Culprits

by Richard Brewer

  The plump girl turned in her sleep woozily, dreamily, mounting her rump in the air, wriggling it, as though it had a mind of its own, begging for another go. The only thing separating her round, luscious ass from the free, open air, that threadbare sheet. Eel could almost hear her moaning, cooing. And he thought about it too. He couldn’t remember exactly how they’d met, only that it was at the bar, after he’d arranged to meet Carter this morning, drawing on the bonds of brotherhood to get him out of this jam. Brother or not, this favor was asking a lot. Going behind the back of the cartel wasn’t just risky, it was gambling with his life. But Carter, like Eel, had never married, never had kids, was a floating wolf. This made Eel feel better. A man could wager his own life easier when he didn’t have to worry about the welfare of others.

  Carter said to stay put. Have a drink, relax, get laid. Carter said he was on his way. So Eel drank. And he picked up the girl. A big-boned, beautiful girl. The fucking had been good, and she gave as good as she got. He recalled that much, the way he took her from behind, and she took him right back. At least that was how he chose to remember it. If his raw, aching cock was any indication, his memory wasn’t far off. Both drunk, high on the blow she brought with her back from the bar. He felt the claw marks on his back begin to blister, the red, raised lines starting to sting as he sweated, flashes of her thick thighs returning to his mind’s eye, the way they bounced off his lap, running through the baker’s dozen, before she turned around again, put her head down, ass up, just the way he liked it, just the way it was now. But as tempting as that ass was, Eel turned away, watching for Carter. Now wasn’t a time to get distracted. Last night, he’d needed to kill the time. This morning, the focus was more on not getting killed.

  He shifted in his jeans, tucked his cock down severely, admonishing the thing with disdain worthy of a Catholic nun, shielding himself from that rump twitching out the corner of his eye. He thought of the horrors, the men who’d wronged the wrong men, the neckties slit across throats to pull tongues through, until nothing stirred below.

  Nothing moved in the parking lot either. Now he saw there was one other car in the parking lot besides the one he’d hotwired six counties back. In the far end of the lot, a non-descript, rusted, red sedan lurked in the shadows. He could see it hadn’t run in ages, like it had been left in that parking lot so long it had sunk into the melted tar. The bar next door, now closed until probably at least noon, loomed eerily staid, throwing shade. All of it too quiet, too lifeless. He peeked over his shoulder at the broken clock. The big-boned blonde fell back to the mattress, ass returning to slumber.

  Eel searched out another bottle, took a pull of mostly backwashed, hot tequila, laughing suddenly for no reason other than he had gotten his nickname for being slippery, slithery. Apparently, “Snake” had been taken. At first, he hated the nickname, but like most nicknames, you didn’t get to choose your own, someone made it up for you, you didn’t get a say, and those kind always stuck. Carter was smart enough to make his own name. You either named yourself. Or someone else did it for you.

  And the slippery part fit the bill. Through all the jobs, all the bad turns and rotten luck, the paydays lost, the backstabs and betrayals, the raids, the DEA and ATF and every other goddamn acronym that closed in—because no matter how good you were they were always closing in—Eel Estevez had never spent as much as a night in jail. It was a source of pride. Being a border Mexican, probably for the best. Especially these days. It was funny. The gringos didn’t mind you picking their fucking strawberries for ten cents an hour, but every November, some politico was preaching on the nightly news about the scourge of his kind, stealing the fucking jobs no one else wanted. His kind? No one embraced the capitalistic ethic like the career criminal. You see, you want, you take by power and might. By superiority.

  Gennifer. With a G. That was the name of the girl in his bed. It finally came to him. That was how she’d introduced himself when he got off the phone with Carter, having slipped the barkeep a bill to use the houseline and keep his fucking head turned and ears shut, burner tossed long ago. “Hi. I’m Gennifer. With a G. And you look like you want to buy me a drink.” He liked that. The sass to go along with that ass. He may’ve actually said that. He’d already started tying one on by that point. Sure, it was a cheesy, stupid line, but that was why bars serve booze. A drunk man’s tongue, a sober man’s mind.

  Eel let the blinds fall and eye-checked the rucksack handcuffed to the bedpost, patted his pockets, fingering the key like tonguing a loose tooth. A brief, fleeting thought popped in his head. Maybe he shouldn’t wait for Carter. Maybe sitting here, he was a sitting duck. It popped out as quick. More than his own hide, he had to help Benny. The others? Fuck ’em. But he liked Benny. He’d brought him in. They’d been tight ever since the Army. Outside of Carter, Benny might’ve been the only true friend he’d ever had. And Carter was his one shot at making it out of here alive. Once Eel figured out how to do that, he’d call Benny. Not that Benny would listen. By now the poor son of a bitch was probably heading west to make a deposit into his magic piggybank that would one day allow him to retire, fall in love, live a regular life. Men like Benny and Eel didn’t get to do that. But Eel owed him that much. If Eel could get himself out of this mess, he’d do his best to get Benny out as well. A two-for-one. Of course, that would involve Benny giving up the money, something he’d naturally resist. Not like he had any choice. All that money would be returned, one way or the other. Poor Benny had always been a dreamer.

  Gennifer rolled over, long blonde hair fanning across the pillows as she spread arms and legs, the dark patch between the sheets making it clear she was open for business. The clear, unglazed look in her eyes told Eel she’d been awake the whole time, pretending to be dreaming while shaking that fat ass, teasing him.

  “Guess I tired you out last night,” she said, reaching for her cigarettes on the scarred end table. When Eel didn’t seize the moment, she flicked on the lamp.

  “Turn that fucking thing off.”

  “What’s your problem?” She pointed to the bright, sunny window, rays unable to be contained by one-hundred-count curtains and mangled plastic blinds. “It’s morning.”

  “I said turn it off.”

  Gennifer muttered curses but turned off the lamp, staring at the blank screen of the bedside alarm. “What time is it anyway?”

  “I’m guessing eleven.” Eel looked at the blank clock, then turned back to the window.

  “What’s so interesting out there that you don’t want another go at this?” Gennifer with a G spread her hands over robust thighs, which she parted wider now, the dark v radiating heat beneath that thin-sheer sheet.

  Eel didn’t give it a second glance. “I’m waiting on someone.”

  “Who?”

  “None of your fucking business.” He let the blinds fall, gathering her jeans and panties, bra off the chair, tossing them on the bed. “I think it’s time you go.”

  “Sure know how to treat a lady.”

  Eel peeled off a fifty from his wad and tossed that on the bed too. “Go get some breakfast. On me.”

  “Where you want me to go? There’s only the bar next door and it ain’t open till three, and they don’t serve food anyway.”

  “Then drive somewhere.”

  “Don’t got no car.”

  “How’d you get to the bar?”

  “A friend.”

  “Call your friend.”

  Gennifer with a G nibbled her lip, crawling on all fours, playfully clawing out for his belt. “I thought you were my friend.”

  “I’m not.” He went back to gazing out the window while she huffed and groaned. He heard her rolling off the bed, slipping on her bra and panties, fumbling for the tight jeans, shoes, parts of a purse he’d spilled in search of prophylactics.

  Eel hadn’t driven all the way across the state to get blindsided while fucking some piece of ass. Eel computed the hours in his head. It shouldn’t be ta
king Carter this long to get here. Not under the circumstances. Carter wasn’t some rookie getting pulled over at a checkpoint. And Carter wasn’t pissing away valuable time on anything not one hundred percent necessary. Something was wrong.

  A few thoughts hit Eel Estevez at once: What had happened to Carter? Were they on to him that quick? Had they gotten to Carter first? If so, they’d be coming for him next. He had to move. But where to? Why were his feet rooted, refusing to cooperate? The last thought, though, the one that really stung—where the hell had she hidden the gun?

  Eel turned slowly, hands up where she could see them before she ordered him to do so. It was a small point of pride but Eel didn’t like being told what to do. When she bent and undid the handcuffs around the post, freeing the bag and the money, he resisted feeling for the key in his pockets. He didn’t believe in magic, but no one was so good they could pick a pocket ten feet away.

  “Duplicate,” she said. “Generic.”

  “What if I’d tried to leave?”

  “Honey, I’ve been awake all night. You wasn’t doing anything without me knowing about it. And I’m telling you this for your own good. You make it out of this? Get yourself checked for sleep apnea. You snore like a wild boar.”

  Eel could only stare.

  She titled her head, almost sympathetic, like she really gave a shit. “This isn’t personal. It’s a job. I got the call. I’m getting paid. I was told to keep you occupied.” She let her gaze drift down to his cock. “Worse ways to spend a night.” Gennifer stood up like the pro she was, nodded at the door. “Let’s go.”

  She didn’t need to tell him not to do anything stupid. She didn’t need to warn him not to run. Eel Estevez knew when he’d fallen into a spider’s web.

  The walk down the motel’s baked brick sidewalk and across the arid parking lot with a gun to his back didn’t draw any attention. Because there was no one else there to bear witness. But that heat, it sucked what little breath he had left, that diesel ooze cooking in the sun blast, like taking a lungful of broiled oven.

  They entered through the back door, the bar wouldn’t be open to the public any time soon, and there was a moment before Eel felt the cold rush of air conditioning, where, trapped between the bright heat outside and cold stone indoors, he considered making a move. It was a second, maybe less. She was close enough that if he spun and sprung, he could push her aside and run. But then what? Even if she was a lousy shot, his keys were back in the room. Nothing but fucking desert. Endless miles of scrub brush, dry grass, and sand. How far could he really run? What about Carter? What about Benny?

  The cool, dark bar felt different in the day. And not just for the obvious, that light had replaced night, silence snuffing clinking glasses and barroom chatter. This was the moment Eel’s fate turned for good, and there would be no turning back. He wasn’t eighteen anymore. He wasn’t in the Army. He wasn’t on Clovis Harrington’s ranch either. He could take losing. He could take dying. He’d always known he’d die young. But not like this.

  Carter sported more weight than the last time they’d seen one another, that short stretch when Eel returned to Mexico to watch his grandfather die. Two more men were with him. When Eel heard the back door lock, he figured at least one more lurked out of sight.

  “Drink?” Carter said.

  Eel nodded. Carter pointed, and a set of arms guided Eel to the booth. From the corner of his eye, he saw the woman, Gennifer, hand over the case, taking a thick envelope in exchange. Their eyes never met again.

  Carter returned with a bottle of mescal and two shot glasses, nodding back to where the whore just exited. “I remembered you liked them thick.”

  “How…” It was all Eel could get out.

  “Do you know who you fucked with, amigo? Clovis Harrington isn’t some hick steer farmer. Soon as you mentioned the name, nothing I could do.”

  “Nothing, eh?”

  “I had to call it in.” Carter poured the drinks. “This isn’t personal, Eel.”

  “Feels a little personal.”

  “I know you don’t want to go back to jail.”

  “Back? I’ve never been.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Eel pounded his shot. “So what now, amigo? You take the money? Hand me off to the Juárez, Zeto? Who?”

  The other men in the room were far enough away that Eel could break the bottle, get behind Carter. Flush to the door, a hostage came in handy. Then again, there was a reason Carter had them positioned where they were. Eel’s short time in the Army taught him about blind spots, turkey shoots, when it was time to surrender.

  “That money,” Carter said, “goes back to Harrington. Every last cent. I paid Selena out of my own pocket.”

  “Selena?”

  “What name did she give you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  Carter poured them each another shot.

  “How’d she get here so fast?”

  “She was here. Harrington owns damn near every border bar in Texas. Or knows who does. He’s built his own goddamn wall. And nothing gets in or out without his say-so. He’s a loyal employee. He knows better than to cross those boys.”

  “You didn’t have to call him?”

  “Me? Call him?” Carter howled. “Eel, the second you and those other dipshits took the money, you were made. Every known associate called. You think the policia can put out an APB? Ain’t nothing compared to the men you stole from. You’d’ve had better luck robbing the U.S. Mint. I don’t know who set this up—”

  “You think I’m going to tell you now?”

  “You don’t have to. They’ll figure it out. If they haven’t already. You were played, holmes.”

  “Seven million ain’t what it used to be.”

  “Seven million? Is that what you thought you were stealing?” Carter gestured back at the room, where more men gathered, local roughnecks looking for an easy payday. Everyone was for sale, three turning to six, seven, crawling out of the woodwork like cucarachas. “You don’t get this kind of greeting for pinching a cow fucker.”

  So this is what friendship means, thought Eel. But he didn’t let himself think it long. Now was not the time for sentimentality.

  “Harrington is in deep. Deep, mi amigo. We’re talking ops, government, shadow shit. That money was more than slush fund, more than Juárez, Zeta, and it was a fucklot more than seven million dollars. Every gang from here to the Neches uses the Bank of Harrington.” Carter shook his head. “What happened to you? How did you lose your way so bad to fall in with this lot?”

  “Lose my way?” Eel tried not to laugh. But he didn’t try too hard. He gestured under the table. “I was there when you skinned your knee, three inches from that rattlesnake.”

  “You think I forget?”

  “Took its head off with my boot heel and a tug.”

  Carter looked hurt. “You mean you saved my life?”

  “More than once.”

  “Sorry I can’t return the favor. Nothing I can do. You see these men? More are coming. They will make an example of you, Eel. They’ll slit your throat, pull your tongue through the hole, stick your head on a pole. Cut off your dick, stuff it in your mouth, before they fuck your corpse.”

  “You could’ve just called with the bad news.”

  Carter didn’t look hurt. Carter’s feelings were hurt.

  Blood in, blood out.

  Eel, so quick to rush to judgment, assuming everyone had a price, like that whore back in the room. He felt ashamed. He didn’t need to be told. Carter hadn’t made the trip to deliver the news; Diego had.

  “Figured it best if you heard it from me.” Carter waited. “In person, like this.” He motioned between them, voice quieting. “Me. You. The way it’s supposed to be. We kick open the door, eh?”

  “I’m sorry,” Eel said. He knew now that everyone he cared about, a group that comprised two, was going to pay.r />
  Carter waved him off. “Once you made the call, well, that was that.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be. We swore blood brothers a long time ago.”

  Carter poured two more shots like it was no big thing. “Could’ve been either one of us. I mean, I’ve done some stupid shit too. You wouldn’t let me go alone.” He caught his eye, sincere. “Would you?”

  “No,” Eel said, “I wouldn’t.”

  Bringing the shot glass to his lips, Carter’s eyes fell to the table, rolling long enough to say, Look what’s taped underneath. Soon as they set the shot glasses down, the two men jabbed their hands into the dark depths and pulled the taped guns.

  Sure, the odds were against them. Like Butch and Sundance. Eel tried to preserve the frozen moment here. Because before the bullets split the skull, it was the last scene playing that mattered most. The one that would be imprinted, seared for all eternity. And if it stopped there, in a way, that was where the story ended.

  Chapter 8 - I Got You

  By Brett Battles

  The drone of the highway was just the tonic Benny Parker needed to sooth away the tension of the last few days. The jobs he did with O’Conner and Estevez always took a toll on him, bending him into someone he wasn’t, someone who could to terrible things.

  He glanced at the duffel bag in the passenger seat. Inside was one hundred seventy-five thousand dollars in untraceable bills. The reason for the hell he put himself through.

  If only all their heists were this lucrative, he’d just need to do one more and he could get out. In reality, it would be more like three or four before he could put this temporary life behind him.

  Estevez wasn’t going to be happy when Benny dropped that bomb, but c’est la vie. Robbing others was Eel’s thing. For Benny, the gigs were only a means to an end he could reach no other way.

  He stopped at a motel called the Rest Easy an hour before dawn. After a lukewarm shower, he sat on the bed and counted the cash.