The Contractors

by Harry Hunsicker

  “I’m hungry,” Sadie said.

  Sinclair nodded. He opened the door and stepped out onto the exposed hallway. Sadie followed him.

  The shooter was to the left, two doors down.

  A wiry Latino man, small like a girl, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. He was in his early twenties and had a thin mustache just like Sinclair’s. He looked like a guy who mows lawns for a living, but not as important.

  Sinclair held up the briefcase like a shield, clawed at his hip for the revolver.

  The shooter flipped open the plaid shirt where a silenced MAC-10 hung from a strap on his shoulder.

  Sadie screamed.

  Both men raised their weapons at the same time.

  Sadie stood still, eyes unblinking, and the wave of bullets hit her first, ripping into her flesh. She stumbled across the hallway, bleeding from a half dozen wounds. Then she fell over the railing.

  In his mind, Sinclair didn’t see the spits of flame from the muzzle of the machine gun. Nor did he hear the staccato rip of the weapon’s bolt as it fired.

  Instead, he saw his mother right before she died. He was ten years old again, and Mama was in the kitchen of their two-bedroom house in Pleasant Grove, cooking fried chicken.

  The bullets tore into his body and demolished the Samsonite, shredding the cash inside. The briefcase burst open.

  Sinclair dropped to the ground, blood all over his best clothes. The house in Pleasant Grove was the color of the sun, the same as his mother’s hair, and the smell of fried chicken filled his nostrils.

  The last thing he saw was his mother’s smile and a green cloud of hundred-dollar bills floating over his body.

  - CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO -

  I spent Friday at the safe house. I rested and watched TV. Tried not to think about Piper.

  The older you get, the easier the breakups were, or so I liked to tell myself. Between the two of us, Piper and I owned a half dozen issues and isms, dysfunctional behavior patterns that would preclude any chance of a healthy long-term relationship.

  Milo put out the request among his network of hoods and lowlife informants: any word on Sinclair, much money would be paid. Or however that translated into Milo-speak.

  Early Saturday morning, his cell rang. He had a short conversation and then disappeared down the block to use a pay phone. Ten minutes later, he returned.

  “Eva Ramirez.” He poured a cup of coffee. “She called you.”

  “What?” I paused with a mug halfway to my mouth. “Where? How?”

  “She phoned the Main Street Dash,” he said. “How she connected this establishment to you is beyond me.”

  “She’s alive?”

  “Apparently.”

  “You talked to her?”

  He nodded.

  “What’d she want?”

  “To see you. She asked for a meeting.” He added cream to his cup but didn’t say more.

  I made a “go on” motion with my hand. “And are you gonna tell me where?”

  Milo slid a wad of currency from his pocket.

  “This contains ten grand, the money you would not accept that I owe you.” He held it out. “And the name of my passport guy.”

  I looked at the cash but didn’t reach for it.

  “Take a walk on this,” he said. “Just disappear.”

  “Eva Ramirez can clear me on the two dead thugs here in Dallas.”

  “What about the other stuff?” he said. “The bodies in West Texas.”

  The media feeding frenzy had been nonstop, lurid headlines and top-of-the-hour reports about narcotrafficker violence finally spilling across the border. The fact that one of the dead sicarios in the hotel in Schwarzemann had been a fifteen-year-old girl only stoked the hysteria.

  “I don’t know what to do about that,” I said. “One indictment at a time.”

  “A trap, this could very well be.” He put away the money. “Eva could be the tip of a very big iceberg.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.” I shook my head. “I don’t have anything Eva wants.”

  “Then why meet?” he said. “What does she have that you want?”

  I couldn’t provide an answer.

  A half hour later we left the safe house. The shoebox containing the scanner was on the floor of the minivan.

  Milo stayed off the freeways, drove the back streets. Fifteen minutes later he slowed and pointed to a Catholic church near downtown, the Shrine of the Blessed Sacrament.

  “Here is where she said to meet.”

  “When?” I looked at my watch.

  “Now.”

  This slice of Dallas was a thriving retail district, a little Mexico, more like the mercado section of Monterrey or Guadalajara than a city on the northern plains of Texas. The buildings that lined the street were painted a riot of different colors, reds and greens, mustard yellow and turquoise. Neon pennants fluttered from the fences around the used car lots.

  The church was a traditional design, sedate in comparison. Pale brick and limestone, an ornate bell tower. The structure was a cathedral, a large, four- or five-story tall sanctuary forming the long part of a cross.

  “Your scanner,” Milo said. “Now is the time to use it?”

  I shook my head. “Make the block.”

  He did as I requested.

  Nothing was out of the ordinary, a handful of inexpensive cars, not new, not old either. Typical for the neighborhood. There was a two-story building at the rear of the property that looked kind of like a hotel except the architecture and design matched the cathedral.

  “It’s a convent.” I read the sign as we drove by.

  “In the middle of Dallas.” Milo shrugged. “Who knew?”

  “She told me her father is a devout Catholic,” I said. “Maybe he arranged the hiding spot.”

  Milo stopped the Honda minivan on a side street, around the corner from the front entrance of the church.

  I got out.

  “What are you going to do?” he said.

  “She wanted a meeting; I’m gonna meet her.” I pointed to the scanner. “Keep an eye on that. Whatever you do, don’t turn it on. Paynelowe’s liable to send a cruise missile to take it out.”

  He surveyed the intersection for a few moments then pointed to a one-story cinder block building that was painted purple and red.

  “Over there,” he said. “I shall wait for you.”

  The structure was across the street but not directly in front of the church, a good spot to observe but still be out of the way. A Mexican-food restaurant not yet open, the sign over the door read COCINA AZTECA. Brightly colored banners and strands of darkened holiday lights draped the patio. The front wall had been painted with the image of an Aztec warrior holding a spear, glaring out at the world. A row of parking spaces ran down one side of the structure.

  I opened the passenger door.

  “Be careful,” Milo said.

  I didn’t reply. I walked down the sidewalk that bordered the cathedral. Nodded at a woman pushing a toddler in a stroller. Smiled at the little girl trailing behind them. The sun felt good on my shoulders.

  The main entrance of the church was at the top of a wide row of stairs, maybe twenty steps total.

  I took them two at a time and eased open the door, entering the vestibule, a foyer area that smelled of candle wax and lemon furniture polish. The room was empty.

  Closed oak doors led to the sanctuary.

  I pulled the Glock from my waistband and pressed it against my thigh. Used my free hand and pushed open the doors.

  The sanctuary was empty.

  Polished marble floors, black and white checkerboard patterned, rows of dark wooden pews. At the far end an altar underneath a large wooden crucifix.

  I slid to the left behind the last row of seating. Stood with my back to the wall. And waited.

  Ninety seconds later, the embroidered fabric around the altar appeared to rustle a little. Hard to tell from the other end of the sanctuary.

  A moment after that a
figure appeared behind the altar. Dark hair in a ponytail, a white blouse.

  Eva.

  I eased along the wall to the left side of the room and strode to the front.

  She met me in the area between the altar and the pews.

  “You came,” she said.

  I nodded, kept the gun by my side.

  She appeared rested but sad, a sense of forlornness in the slump of her shoulders. The hint of makeup she wore accentuated the weariness in her eyes. But the light from the stained glass windows made her skin glow and her hair shine, stark and beautiful against her white blouse.

  I recognized my weakness. I wanted to hold her. To make everything better. For both of us.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry about Marfa.”

  “You’re under arrest.” I aimed the Glock at her. “For the murder of Lazaro Morales.”

  “You are still acting like a federale?” She shook her head. “After all this?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Lazaro had to die,” she said. “Do you know what they said they’d do to my mother if I didn’t take him out?”

  I pulled out my cell phone.

  “They killed her anyway of course.” She stared at the crucifix above the altar. “Just to make a point.”

  I dialed Milo.

  “The money I told you about is well hidden,” she said. “We can disappear.”

  I held my finger over the Send button. “Where’s Keith McCluskey?”

  “He’s gone.” She paused. “Where’s Piper?”

  “Put your hands on your head.” I hit Send.

  She did as requested, the movement sensuous and submissive at the same time.

  “So you and I are both alone in this world.” She sighed. “Me? I don’t do very well by myself.”

  Milo didn’t answer the phone.

  “If we’re careful,” she said. “The money will last a long while.”

  “What about the parties?” I ended the call. “You like the good times. Won’t be many of those if we go on the run.”

  “I like feeling safe more. And you make me feel that way.”

  I debated dialing 911. But the likely outcome from that move would be both of us arrested or worse.

  “Let’s run away.” She let her arms slip from her head. “Just you and me.”

  “We’re going out the side door.” I lowered the Glock.

  The entrance on the other side of the altar led to the cross street.

  “My mother and sister are both dead.” She didn’t move. “All because of me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And I can’t reach my father either.” Her eyes were dead, devoid of feeling. The same look a prisoner in a concentration camp has peering between the razor wire.

  I stuck the Glock in my waistband. She was wearing tight black pants and a sheer white blouse. No place to hide a weapon.

  “This may sound strange,” she said. “But you are all I have left.”

  “Let’s go outside.” I pointed to the side door.

  “You’re different from the rest of them,” she said. “You’re a good man.”

  “Eva.” I took a step closer. “We need to get out of this church.”

  She held a hand out, glided toward me. We slid into an embrace, her head against my shoulder. She smelled of fresh soap and perfume, clean and good and full of promise.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “It’s okay.” I stroked her shoulder. “We can go somewhere and talk—”

  Noise from the far end of the sanctuary. My shirt moved.

  I pushed her away, reached for the Glock.

  My pistol was in her hand. She jumped back, pointed the muzzle at me.

  Keith McCluskey stood in the center aisle, a gun aimed at Milo Miller’s head.

  She’d lied to me, again. A sense of hopelessness filled my being, despair that was only matched by the anger. At myself. I’d been duped by this woman, played like the sucker in a three-card monte game. Was my need to belong to someone so strong it clouded my sense of reason? My survival instinct?

  McCluskey approached, shoving Milo down the aisle. Milo’s hands were bound with duct tape in front of his waist.

  “Hello, baby.” McCluskey stopped a few feet away. “Any problems?”

  The anger overtook the hopelessness. Something new came along: a desire for revenge.

  She shrugged.

  “Where’s the scanner?” McCluskey said. “The last piece of the puzzle.”

  I didn’t speak. Shook my head slowly.

  Eva’s face remained impassive. She looked at McCluskey, who nodded once. She squinted, lips pursed, and fired a round between my feet. The bullet ricocheted off the marble, zinging against the far wall. The smell of gun smoke filled the air.

  I jumped back, hands up. “I turned it in to the police.”

  “No you didn’t.” She shook her head. “Keith knows they’re still looking for it.”

  I’d seen cadavers that looked better than McCluskey. He appeared to have aged ten years in the last few days and lost a lot of weight, most of it from his face. His skin was the color of cottage cheese and hung loosely from the bones of his skull. His hair was thin, greasy.

  “Please, Jon, don’t make this hard on yourself.” She brushed a strand of hair from her face with her free hand. “Tell us where the scanner is.”

  I weighed options. Jump Eva and take at least one bullet, probably a fatal shot, before I could wrest the gun from her grip. Milo would get shot, too. Or die later on McCluskey’s terms.

  Milo spoke for the first time. “It’s hidden across the street. I’ll show you.”

  - CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE -

  “Your Jew boy here is gonna be the first to get shot if you try anything,” Keith McCluskey said. “So don’t get tricky.”

  I nodded, hands raised.

  “You go first.” Eva pointed to me.

  I walked past the altar toward the side door of the cathedral.

  The four of us stopped at the exit.

  “Real slow now,” McCluskey said. “Open it.”

  I eased the door back. He pulled me out of the way, stuck his head out. Then he turned and said, “Let’s go.”

  We exited and stopped in the shadow of the church.

  “Okay, where is it?” McCluskey said.

  “There.” Milo, hands bound, nodded to the Mexican restaurant called Cocina Azteca. Still closed. His van was parked in the handicapped spot closest to the front entrance.

  I swore under my breath.

  “The device you seek is hidden in the restaurant,” Milo said. “To retrieve it, two people are needed.”

  The scanner wasn’t hidden five minutes ago, certainly not in a place where multiple people would be needed for retrieval. He had a plan of some sort, a concealed gun probably. But how did he get inside the restaurant?

  “It was there the whole time when I snatched you?” McCluskey shook his head. “All right. The four of us are gonna walk over nice and easy.”

  The side street was empty. The woman and her children I’d seen earlier were gone. Saturday morning, more people would be out and about soon.

  We walked down the sidewalk and crossed the street. Milo and I were in front, McCluskey and Eva behind us with the guns held pressed to their sides. Once on the patio, the four of us threaded our way through the tables and chairs.

  “It’s in the bar. Cut me loose.” Milo stopped by the main entrance. “I’ll get it and be right back.”

  “Not a chance.” McCluskey shook his head. “We all go in together.”

  Milo looked scared. He bit his lip, frowned.

  McCluskey grabbed the front door, yanked. Unlocked, it swung open. He motioned me in first, then Eva followed by Milo.

  The restaurant was closed, the entry area dark. A hostess stand stood between two rooms, a dining section to the right, a bar to the left.

  The waiting area was decorated with Mexican restaurant kitsch—sombreros and piñatas, p
ictures of smiling peasants. The air smelled like peppers and onions and pine-scented cleaner. The air-conditioner had been left on from the night before, and the temperature was frigid.

  Ambient light from the front windows illuminated the empty dining area, a freshly mopped floor, tables with chairs stacked on top.

  The bar was dark. A sign over the arched entryway was barely readable: CANTINA AZTECA. An image of a heavily muscled warrior similar to the one on the front of the building adorned the wall to one side of the bar’s entrance. The warrior wore a ceremonial headdress and a loincloth and appeared to be gazing into the distance.

  “It’s in there.” Milo pointed to the bar. “I need help getting it.”

  McCluskey pulled a folding knife from his pocket and sliced the tape around Milo’s wrists.

  “Turn on the lights, then come right back.” He shoved Milo toward the cantina. “Try anything funny, and your buddy gets one in the foot.”

  Milo nodded and stumbled into the darkened room. A moment later, a thin beam of light cut through the gloom.

  “All right,” McCluskey shouted. “Now come back with your hands—”

  Two sounds, one right after the other: a gunshot, Milo screaming.

  McCluskey and Eva were unprepared, confused, as was I.

  Milo had set this up. Who would shoot him?

  McCluskey took a step toward the bar but hesitated. Eva grabbed my arm, then let go. They looked at each other and then at me.

  No other noise from the bar.

  McCluskey motioned for Eva to remain in the entry area with me.

  Eva tightened her grip on the Glock and grabbed my arm again. She jammed the muzzle against my ribs.

  McCluskey crept to the doorway leading to the cantina. He pressed himself against the image of the Aztec warrior and inched his head and gun in, the weapon an extension of his gaze. Everywhere he looked, the gun pointed.

  He stood still for a few moments, surveyed the scene. Then he stepped away from the protection of the wall and entered the room, pistol at the ready. He disappeared from view.

  Eva pushed me toward the doorway he’d gone through.