The day was hot, just the two of us on the sidewalk now. No potential witnesses.
We were standing about six feet behind the front door of the second Suburban, effectively in a blind spot where neither the agents in the front seats nor anyone in the lead vehicle could see us. In fact, no one could see us but Diego/Raul Manzanares in the third row or perhaps Dockers Dude.
“What do you want?” Hawkins cocked his head. “You gonna go ahead and sign now?”
The papers and money were still under my left arm. I took a step closer and swung my right hand like I was throwing a softball, fingers aiming for his crotch.
His eyes got big, round like golf balls, as my hand grasped his genitals through the material of his tacky suit.
“Don’t even think about coming after me.” I gave a little squeeze.
His mouth formed an O shape, cheeks expanding in gasps. His breath smelled like hamburger meat and onions.
“If you do.” I continued to squeeze. “I will hunt you down like a rabid dog. And when I find you, I will break your spine and leave you in the gutter.”
With the last few words, I gave his testicles a good hard yank.
He squealed. His face was sweaty and pale.
“Do you understand me?” I eased off the pressure.
He nodded, breath very shallow.
I smiled and head-butted his nose. Then I let go of his crotch.
He remained standing, wobbly but upright. Blood streamed from his nostrils. His comb-over had gone awry, blowing to one side of his head in the wind
I winked at him, and he slowly backed away, shuffling toward the rear door of the second Suburban. Behind the tinted windows of the vehicle, I could feel Diego staring at me.
Hawkins got inside, slammed the door, and the motorcade left.
A few moments later Piper appeared by my side, yawning, a cup of coffee in her hand.
“Who was that ugly dude with the bad comb-over?” she said. “And why’d you grab his nuts and break his nose?”
“He’s Senator McNally’s chief of staff.” I scanned the street, made sure Diego Manzanares hadn’t left behind a hit squad.
“That’s the rich dude running for president, right?” Piper took a sip of coffee. “What the hell did his chief of staff want with you?”
“Let’s take a drive.” I put the cash and applications in my pocket.
- CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX -
An hour later, after tidying up everything at Milo’s, we parked across from a tract house in Mesquite. The wood-framed structure had been built in the 1960s, when the growth from Dallas was still a long way away from this small farming town located on the eastern fringes of the county. The address had been on the card the Senator had given me.
The home was a ranch style with a shallow-angled composition-shingled roof. The attached carport appeared to be near collapse, and the exterior walls were three or four years past needing a fresh coat of paint.
We waited, and I explained as best I could. How the cartel wasn’t a stand-alone entity as most people thought. It was more like another division of a family enterprise. How the real profits weren’t in drugs. The real money was in money, the level of funds that banks controlled.
“So what about Lazaro Morales?” she asked. “Why would they worry about him?”
“As near as I can figure, Hawkins didn’t want Morales to testify because that would harm the organization that controlled a large portion of the border.”
“And the organization belonged to Diego.” Piper rubbed her chin. “Who the Senator’s team had made a deal with, right?”
I nodded.
Hawkins had probably encouraged the Senator to lean on his old friend Sinclair to find the witness. Sinclair, with his ass on the line anyway, hadn’t needed any extra persuasion.
Lazaro Morales had referred to a “guy from Washington” who had met with him, implying that the man had arranged for his safety. That could mean only one thing: people from McNally’s opponent, with the power of an incumbent in the White House, had promised Lazaro freedom and access to his money if he would take down Diego’s organization, which would in turn hurt McNally’s election chances.
As luck would have it, the nominal head of the cartel, the Camel, had arranged for Eva to take out her husband, so everybody came out a winner except for Lazaro Morales.
And what was the deal? A new banking system? A seamless way to transfer money one way and drugs the other? Or a border that disappeared for all practical purposes, at least when it came to money and goods. All of these options meant lots of revenue, which meant new sources for taxes. Easy to see how a suddenly idealistic Senator might look the other way as his people get in the sack with a man like Diego.
Piper pondered it all and then asked why we were sitting in front of a crappy house in Mesquite. I told her to be patient. Then I showed her the job applications and money. She read the documents once, twice, three times. Then she counted the cash.
“I don’t want to work for them,” she said. “We go to DC, they own us a hundred percent.”
I didn’t say anything. She was right, and we both knew it.
About ten minutes later a woman emerged from the house and walked down the cracked sidewalk. Her gait was slow and awkward like her bones were brittle, which, in fact, they’d become from the chemo.
She stooped and picked up the newspaper from the dead grass and weeds that served as her lawn. Then she looked across the street at the gray Honda minivan where Piper and I sat.
“I think I recognize her.” Piper peered through the front windshield. “The hair is a different color though.”
I nodded. The last time we’d met had been in Sinclair’s poker house when we dropped off Lisa, her daughter. Her wig that night had been blond. Now it was brown.
Another figure emerged from the house, a girl in her teens.
“That’s Lisa,” Piper said. “The girl Sinclair hired us to rescue.”
She looked different too, more her age, not at all like a prostitute in a Korean brothel in Northwest Dallas. The Tammy Faye makeup was gone, and she was wearing loose-fitting sweats and a scrunchy around her hair. She looked normal, which I suppose is the best you could hope for.
Normality, what a tantalizing idea.
“And the woman in the wig is her mother, Sinclair’s cousin.” I handed Piper the card the Senator had given me with the woman’s full name and address, and a short message: “She has information on your girl’s birth mother.”
“Imogene? She’s—” Piper stared at the woman. “She’s the investigator I hired.”
Imogene and Lisa glanced up, appeared to notice us.
“Let’s see what she knows,” I said.
“And then what?” Piper pointed to the money and job applications.
Our current transportation, a gift from Milo, had a battery that was untrackable and a full tank of gas. What constituted our worldly possessions filled a couple of small duffel bags in the rear.
I looked around the street at the cars with their RFID-equipped batteries. Thought about all the ways a person could be tracked. Thought about how to avoid as many of those as possible, an area in which Piper and I had a great deal of expertise.
“I don’t know. We find your mother and then maybe we just take a trip.”
Milo’s ten thousand was in my other pocket.
“Together?” she said.
“Yes.” I nodded.
We jogged across the street, reaching a tentative hand into the past on our own terms. I didn’t know what would happen with the information Imogene was about to provide. I didn’t know where it would take us.
The suburban street felt like a juncture in space and time. On one side lay the old. The other promised a fresh start.
After we learned what we could from Imogene, Piper told me where to go. The last known address for her mother was in Colorado, in the mountains west of Denver. But we had decided on a stop before heading that way.
I drove as she gave
directions. About thirty minutes later, we parked in the visitor lot of a large complex of buildings in Southeast Dallas, not far from where Sinclair and Senator Stephen McNally had grown up.
The buildings had been constructed in the 1930s. They had redbrick walls and large windows filled with lead-paned glass. They were well-maintained but possessed a sense of weariness about them. Elderly cars in the parking lot, ill-kept landscaping.
Except for the playground equipment scattered about, the place looked like the campus of a small liberal arts college fallen on hard times.
The sign by the administrative office read PLEASANT GROVE CHILDREN’S HOME.
Piper grabbed the envelope that contained the twenty thousand from Hawkins, the moving expenses.
“Be right back.” She jumped out, ran up the sidewalk to the main office of the orphanage.
I exited the minivan as well, the applications in one hand, a cigarette lighter in the other.
In an empty spot next to where we’d parked, I ignited the packet of papers.
The flames appeared insignificant in the afternoon sun. A small, white-orange flash, a puff of smoke, and the safety of DC disappeared into a pile of ash that drifted across the asphalt.
I felt better immediately.
Piper returned. We both got in the van.
“Let’s go find your mother.” I put the transmission in gear and headed toward Colorado.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While writing is a solitary endeavor, creating an actual book for public consumption is a group effort. To that end I would like to thank Andy Bartlett, Terry Goodman, David Downing, Alison Dasho, and everyone at Thomas & Mercer for their help and professionalism.
I would also like to offer my gratitude to the following for reading early drafts and offering comments: Jan Blankenship, Amy Bourrett, Rita Chapman, Victoria Calder, Will Clarke, Paul Coggins, Suzanne Frank, Dan Hale, Thad Hill, Alison Hunsicker, Harry Hunsicker Sr., Fanchon Knott, Wade Lynton, Allan McBee, Brooke Malouf, Clif Nixon, David Norman, Rebecca Russell, Steve Stodghill, Glenna Whitley, Robert Wilonsky, and Max Wright.
Thanks to Wade Lynton for help with the technical aspects of certain firearms. Also, much appreciation to Greg Schaffer for his insight into the workings of various federal law enforcement agencies and to Kate Schaffer for her knowledge of the Washington, DC, area. Any errors in regards to these topics are mine alone.
Very special thanks to Richard Abate for his patience in reading many early versions of this novel and helping shape each into something comprehensible.
And finally, last but never least, thanks to my wife, Alison, for all her love, patience, and support.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Harry Hunsicker is the former executive vice president of the Mystery Writers of America. His fiction has been short-listed for both the Shamus and Thriller Awards. The Contractors is his fourth novel. Hunsicker lives in Dallas.
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