by Gavin Reese
Retaco didn’t answer. He looked out his window at the glamorous, high-end neighborhoods and businesses. He seemed to stare at the life he could never have, the places he could never go, the success he could never taste.
Dedos did the same for a moment, and he reached to zip his jacket further up over his tattoos. As his hand touched the twice-repaired zipper, he grew angry at himself for trying to hide his pride in who and what he’d become. Those racist pieces of shit don’t want me in their restaurants, or their Opera House, or their fancy, old-ass hotels. Screw ‘em, cause I don’t wanna go there, anyway. They ain’t good enough to get my money, even when I do have enough to get in.
“He don’t make many package drops, ‘specially for a delivery driver.” Retaco’s realization brought Dedos’ attention back to the task at hand. “Gonna be easy to identify all his usual stops.”
Dedos looked ahead at the two cars that now drove between their Renault and the delivery van, a matte-white Jaguar F-type and a gloss-black BMW 8-series.
“El Trece said the African wants to sell dope to us, even gonna give us the same price he gives the other blacks.” Retaco paused until Dedos looked over and made eye contact with him. “Wants to give us the family price. You believe that?” The smaller man looked back out the window. “El Trece wants us to make sure he ain’t a undercover cop, a snitch, but I say ‘no way.’ Those puercos whettos ain’t gonna hire an African. They’re too busy tryin’ to arrest all us immigrants.”
“Don’t forget he also told us to confirm the African’s got the supply he said he’s got.” Dedos still didn’t understand how he was supposed to do that, but orders were orders. El Trece gets whatever El Trece wants.
“Think he’s scorin’ his shit from someone back there, in that place, what was the name again?”
“Tourist Information Center.”
“Yeah, that one. No way there’s smack and coke runnin’ through that kinda place.”
“That’s just it, Retaco, no one’s lookin’ here for people doin’ dirty, least not from the rich whites that are supposed to be here. Those pigs are just out lookin’ for us, for anyone that don’t belong here. We’re the only ones they see as the traffickers and slingers, mijo.”
Dedos stopped for a red light that the African’s delivery van had made. Traffic crawled through that area, so he didn’t need to draw attention to keep the van in sight. He looked to his left, where a cluster of women stood on the sidewalk. Dressed in fashionable winter coats and tall, expensive snow boots, they clutched takeout coffee cups in gloved hands. Steam rose from the cups and slightly obscured their faces, but Dedos realized all three women stared at him and Retaco. Their eyes examined the men and their jalopy with an equal mix of fear and curiosity. He felt their gaze run over his face- and neck tattoos before meeting his eyes. In rapid, silent succession, all three women averted their focus to the ground. One of them, a brunette, took a step back away from their Renault, as though the extra distance could protect her.
Dedos manually cranked his window down and fully exposed his artwork. He wanted to incite fear in the women and erode their perceived safety to counter his rage. Although he had refused to assimilate and learn the local German language, he knew enough vulgarities to get his point across most of the time.
“Wer ist bereit zu ficken?”
One of the women dropped her hot drink, and it crashed onto the sidewalk as she rushed away. The other two froze in place and clung to each other before taking flight as fast as their couture would allow.
Retaco laughed aloud. “Don’t look like none of ‘em’s ready to bang, Dedos!” He cat-called out the open window after them.
Dedos’ instant gratification from dominating the uppity women gave way to his understanding of their reality. Again self-conscious about their appearance and surroundings, Dedos scanned the immediate vicinity for anyone else who seemed interested in them. “We can’t stay here, Retaco, los azules here ain’t gotta have a reason to stop us, and ain’t nobody else around that looks like us. Ever’body that sees us knows we don’t belong.” He zipped his jacket over the front of his neck and rolled the window back up.
The elder gangbanger offered a solution. “I’ll call us some back-up. Got a couple light-skinned mugs with no ink that can tail this muthuhfuckuh ‘round for a few days. They’ll tell us what we need to know, and we’ll pass that on to El Trece, just like we got it our own damned selves. Cain’t quit yet, though, still gotta see if this African’s got another drop today.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Dedos sped away when the light changed. One quick glance down the sidewalk showed all three women had disappeared into nearby storefronts to escape his presence. They wasn’t good enough for me and mine, anyway.
February 12, 06:12am local
Southbound I-25. Larimer County, Colorado.
Father Michael Thomas navigated the rented Chevy truck along the snow-packed interstate. Ira slept peacefully on the passenger seat beneath his fleece blanket while a local rock station kept Michael company. I can’t believe my high school soundtrack is now ‘classic rock.’ Van Halen sounds weird between Led Zeppelin and Steppenwolf. Before leaving Wyoming, Michael had stopped at a Cheyenne vet’s office to get Ira checked out. After his new best friend got a mostly clean bill of health and a new box of all-natural peanut butter treats, Michael pointed them south to Santa Fe and San Miguel Chapel. His father had just emailed to remind him to help Monsignor Hernandez with Sunday mass preparations. The celebration starts in just over twenty-four hours, and the nav system’s telling me I need almost twelve to get back home. I should’ve known better than to drive through Colorado in the winter. You can almost always make it through, you just can’t predict the travel times.
The Knight Rider theme song played from his cell phone and Michael checked the caller ID. Restricted number.
“Hello?”
“Mikey-T, Brandon, man, how’s the priest gig goin’ for you?!”
Michael smiled at the sound of his old friend’s voice. A wealth of memories of their work together in the Silver City Police Department flooded over him. “Brandon! Great to hear your voice, brother! I’m good, man, great, in fact. How’s things in S-C treating you and the Wrecking Crew?”
“Same shit, man. I think they ran out of new bullshit to throw against the wall, and they’re back to picking up the fallen splatter and tryin’ to make that stick again. Nothing changes but the names of the guilty, ya know?”
“I remember, B.” More than you know. “What’s goin’ on, everything alright? Haven’t heard from you troublemakers in a while.”
“Yeah, everything’s good, man, just busy working in the Salt Mines, right? I feel like a total jerk that I haven’t hit you up for a bit, but it’s just hard to make time for anything but the job and the family. Nothing personal, Mikey.”
“I remember that, too. I think most cops are lucky to have anyone remember their name six months after they leave.”
“Nobody’s ever gonna forget about you, man. Cops leave here all the time to go be a cop somewhere else, but you’re the only sum-bitch that left here to go be a priest. Some folks were surprised you wanted to trade uniforms, a few were surprised they let you be a priest in the first place, but either way, nobody’s forgot about you.”
“I figure the only guy in patrol that didn’t have a wife and a girlfriend could at least get some benefit of the doubt.”
“Yeah, that’s still the subject of occasional speculation,” Brandon replied, “but I always knew you really were the virgin you claimed to be. Nobody’s that uptight and nervous around women after they’ve touched the boobies!”
Michael laughed aloud. “Glad nothing’s changed, but I am sorry to hear that my prayers for your soul have been a waste of time. Not sure if I need to double-down or abandon the efforts altogether.”
“Give that shit up, brother, spend time on the ones that gotta chance of makin’ it upstairs. The way I see it, if I’m gonna go to Hell anyway, I may as well get ba
ckstage passes, ya know?”
Michael shook his head at his friend’s facetious antics. “So, seriously, Brandon, what are you hassling me for?”
“Getting married in about a month, and I hoped you might be able to make it out for the wedding.”
“A month? Does she know about this?”
“She better, she’s the one that asked me!”
“Who’s the unlucky lady and why the hell are you makin’ this happen so fast?”
“She’s awesome, Mikey, her name’s Catherine, but she goes by ‘Cat.’ Super cool chick, man, finishing up her master’s at the U in Special Education. Graduates next December. We met over the summer, and neither one of us see any reason to put this off any longer.”
Hearing Brandon’s fiancé’s name reminded Michael of his longtime girlfriend, Catherine Bustamonte, and how hard she’d taken his decision to enter the seminary instead of marrying her. He shook the memory from his thoughts. “So, two questions, B. First, does she know she’s marrying one of her students? Second, when’s she due?”
“Wow, just like old times,” Brandon chuckled. “I thought the priesthood was gonna soften you up a bit, brother.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“August 29th. We were already talkin’ about marriage, though, so she wants to hurry up before she shows in the photos.”
“Can’t have another bastard kid runnin’ around, right? How’s Little Brandon doing, anyway?”
Brandon laughed aloud. “I forgot why I liked you so much, but it’s all comin’ back to me now! I admire a man who won’t pull punches for his friends. You gonna make it out for the wedding, or what?”
“Eat shit, I can’t be part of you desecrating one of God’s holy sacraments! When’s the bachelor party? I can be there for that, I mean, you gotta want a priest to keep watch on you and the boys for the night, right?”
“Well, yeah, uhh, I figured, you’d, ya know, kinda wanna pass on the strippers and booze, but, I can see about--”
“I’m messing with you,” Michael exclaimed. “I got no desire to watch you assholes spend two days in Vegas trying to out-sin each other! I’d be honored to be there for your wedding. If I can be there at all, I will absolutely show my face and meet your next ex-wife.”
“You just made my day. There’s still a few guys from the old Wrecking Crew pushin’ bumpers around town, they’re not gonna believe it when I tell ‘em. Most of the guys we worked with embody that old expression, ‘I trust you with my life, but not my money or my wife,’ ya know?”
Michael smiled at the adage. “I remember.”
“Yeah, so, you and the few other cops I’m inviting are the only ones I trust with all three. ‘Specially you, Mikey.”
“I appreciate that, B, it’s always been mutual. How’d you meet the lucky lady?”
“Who?”
Michael laughed aloud. “Your fiancé!”
“Which one? I’m down to a couple candidates, but I’ll letcha know the winner as soon as I figure it out myself. I think it’s gonna be a game-time decision.”
“Nothing changes with you, B. Send me the info and I’ll work on getting there.”
“You’re the best, Mikey. Talk to you soon, brother.”
“Be safe out there.” Michael disconnected the call and pondered his memories of working as a street cop in Silver City, New Mexico. What would they think of my role now? Would they understand why I’m doing this, or would they see me as just another murderer with irrational reasoning? He gazed out at the road ahead for several long minutes. Regardless of what they would think, I know what they’d do. It’s their job to make sure men like me stand trial, even if they agree with me. They couldn’t ever endorse what I’m doing, even tacitly, and I can’t ever ask them to do so. They might go home and bury their feelings at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, but they’d drop me off at Booking just the same.
That’s the problem with integrity and ideology. No flexibility for either of us. We would both fall asleep that night knowing we’d done the ‘right thing,’ but I’d be the only one who didn’t have intrinsic reservations about my actions. My arresting officers won’t enjoy the same moral clarity.
February 13, 07:14am
Training Compound. Esmerelda County, Nevada.
John knelt on the floor of his private, locked bedroom and worked through his daily morning prayer recitations. Even though he wasn’t an ordained priest, he’d prayed the Liturgy of the Hours for several decades and saw no reason to stop now. As part of his usual habit when he was training a recruit class, John had risen before dawn to send the candidates off on that morning’s workout assignment. He used their workout time to pray and mediate in uninterrupted solitude. Helps me stay focused, and it keeps the recruits from thinkin’ the years’ve slowed me down. Nobody wants to follow a man that’s sleepin’ in while they’re out bustin’ their ass in the dark and cold.
Dressed in his typical plaid button-down shirt, jeans, and hiking boots, his King Ropes baseball cap sat on his dresser. John wore the cap for everything but praying. The massive, shiny bald pate over the whole top of his head embarrassed him much less than attempting any medical solutions to it. He expected that most everyone who’d met him in the last ten years had no idea he didn’t have a full head of hair, which he expected to leverage the next time he needed to make a major career change.
Annoyed by the unexpected ringing of his cell phone, John rose from the floor to answer it. Good news never comes this early on a Sunday. He grabbed the device from his nightstand, silenced its ringer, and glanced at the caller ID. Should’ve put the readers on first. Guess it don’t really matter who the hell it is. “Yeah?”
“Good morning, it’s Harry.”
John grimaced and sighed at his boss’s incompetence. No matter how many times I tell his dumbass, he keeps on usin’ names. “Is it a ‘good morning?’ Publisher’s Clearing House never calls this goddamned early on a Sunday. How do you intend to ruin this one for me?”
“It is only because of your extreme proficiency that I’m forced to tolerate and forgive your transgressions. You should understand that I’m only human, and my capacity for forgiveness is not unlimited.”
John heard Hoffaburr’s frustration and stifled his knee-jerk response. Instead, he adopted a wry smile he hoped would translate through his inflection. “What can I do for you, Bishop?”
“I’m afraid that I must again follow-up on the situation in Vienna. There have been significant intelligence gains in the past twelve hours since our informant’s second confession, and we, err, I would like to get a man on the ground there as soon as possible.”
John stared hard at his bedroom wall as rage pooled in his chest. This...stupid...asswipe. I shoulda known better’n to think ignorance was exclusive to the goddamned C-I-A. “I think you oughta understand a few things. First, I read everything that gets sent to me, usually the same minute it shows up in my inbox. Second, nothing’s changed since we talked yesterday. I don’t care that she's made new allegations, or that she’s givin’ up info on new sins and crimes. Until our desk-nerds that run the intel shop can corroborate enough of her statements, I’m not puttin’ nobody on a plane. I don’t care if she says she knows where Jimmy Hoffa and D.B. Cooper are. I ain’t ready to send live, human resources that breathe and bleed. You and yours agreed to that before I came to work for you, and you, personally, said you understood.”
“Well, yes, but--”
"But nothing. When the intel folks tell me she’s legit, I’ll commandeer another one-a your planes, put one of my best men in it, and promptly send that metal tube where it needs to go. Until then, y’all are just gonna hafta learn to be patient. Like I said yesterday, y’all need to start lettin’ me supervise this team without micromanagin’ us. You ain’t got one damned clue about how to do my job, and I’m used to that, from all the places I worked before this, but I’d really appreciate you givin’ me some damned breathin’ room.
“You tell me you ain’t got
unlimited patience,” John continued, “and I’m tellin’ you that I don’t need this damned job bad enough to put up with a lot of ignorant horseshit.” He paused a moment for emphasis. “Ya got anything else for me, or can I continue with my morning prayers?”
“No, just wanted to, well, ask about, that. If I’m to leave it to you and your judgment, I’m sure you’ll understand the trade-off that I need to know how and when you’ve resolved it.”
John again suppressed his natural reaction. “I suppose I’ll concede and accept that as a fair start. I’ll update ya when there’s somethin’ worth talkin’ about.” John ended the call and tossed the phone down onto his tightly-made bed. Father Harry and the assholes that’s puppet masterin’ him don’t know the first thing about runnin’ clandestine operations. If it’s ever up to them, we’ll be sending Absolvers all over God’s green earth just on the mere potential of a possible mortal sin.
He shook his head and took in a deep, calming breath. It’s like they’re a buncha red-headed five-year-old boys that just got their first hammers. If the only thing rattlin’ around the toolbox is a twelve-pound sledge, every squeaky wheel starts lookin’ an awful lot like a goddamned nail.
John decided he’d get back to God at noontime. He stepped over to his window and looked out over the expansive training grounds he and his staff had set up. The current class of candidates was just visible as they ‘Indian Raced’ up a hillside one half-mile to the west. They got land navigation comin’ up in about a month. The first class of shitheads hadta stumble through the Teton Wilderness. This fresh crop of assholes is gonna start in Death Valley and navigate their way to the peak of Mount Whitney. Take ‘em about a week, maybe ten days to complete the ‘Lowest to Highest’ hike. That shit oughta weed a few-a them out, cut down on my shithead-to-instructor ratio.
John’s thoughts returned to Bishop Harold Hoffaburr, who functioned as his boss and had insisted on having all the recruit candidates call him “Father Harry.” Even if he knows less than a box ‘o hair about how to do my job, he is right that we’re gonna need to send our best people to Vienna, if it comes to that. Andrew was good enough to beat me once, and he’s only gotten better since then. I’d love to watch that kid fight his way out of a stuck elevator someday. That shit’d be a sight to see.
