What I’d done, on the Major’s orders, was step back in time to when Texas Rangers went where they were told, depending on where the trouble was. While not officially on the force themselves, Perry Hale and Yolanda backed me up whenever I needed them, moving in the gray area between right and wrong, but always supporting the law.
The truck’s hands-free feature allowed me to talk with Perry Hale at the same time I was trying to fix a stubborn plastic lid on the coffee I’d bought from a vendor down the street. Styrofoam’s never been my friend, and the rim was boogered up, allowing coffee to seep through every time I took a sip.
A military veteran, Perry Hale wasn’t overly thrilled with me crossing the river into Mexico by myself. “You don’t know who that guy on the phone was. They’re probably gonna kill you as soon as you walk into that cantina. You know as well as I do it’s a rough town, controlled by the cartels. They’d love to hang a Ranger’s head on the wall like a trophy deer.”
I watched a clot of slow-moving vehicles moving south across the bridge into the Mexican state of Coahuila. He was right, not about hanging heads on a wall, though I wouldn’t put anything past the cartels.
Only a couple of years earlier, the mayor of Ciudad Acuna, Rico Dominguez, was shot in the back of the skull while he stood in the street taking a selfie with a supporter. That single shot made him the 112th candidate or politician to be killed in just one year.
No one was ever brought to justice for the man’s murder.
It wasn’t my first time to cross, though. I’d been in Mexico as a law enforcement officer a number of times, working cases in tandem with the Chiahuahuan policia south of our Big Bend towns of Lajitas and Ojinaga.
My contact in Coahuila was a tough captain named Alejandro Maldonado, who’d somehow survived for years as a policeman in that crummy border town full of danger and corruption.
“Well, Alejandro’s gotten me in and out more than once.”
“I don’t like it.” Perry Hale paused. “And neither does Yolanda. She’s shaking her head. When are you crossing?”
“In a few minutes.” I took a sip, and a drop of coffee fell on my light-colored shirt. “Dang it.” I took a napkin from the console and blotted it.
“Hang on ’til we get there. We’ll cross with you.”
“No.” I’d already told him about the Nelson attack. “I’m worried about those two old gals more than me. I talked with the local constabulary here, and they’re capable of handling car wrecks and crimes of passion, but they’re in over their heads with this one. I want y’all to come and move these gals out for a while until I can get ’em relocated somewhere else.”
“You want us to babysit two little old ladies.”
“Call it what you want. Tell them you’re with me, show ’em those badges the Major gave you, and then move ’em somewhere. Hell, take ’em to my house for a little while. Kelly’ll enjoy having them around for a few days. After I’m sure this is over, we’ll get ’em back, or settled somewhere else.” Another drop fell. “Dammit.”
“What? Something wrong?”
I wiped at the growing stain. “Naw, I got coffee on my shirt.”
“Sounds like a tragedy to me. On second thought, why don’t you take that shirt to the cleaners and wait for us? We’ll all go together.”
“Because I’ve already told Alejandro I’m on the way. He’s probably waiting at the bridge right now.”
“Call and tell him you’ll be there in the morning.”
“Just so y’all can walk in with me.”
“Well, no. I don’t want to go in with you. I want to follow and keep an eye out.”
I knew how he usually traveled, and that was armed to the teeth with a variety of weapons that could shoot or cut. “You’d be unarmed if you crossed at the bridge, which I would highly recommend instead of sneaking across like you did the last time. They catch you with weapons, you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison, ’cause I doubt I’d be able to do anything about it. I really don’t want you or Yolanda walking around down there and not be heeled, neither. So stay where you are.”
“We can take care of ourselves.”
It was like talking to a petulant teenager.
“And so can I.” Using my thumb, I pressed the thin plastic lid down over the lip.
Perry Hale wouldn’t give up. I figured Yolanda was listening in and pushing him to talk me out of my impetuous idea. They both know what gets me in trouble.
“You know the whole town’s fallen, right. The cartels are in charge, and they kill anyone whenever the mood strikes, including officials. The place has been in the hands of animals since that big prison break back in 2012. It don’t pay to be police or military down there, and I doubt there’s any legit cops left. If your contact still has his job, he’s probably on the take.” He paused, and I could tell he was either whispering to Yolanda or thinking. He came back with an accusation. “You’re not taking your pistol, are you? Hope not, because even though you have a badge, they’ll throw you under the jail in a heartbeat. To me that means you don’t go until we get there.”
“You’re right.” I glanced down at my hip. “Already got it in the lockbox under the back seat. I feel like I’m talking to Kelly.” I’d just finished the same discussion with my wife, and she wasn’t happy about the situation, either. “I’ll be with Alejandro, and I trust him. You don’t need to worry.”
“So you’re gonna go over there, get in trouble, and then we’ll have to sneak into a foreign country and try to find you, and hope we’re not there looking for your body when we have to cross. I see it happening. Remember the last time you were in Mexico.”
“That wasn’t my idea then. This one is, and it’ll be just fine.” I took another sip of the hot liquid, feeling it dribble down my chin. “Argh!”
“Spill some more?”
I wiped it off with the palm of my hand. “I’m about to throw this cup out the window.”
“Well, I don’t like it.”
“Me littering?”
“Funny guy. Thousands of comedians out of work and you’re making really weak-ass jokes.”
“I haven’t heard that one since I was a kid.” I glared at the foam cup containing two dollars of coffee I couldn’t drink. “I’ll call you when I’m back across.”
“What was the name of that cantina again?”
“The Caballo Diablo.”
“Devil Horse. That’s fitting. You know what street it’s on?”
“You writing this down?”
“Damn right.”
“Morelos Street. But go take care of those old ladies first.” I punched the phone screen and peeled the lid off the coffee to drink like a human being instead of sipping through a tiny hole. Somehow it had sealed better than I thought, and when I flicked it off, the foam cup tore, dumping half the contents on my shirt.
“Dammit!”
Then I remembered I hadn’t thrown in my little suitcase Kelly kept packed for me for just such emergencies. All I had was that flowerdy Aloha shirt in the back seat I’d meant to take to the cleaners.
“Dammit!”
Chapter 14
The Devil Woman’s single-story stucco ranch house looked simple from the outside, rustic to match the surrounding desert full of scrub cactus and bushes. Inside, the appointments were also rustic, but expensive. Every architectural feature was imported at great cost. The massive beams overhead once held the roof of a centuries old Irish castle and were imported to Coahuila to satisfy the Devil Woman’s whim. Art stolen during World War II and thought lost forever decorated two walls.
But in many cases, what looked old, wasn’t. Bois d’arc floors seemed ancient, but each detail of antiquity was hand crafted. Despite the desert heat, a fire crackled in the fireplace built to the specifics matching one in a house once owned by Shakespeare. A specially designed air conditioning system kept the house’s interior cool until the desert evenings allowed her to fold back an entire living room wall to catch the fresh b
reezes.
A shape appeared in the doorway to that same huge open living room. “You wanted to see me again?”
Barefoot and curled up like a kitten on a leather couch in her study, Tish Villarreal was changing channels with a high-tech remote control, looking like a teenager putting off the weekend’s homework. A ninety-eight-inch flat-panel TV mounted on one wall was turned to a news channel. Half a glass of red wine rested on a round table beside the Hidalgo cartel’s leader.
The slender woman barely glanced up at Esteban from the screens. “I have an . . . assignment for you, but you handle it on your own. You are not to tell anyone. Just leave.”
“Sí, señorita.”
She absently bit down on a red manicured fingernail, a habit she’d been trying to break. “Benito Oaxaca has been working on his own.”
Esteban inclined his head in question.
“He and others are traidores. None of my people are going into business for themselves. You all know that.”
“You want me to take care of the traitors, then?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to bring the bodies to the garden?”
“No. Leave him where he lays. They need to see what happens when I am disobeyed.” She gave him a cold smile. “I have another in mind for my garden.”
“Bueno. I will do that.”
“Make it messy, Esteban. I want his blood to run down the street.”
“Sí.”
“Do not fail. I’m tired of failure this day. Kill Oaxaca and your family will be safe.”
He paused a beat. “Gracias, but if you will remember, I am a huerfano, I have no family.”
She returned to the television and flicked her fingers, dismissing the man.
As Esteban faded from her doorway, she spoke to the blank-faced CNN reporter staring outward from the HD screen. “Yes, you do.” She took the smallest sip of wine possible. “Everyone has family if you dig deeply enough, and my friend, if Oaxaca isn’t dead by tomorrow morning, I’ll find out.”
The Devil Woman took a larger celebratory sip of her wine aged in bourbon barrels, savoring the taste. There were so many good things in life, when you were finally successful.
Chapter 15
Ciudad Acuna police Captain Alejandro Maldonado was waiting not far from the end of the bridge on the Coahuila side of the Rio Grande, just like I said. Folks expecting to cross and be right in town were often surprised to see a wide, pleasant plaza converge into one thoroughfare lined with palm trees and what looked to me like live oaks.
In a light linen sport coat, khakis, and a black T-shirt, Alejandro was leaning against a four-door black Dodge Ram pickup parked on the sunny curve across the street from the Bienvenido a Ciudad Acuna sign.
I’d walked across, so I was already hot and sweating. Trickles rolled from under my hat and tickled the sides of my cheeks. His pockmarked face broke into a wide grin. “Hola amigo!”
We gave each other one of those big, slapping hugs that men like. I hadn’t seen him for almost a year, and in that time his once short black hair had become salt and pepper. Still black, and possibly from dye, his pencil mustache was as carefully tended as I remembered.
I stepped back. “Good to see you, my friend.”
He gave me the once-over. “Even with your hat, you don’t look like a Texas Ranger in that loud shirt.”
I didn’t really like to hear him say that in the open. Glancing around, I made sure there weren’t people close enough to hear. “Incognito.”
He plucked at the bright yellow, flowered Hawaiian shirt I’d slipped on back at the truck. It was all I had to replace my coffee-soaked Ariat western shirt. “Camouflage.”
“You might say that.”
“Bien. You wore the right shirt, then. You look like the rest of the gringo tourists who come down here in hats.” He reached into the truck’s open window and handed me a small but heavy nylon daypack. “You can tuck this in while we drive. Get in.”
I hefted the bag, suspecting what was inside and wondering why he handed it to me in the open, instead of passing it over when we got in the cab. For an instant, my conversation with Perry Hale gave me a moment of paranoia. Was this a setup? Would the Mexican army come swooping around the corner to arrest me for having a firearm in their country? There was no way to prove he’d given it to me. If so, it was an immediate prison sentence that would become a death sentence in a matter of days, if not hours.
American lawmen had no place inside a Mexican prison.
He must have seen something in my eyes. “It is safe. I am not corrupted . . . yet.” He rolled the word on his tongue, something I’d never been able to do.
I swallowed, glad to see I had enough spit to do the job. “I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
There was that thing in my eyes again, and he laughed. “Just teasing. But truthfully, don’t trust anyone else here. It is very dangerous. If anyone asks, you are a tourist looking to buy some botas. We’ll drop by a shop while you’re here and get you a pair.”
I never did like Mexican boots. The toes are always too long and sharp for my taste. I glanced down at the black Justin Ropers on my feet. I’d left what I still thought of as my Sunday boots back at the truck. Wearing expensive Luccheses on that side of the border could get you killed in a hurry.
We settled into his front seat. As usual in nearly all vehicles since 1968, the seatback bumped the brim of my hat. I took it off and pitched it up on the dash. Glancing back into the back seat, I was surprised to see a khaki-colored Scorpion 9mm submachine gun lying on the seat. “Nice hardware.”
“It is sometimes necessary.” He must have been waiting for me to notice the weapon, because he reached back and pulled a bright blanket over the gun.
I opened the daypack as he pulled into the street. Inside was a Beretta M9, a weapon I was intimately acquainted with. I liked the big pistol that holds fifteen rounds in the magazine. It looked brand new, and there were several more magazines besides the one in the handle.
“There’s a lot of ammo in here.”
“If shooting starts, you’ll need every round.” His eyes flicked from the street to the pistol, and then back again. “I know you like your Colt with the Sweetheart Grips, but I assume you left it on the other side.”
“Sure did, and thanks for this.”
“They asesinar, assassinate people with regularity here in Coahuila now that the cartels are in charge. I don’t want you killed under my watch, so don’t bring notice to yourself beyond that shirt.”
“Don’t intend to.” His warning on top of what I’d heard from Perry Hale had my nerves humming like tension wires. It hadn’t been that way the last time I crossed there.
The clean look of the city that visitors saw at first was nothing than a thin façade once we turned onto a narrow side street well away from the tourist area. An overwhelming sense of poverty took over at the sight of dirty, cracked, and potholed streets lined with cinderblock buildings. The farther Alejandro drove, and it wasn’t truly that far from the bridge, the more desperate the area became.
Every house had some kind of metal fence or masonry wall around it, and those made of stucco had a startling number of what I took to be bullet holes. Laundry hung on the metal fences, drying in the blistering sun. Scattered throughout the neighborhood, small businesses painted in startling colors brightened the somewhat drab area.
Some of the more ragged, dusty shops didn’t have front doors or even front walls. They reminded me of three-sided cow sheds my relatives built from scrap wood back in East Texas.
Each building had a covey of hard-eyed men loafing in whatever shade was available. They watched us pass with dead expressions. I tucked the big Beretta into the waistband at the small of my back and slid two loaded magazines into the left front pocket of my Wranglers.
Alejandro showed his bright white teeth again. “So you are here investigating the attempted murder of two Anglo abuelas in Del Rio.”
&nb
sp; “Yep. Somebody tried to kill a couple of little old ladies.” I hadn’t told him of the mysterious phone message, just that I needed to speak to someone on the Mexican side in the Caballo Diablo cantina. “We think that incident has something to do with other murders closer to the Big Bend region.”
“All murders down here have tie-ins with other killings. It is the way of life now. Blood leads to blood.”
“That’s a hard way to live.”
“Most of the time it’s not living. It’s survival.”
“Like I said, that’s a helluva way to live.”
He laughed. “Helluva. I love the way you speak.”
A shiny black Expedition suddenly shot from a side street, missing our front bumper by only inches. I grabbed the dash with one hand and reached for the pistol, expecting the SUV to stop, ejecting men with automatic weapons.
“Dammit!”
Alejandro slammed the brakes and the car passed, disappearing down the street. “Pendejos! They drive like they’re the only ones in this whole country.”
Nerves jangling, I took a deep breath and sat back. “It’s the same way back home, except the drivers are probably texting.”
He snorted and we continued down a paved street crumbling to dust. He soon pointed. “There it is.”
He parked on the street, and I got out and set my hat. We went inside.
I didn’t like the place one little bit. The Caballo Diablo was the darkest, smokiest, most frightening gun and knife joint I’d ever been in, and I’d been in some Oklahoma honky tonks on the Red River back when they still had sawdust on the floors.
The old men I grew up around said gun and knife clubs were so mean and tough that when the owner asked you if you had a weapon when you came in, if you said no, they’d give you one to help even up the odds.
Alejandro led the way into the dim interior and stepped to the side to let his eyes adjust. I did the same with my heart in my chest, just waiting on some dark shape to come roaring up at us.
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