by PAUL BENNETT
‘File’s a bit sketchy on that.’
‘Wonder why. Wouldn’t be, by any stretch of the imagination, Toomey thinking you might get cold feet if you knew the size of the opposition?’
‘Toomey knows he’s got me where he wants me. My reading of it is that the hired guns are fluid. Come and go from Columbia when needed. The bigger the new empire, the more back-up he will have. Now could be the best time to hit him, before he gets too strong.’
‘So where’s the battlefield?
‘Northern Mexico, close to the border with Arizona. Nearest big city would be Sonora, but we’re headed to a small village called Santa Rio on the edge of the desert. Rojo’s got a big finca there, lots of servants, no expense spared, so that he can live like he did in Columbia. And, if Daddy ever visits, he’ll be impressed.’
‘Exactly why there?’ Bull asked. ‘Seems strange to live somewhere so remote.’
‘Big fish in a little pool. Makes it easier to guard him, too. Plus there’s one other advantage.’
‘Uh uh.’
‘Estevez lives in the same town. The boy probably figures that the nearer he is to Estevez, the bigger a threat he will be.’
‘Maybe this kid is smarter than we think.’
I nodded. ‘Won’t pay to underestimate him.’
‘A virtue learned by experience,’ Bull said, probably reflecting on some of our previous escapades. ‘Let that be our watchword.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah, press the button for some more champagne. This thinking is thirsty work.’
‘Imagine how Stan feels,’ I said.
‘Must have beer on an intravenous drip.’
I smiled and pressed the buzzer. You can always rely on Bull for a good idea.
Chapter Five
Red met us at Dallas Tulles airport. He had come in a big black MPV and we lifted our heavy Bergans into the capacious boot and climbed into the vehicle. I sat in the front with Red, and Bull cowered in the back with his eyes closed.
‘Pieter and Stan are already here,’ he said. ‘I’ve laid on some steaks for tonight and a bottle or four of fancy Californian wine. New cook ain’t a patch on Ho, but then that’s why Stan stole her from me. Always had good taste did Stan.’
‘What have you been up to since we last met in Poland?’ I asked.
‘I’m now the town mayor, so I’m about as busy as I can handle. Still, Jesse has made a good foreman and he keeps most of the day-to-day stuff under control. Couldn’t have a better right-hand man, especially now he’s all healed up. He gave a cheer when he heard that the killer in black was dead.’
‘Didn’t we all,’ I said.
‘Amen,’ said Bull.
‘The mining has started,’ Red continued, ‘and the town’s buzzing. New buildings going up all over the place, but I make sure they’re in keeping. Don’t want to lose that authentic Wild West look.’
‘Can you drop me off in town and have someone pick me up later?’
‘Going to see Jerome, huh?’
‘I promised him I’d visit if I ever came back. I like to keep my promises.’
‘No problema,’ said Red, already practising his Spanish.
As we entered the town I could see the difference just a few short months had made. There were a couple of new restaurants, another saloon and the general store had been extended back from the street. The hotel was still there, and so was Jerome sitting in his rocking chair on the porch with the new puppy on his lap.
Red stopped the car and I got out and walked over to Jerome. It was like I had never been away. Same chair, same porch, same white hair on his old black face. Different dog, though. Jerome must have given a cheer as well when he heard the news of the killer in black’s demise.
‘Well, lookee here dog,’ he said. ‘What do we have here?’ He made to get out of the chair.
‘Don’t get up for me, old timer,’ I said. ‘Beer? Peanuts for the dog?’
‘That would be right fine,’ Jerome said.
I walked inside the hotel and up to the bar. Got two bottles of beer and a dish of peanuts to see whether the dog had mastered the art of plucking them out of the air as yet. I walked back outside, passed a beer to Jerome and put the dish of peanuts on the floor. The puppy jumped down from Jerome’s lap and nuzzled against my leg. Was it possible that he remembered me from the time I carried him in the folds of my jacket those months ago? I bent down, picked up a peanut. The puppy looked at me as if knowing what was to come. I flicked the peanut in the air and the puppy jumped up and, with expert timing, plucked it out of the air.
‘Pretty good for a young un,’ Jerome said with pride. ‘It’s his party trick. Guests love to flick him a nut. If it goes on like this, I’m going to have to put him on a diet.’
I leaned back against the rail that ran round the porch. Took a sip of the cold beer. Toasted Jerome with the bottle.
‘You’re looking good, old timer,’ I said.
‘Things are mighty fine here now that the senator has gone and the town got civilised. Suits me down to the ground. No bigots around anymore. More people, more tips.’ He ran his eyes over me. ‘You’re not looking too bad yourself. What brings you back to my neck of the woods?’ I made to speak. ‘No, don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Your old friend Trouble, I’m guessing. You sure can’t shake him off your tail.’
‘Situation down in Mexico,’ I said.
‘Bad?’
‘Heap bad, as Red would say.’
‘Can you handle it?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘But don’t say that to the others. Bad enough one of us has a crisis of confidence.’
‘Mexico’s a mean place, so I hear. Pretty much lawless.’ He took a swig on his beer. ‘What is it this time? Must be smuggling,’ he said, answering his own question. ‘People or drugs?’
‘Drugs. Maybe people too, for all I know at this stage. The bad guys might have fingers in more than one pie.’
‘You be sure to chop ’em off,’ he said.
He went quiet, stared into the distance while sitting there, just rocking his chair back and forth. Finally, he looked up at me.
‘When I was in Nam we had to raid a village. Enemy stronghold. We were s’posed to move in at dawn. No one slept. We left bleary-eyed in full night camo. You know?’
‘I know it well.’
‘Well, being a black guy meant I didn’t need the war paint. Boy I was with, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, had buddied up with a guy who didn’t do a great job. Still traces of white showing.’
I knew where this was going. If I’d been a Catholic, I would have crossed myself.
‘Me and the boy went in one of the huts and who’s there but two Cong, rifles in hand. I had an edge because I was black and they didn’t see me straightaway. But, they saw the kid plain enough. Then he made the fatal mistake. He hesitated. Like me he probably hadn’t killed anyone before.’ He paused. Not for effect, but for the young men gone before they had a chance of a life and to become old men. ‘They killed him before he could react. I shot them both, for all the good it did. Kill a Cong and another steps into his shoes.’
‘And the moral of this story old man?’
‘Make sure you’ve got an edge, Johnny.’
I nodded.
‘And don’t hesitate.’
I nodded again.
‘And if you don’t come back alive . . . ’
‘ . . . You’ll kill me.’
‘You got it.’
* * *
We were sitting at the big old table in the main room of Red’s ranch. The steaks had been good, and so were the fries and salad. The cook might not be as adventurous as Ho, but he did the simple things well and that’s not easy to do. Don’t complicate matters is a good principle. We topped up our glasses with the Californian merlot and moved into business mode — I’d covered the basics and it was now on to detail. Red sat opposite with Pieter, his safari tan highlighting his blond hair and baby-blue e
yes. Bull was to my left and Stan, poker-faced, pad of paper and pen in front of him, to my right.
‘My plan so far is that Stan flies to Mexico tomorrow morning, finds us a base and starts to scout out the land. The rest of us motor down with the guns.’
‘Assault rifles are already in the trunk. Even got you an Uzi, Johnny. Though, personally, I’d go for the Kalashnikov any day.’
It was a discussion we always had when talking weapons. The Uzi was lighter, shorter, had a forty-bullet magazine and was more manoeuvrable. The Kalashnikov, readily available anywhere in the world, had less bullets in the magazine, could cut a man in two, but had a bad habit of jamming at inopportune times. Any time a gun jams is inopportune.
I nodded my approval at Red.
‘How many are we up against?’ Pieter asked.
‘Fluid,’ said Bull. ‘That’s what the brief says. Which means we don’t have a clue.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Stan said. ‘If we assume this Rojo guy needs round-the-clock protection, it will be a minimum of three. One eight-hour shift each.’ There were nods around the table at Stan’s logic.
‘That means only one on guard at any one time,’ he continued. ‘Seems too little. So if we say two guards at any one time, it would be a minimum of six.’
‘And if there’s three per shift,’ Red said, ‘That would mean nine. We’re working on multiples of three.’
‘However,’ Stan said — there was an intake of breath around the table for bad news was sure to follow — ‘they might only work six-hour shifts.’
‘And then we’d be working in multiples of four,’ said Pieter. ‘Four, eight, twelve and so on.’
‘Like I said,’ Bull cut into the multiplication table, ‘we don’t have a clue.’
‘Well, at least they don’t know we’re coming,’ I said. ‘They’ll be unprepared. The element of surprise will be on our side. Maybe we can keep it simple — go in, grab the girl, get out again before they know what hits them.’
‘One of the first things I’ll do,’ said Stan, ‘is take a good look at their defences. They might be sloppy, reckon that Mexico isn’t Columbia and lower their guard.’
‘Mexico is a bad place,’ Red said. ‘I’ve been there and anywhere off the tourist trail is pretty much lawless. ‘
‘I did some research,’ said Stan.
‘We never doubted it,’ said Bull.
‘We’re talking around 30,000 murders per year. Most related to drugs, the rest people trafficking. The bulk — ninety per cent or so — of drugs getting into the United States originates in South America and comes through Mexico. There’s so much drugs money slopping around that those in power have almost certainly been bribed. We can assume that anyone — police included — is corrupt.’
‘So Rojo,’ I said, ‘will have some policeman in his pocket and would know if they had been asked to rescue the girl. If he carries out his threat, the girl is as good as dead. Rojo must believe he can do whatever he wants without fear of recrimination from the police. Again, that might make him sloppy.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t use the might word,’ Bull said, ‘or the maybe word, come to think of it. Whenever you do, someone starts shooting at us.’
‘Might not happen this time,’ I said.
‘There you go again,’ said Bull, shaking his head. ‘What are our assets?’ he said to Red.
Red stood up and went across the room to a big, old wooden chest which had a vase of yellow flowers on it. Flowers didn’t seem like Red’s style, we were all thinking. He picked up the vase and placed it on the floor. Opened the chest and scooped up the contents, walked back to the table and dumped the heavy load in the middle.
‘Browning Hi-Power 9mm for each of us.’ He started distributing the guns. ‘Enough ammunition for a war in an African country.’ He slid boxes of bullets around the table to each of us. ‘Shoulder holsters. Finest leather. And I’ve got a neat holster for the shotgun so that I can wear it on my belt like Wyatt Earp’s Buntline. Also got some Colt Magnums — would be a shame to die through lack of weapons.’
Stan moved his guns and cartridges back towards Red. ‘You’ll need to stow these until we meet up. I’m going to book my plane ticket and get an early night. Give my compliments to the chef, Red. Maybe next time he could use the odd dill pickle or two. Shame not to have one of Poland’s finest exports.’
He stood up and went to the back of the room to use his computer. ‘Early night is a good idea,’ I said. ‘Are Bull and I in the bunkhouse?’
‘If you don’t mind. I know Jesse will be pleased to see you.’
‘At least we don’t have to play sentries this time,’ Bull said.
Bull and I picked up our weapons, shells and holsters and left the room.
The bunkhouse had just the two bunks free, one up, one down, this time. Last time some of the men had been frightened off by the killer in black and there was plenty of choice of where to sleep.
Jesse came over to us the moment we entered the room. He moved easily — no lingering signs from the beating he had taken from the killer in black. He was close to six foot and was heavily built. His face had that deep tan that comes from working in the sun all day. He shook my hand and Bull’s.
‘Good to see you again.’ He noticed the guns. ‘Do I take it business calls? We all know what kind of business you’re in.’
‘A little trouble down in Mexico,’ I said. ‘We leave in the morning.’
‘Well you be sure you come back alive. If you don’t I’ll . . .’
‘You’ll kill us.’
‘I was about to say I’d hogtie you to a mule and beat his ass with a hickory switch.’ He smiled at me. ‘Only kidding,’ he said. ‘I’ll kill you.’
Chapter Six
Stan had left by the time the rest of us met for an early breakfast. The sun wasn’t up yet and we had about an hour before we hit the road. Red reckoned we had nearly four hundred miles to travel to the village on the borders of the desert. We’d take turns driving and the MPV would eat up the miles, but we had to take care not to be stopped, and searched, by the Highway Patrol for exceeding the speed limit. It was going to be a long journey.
Our route would take us to the Mexican border at El Paso and across on minor roads north of Chihuahua and then towards Sonora, before finally heading into the desert to the north of the city. By midday we were hungry and thirsty. I was driving with a few miles to go before the border and saw a sign that a Mexico Real restaurant was coming up in five miles. I almost didn’t need to ask the others if we should stop. The boredom of the journey was getting to us as much as the hunger and, hell, the first-hand research might come in useful.
I pulled into the car park and we got outside and stretched our limbs. Autumn was on us, but Mexico didn’t seem to know that. There was a heat shimmer from the tarmac of the road ahead and dust was swirling around. All we needed was tumbleweed and we were back in the days of the Wild West.
We were in mission mode, so had lightweight jackets covering our handguns in their holsters. We walked inside and I was impressed. Someone had actually thought a lot about the décor. OK, there were cactuses painted on the walls, and sombreros dotted around the place, but the lighting wasn’t that get-in-eat-up-get-out glare that you got from fluorescent strips. Seats were arranged in low-backed banquettes to give some element of privacy and there was a homely feel about it. It was the sort of place, if being a little short of money, you could come with your wife for a night out and not feel ripped off when the bill came. As one might have thought, the place was nearly full.
We settled ourselves in one of the banquettes and studied the menu. ‘Do you speak Spanish?’ Pieter asked Red.
‘Si.’
‘Is that it?’ Pieter probed.
‘Si.’
‘We may well need an interpreter,’ I said.
‘What’s tortilla?’ Pieter asked.
‘A kind of flat bread made of corn,’ Red told him.
�
��And tacos?’ Pieter asked again.
‘It’s a flat bread filled and folded in half.’
‘Wraps?’ Pieter probed.
‘A flat bread used as a kind of envelope for chicken and things.’
‘Nachos?’
‘It’s fried tortilla cut into strips.’
‘Hell,’ said Pieter. ‘This isn’t food, it’s origami.’
A waitress walked over. She was wearing a dress that I took to be as much national costume as Mexico got without going back to the Mayan era. She smiled sweetly as she poised a pen over her pad. She had the sort of build that, if I’d come out for a night with the wife, I would be reprimanded for staring. Her lips were full and so were her breasts. I tried to concentrate on her lips. Pieter gave her a winning smile and I could feel her smouldering inside. We ordered — Pieter simply said, ‘I’ll have what’s they’re having,’ — and watched her sashay back to the service counter.
‘Who cares about the food,’ said Pieter. ‘She can fold my tortilla anytime.’
And then all hell let loose. It was like the scene in Pulp Fiction. The doors flew open and two young men barely out of their teens entered with firearms raised and pointing round the room.
‘Put your hands on your heads,’ one of them shouted, while motioning the other to get behind the counter. The one doing the shouting, seemingly in charge, was standing next to an old lady out with her grandchildren, a young boy and freckle-faced girl. Granny was worried about the kids and so was slow about raising her hands. The man pistol-whipped her around the face, cutting a deep groove down her right cheek. ‘I said put your hands on your heads, Granny. Do I have to hit you again? Is that what you want? Or shall I hit the kids.’
I felt Bull stiffen. I caught his gaze and let it follow my eyes to the one behind the counter. I nudged Pieter and looked down at the floor.
The two young men were jumpy — they needed a fix badly. If they started shooting, God knows who they might hit. One wrong move and it could be carnage.
‘It doesn’t have to be this way,’ I shouted at them while slowly standing up. Bull stood up, too. ‘Put your guns down before someone gets hurt, and that someone is going to be you.’
