asks him.

  Moss shakes his head. “No. What . . . who are you? What do you want? . . . You gonna rob me? I don’t have—”

  “Easy does it, Mr Moss,” Frank says. “Take a minute, catch your breath.” He gives me a hand sign to search the house, and I put down the clipboard and go to the main hallway, waiting until my back is to Moss before I draw the Beretta, not wanting to scare him any worse than we already have.

  Tapping light switches on and off as I go, I make a quick check of the bedrooms, closets, bathrooms—keeps a tidy abode, the man does—then go into the kitchen and, by way of its door, into the garage. It holds a compact dark-green Toyota SUV. I take a peek to make sure nobody’s in it, then put the pistol back under my shirt and return to the living room, show Frank a fist, retrieve the clipboard, and resume my post by the front door. He’s pulled an easy chair over to the sofa and sits facing Moss, their knees almost touching. The guy’s breathing a little better but is still very obviously scared.

  “All right, Mr Moss,” Frank says. “We’re not here to harm you or rob you or anything of the sort. All we want is some information. You give it to us and whoosh, we’re gone.”

  “Information? About what?”

  “Mount of Venus Productions.”

  Moss looks from Frank to me and back at Frank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you?”

  “We’re a couple of guys who would like to complete our inte
raction with you as agreeably and quickly as possible,” Frank says. “But that can’t happen if you lie to us. Look, Mr Moss . . . Richard . . . we know the mailing address for Mount of Venus is a post office box just a couple of blocks from here. A box that’s rented in your name. Of course you know what we’re talking about. So cut the shit.”

  “The post office doesn’t give out . . . whoa, are you the police? Well, hey now, hey . . . there’s nothing illegal about those movies and . . . anyway, you can’t just break—”

  “Stop, Richard,” Frank says. “We’re not cops and we don’t give a rat’s ass you’re in the porn business. All we want is to find a certain actress who’s appeared in a particular Mount of Venus production. Which is all you need to know about us. Tell us where she is and we’re done here. But jack us around and we’ll cause you pain you will not believe. But believe this—if you lie to me I’ll know it.”

  Frank has a talent for articulating such dire threats as convincingly as the kind of guys who genuinely enjoy dispensing pain. His stone-eye technique, I call it. I can’t do it as well, which is why he usually conducts the critical interrogations.

  Moss’s cheeks are bright with tears. “I can’t tell you! Because I don’t know. I’m not jacking you around, I’m not. I don’t know the names of most of the actors and I don’t know where any of them live. I don’t have anything to do with making the movies and videos. I’m just the mail guy. I pick up the mail at the post office every day and take it to Lance in the evening. That’s all I do, I swear to God.”

  “Who’s Lance?”

  Moss wipes at his eyes. “My brother-in-law. Ex-brother-in-law.”

  “And he works for Mount of Venus, too.”

  “Yeah, he . . . well, he owns it, runs it, the whole thing. Knows everything about the business. Never any trouble with the law. It’s not illegal, you know, the kinda movies he makes. But all I do is take the mail to him. I’m not lying, I’m not.”

  “Good. How long you been the mail guy?”