by Steve Brewer
"What about the load? Was it cigarettes again?"
"That's the weird part," McCoy said. "Nobody knows."
"What do you mean?"
"The driver took off after she stole his truck. Near as we can tell, he didn't even call the cops to report it missing."
"That is strange. Did you see him yourself?"
"Oh, yeah. I told him I recognized that woman, but he didn't seem particularly interested. Said he'd leased the rig and it was all up to the insurance company now."
"And then?"
"Then he said he was going to the terminal to make some calls and he vanished. Nobody around here has seen him since."
"Is he somebody you know?"
"I never seen him before. But he's a hard man to overlook."
"How so?"
"Real tall black man dressed up like a Hollywood cowboy, complete with a fringed leather coat and a ten-gallon hat? We don't see that look much around the truck stop."
"So what happened to him?"
"Beats the hell out of me."
"And why would he run off? Makes me wonder if he had some kind of illegal load."
"That's what I've been thinking."
Romeo thanked McCoy for the tip. Static crackled over the line, but he heard the trucker say he'd keep watch over the truck stop.
"You're still there?"
"I'm staying at one of those motels across the street, but I'm kind of hanging out here at the truck stop until I can figure out what to do next. Hell, it would be hard to leave anyway, what with all the excitement around here. I can hardly wait to see what happens tonight."
Romeo told him he'd come to the truck terminal later, and they could talk in person.
"Maybe you can introduce me to some of the others who saw this woman."
"I'm the only one who got a really good look at her."
Romeo wondered about that. Coincidence? This trucker seemed awfully eager to steer the investigation a certain direction. Could he be covering up something?
Another burst of static, loud enough that Romeo held the phone out from his ear. When it was done, he said into the phone, "Hello? Hello?"
But McCoy was gone.
Chapter 11
Jackie Nolan took a cab to the truck stop in the center of Albuquerque, where she'd left her car the night before. She told the driver to let her out at the convenience store and waited until he drove away before she hiked across the windy parking lot, the duffel bag slung over her shoulder.
No one seemed to be watching, but her heart drummed as she slipped behind the wheel. Always the possibility that someone had gotten curious about the parked car in the wake of the hijackings, but she sped away with no one behind her.
She drove surface streets for six miles to her mother's neighborhood in the sprawling Northeast Heights, stop-and-go traffic the whole way. By the time she arrived, she was exhausted.
Still alert enough, however, to check the curving street before she got out of the car. Once she was sure she was in the clear, she climbed out of the Toyota, duffel bag in hand.
She hated to take the shotgun into the house. She was always careful to keep anything hazardous away from her mother's reach, and she'd never brought a gun into the house before. But now it felt more dangerous to be without one.
The day-shift nurse, a stringy white woman with a sour face, was only too happy to be told she could go home early. She grabbed up her purse and her coat and scurried out the door, as if she feared Jackie might change her mind.
Jackie stashed the duffel bag in a coat closet near the front door. Out of sight, but handy if she needed it.
Marge was in the den, in her favorite chair, her gray hair brushed, her hand clutching at the hem of her pink housedress. The day nurse did a thorough job, but she didn't talk to Marge the way Rose Moore always did. Jackie tried to keep up the chatter when she was home with her mother, hopeful that each word might fire neurons inside her head, might keep the internal electricity crackling for a few more days.
"Hi, Mom. How are you doing?"
Marge didn't turn her head, didn't respond in any way. Jackie touched her shoulder, but still got no reaction. Her mother sat perfectly still, except for that clutching hand. Jackie went around in front of her and leaned down into her face until they were practically nose to nose. Marge blinked a few times, but there was no spark of recognition in her eyes. She didn't even jump when Jackie's cell phone suddenly rang.
Jackie fished the phone out of her pocket and looked at the readout: "Howard." She let it ring until it went to voicemail. She had nothing more to say to Howard Bell today.
She leaned down toward her mother and tried again. "It's me, Mom. It's Jackie."
Nothing. Nobody home.
Marge's lost expression made Jackie feel like crying. She turned away, saying, "How are the birds today, Mom?"
The usual sparrows and finches hopped around the flagstone patio, along with a couple of head-bobbing pigeons, but Marge didn't seem to see them. Her gaze was as distant and opaque as the clouds streaking the sky.
Sighing, Jackie went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. The teabags were in the same ceramic canister where they'd been kept since she was a child. It was shaped like a fat green barrel cactus, red flowers on the lid, and its glazed surface was pitted in a couple of places from long-ago spills.
Jackie remembered her mother making tea in the kitchen of their old house, with its linoleum floors and sunny windows. Jackie would sit at the dining table, dutifully doing her homework, while her mother puttered around the kitchen, spouting platitudes and advice. Marge was always so together when Jackie was young, so in control of the household while Chuck was away on the road, often for weeks at a time.
The old Marge would've pounced on Jackie's current problems, offering solutions and suggestions. She would've happily devised rationalizations to divert blame away from her daughter and come up with strategies to extricate her from this mess. But Marge was no help now.
Once the tea was ready, Jackie carried her steaming cup into the den. Her mother still sat in the chair where she'd left her, nothing moving except for that ever-clutching hand.
Jackie sat in a matching chair, sipping her tea and watching the busy birds through the windows. She didn't answer when Howard called again a few minutes later. She tried to sit as still as her mother, enjoying a moment of repose before facing her troubles again.
Chapter 12
Howard Bell slammed the receiver down on his old-fashioned desk phone. The main reason he kept the heavy black phone was for just such moments of frustration and the satisfying catharsis of loudly hanging it up.
He'd dialed Jackie's phone every few minutes for the past hour, and he'd yet to get an answer. He picked up his pen and resumed his anxious doodling. His desk blotter was covered in her name, "Jackie" scrawled over and over, bolder and more frenzied as each minute passed.
Howard was getting desperate. He was past due on the scheduled phone call to his contact in Mexico. Anything short of good news was likely to piss off Santiago. Be bad enough if he got upset and cut off the business that provided a steady flow into Howard's overseas bank account. Be much worse if Santiago sent some cholo to teach Howard a painful lesson.
Goddamn Jackie and her crisis of conscience. Howard felt he could talk some sense into her, given another chance, and get her to hand over those guns. But not as long as she refused to answer her phone.
Without her, he had nothing. That trailer could be anywhere. She could've parked it on a city street or left it in a parking lot somewhere or stashed it out in the desert. No transmitter on the trailer. No way to find it without Jackie.
Howard pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of his pants and patted his sweaty forehead. It wasn't that warm in the office, but the thick toupee made it feel like he was wearing an oven mitt on his head. A wonder he hadn't baked his brain by now. He put the handkerchief away. Took a deep breath and blew it out.
He needed to call Santiago. He needed t
o buy some time. Which meant he'd need to lie his ass off. No small task, but Howard felt he was up to the job. Lying was what he did best.
He unlocked his desk drawer and got out the cell phone he used solely for calls to Santiago. Every few months, the Mexican mailed a fresh one, programmed with only one number. Howard turned on the phone and pushed the button to make the call.
The phone rang twice before a loud click, then a familiar gruff voice came over the line, "Hola?"
"Good morning, Señor." Howard knew better than to say names over this line. Besides, Santiago already knew who was calling.
"I hope it is a good morning," Santiago said in his lightly accented English. "I've been waiting for your news."
"Sorry I didn't call sooner. We were up late on this one."
"But everything is as it should be with that shipment?"
"Absolutely. We, um, stashed it at a remote location. You know, to make sure we didn't have anyone on our tail."
A pause.
"How remote?" Santiago said.
"What?"
"The shipment is still there in Albuquerque?"
"Oh, sure. I didn't mean remote like far away. Just not here at the salvage yard."
"Ah. It is a fine distinction."
"English is a tricky language."
"Yes," Santiago said. "Tricky."
Howard tried a jovial laugh, but it came out squeaky. Sounded like somebody stepped on a hamster. He cleared his throat and said, "We're ready to deliver that load whenever and wherever you want, but it's safe where it is, so there's no hurry. That's all I'm trying to say."
"Ah, I see. No, no. We would never ask you to hold that shipment for long. I have someone flying there now to take it off your hands."
"Oh, really?" Howard squeaked.
"Our private jet out of Chihuahua City. Should land in Albuquerque in an hour."
"Wow," Howard said. "Guess you were pretty confident we'd succeed last night."
"You've never failed us before."
Howard brushed the back of his hand across his forehead. It came away glistening with perspiration.
"My man wanted to fly up to the States anyway," Santiago said. "He likes to buy his suits up there. And his girlfriend, ai-yi, she is like a fashion model with her jewelry and her leather clothes."
"Tell them to go shopping then. Take their time. Whenever they're done, we'll hook up and I'll take them to that shipment—"
"Oh, no. We believe in business before pleasure. My man will come to see you first."
"Okay."
"This man is called El Gűero. Do you know this word? 'The blond one.' His people came here from Germany between the wars. He looks very gringo, but he does not speak much English. His girlfriend, Rita, she talks enough for both of them."
Santiago paused, as if waiting for a laugh, but Howard wouldn't risk making that hamster sound again.
"They will meet you at your office," Santiago said, "and conduct the transaction. Our driver will take the truck away. You will get paid. And El Gűero and Rita will be free to go to their stylish American stores."
"Okay," Howard managed again, though he felt as if his head might explode any second. "I'll stand by."
"Good. We will talk soon, my friend."
The call clicked to dial tone. Howard dropped the phone on his desk and buried his face in his hands.
Chapter 13
Estes Duvernay frowned at the slovenly young man behind the rental car counter. The company-issued purple blazer fit the kid all wrong, emphasizing his rounded shoulders and bulging belly. He had hooded eyes and a slack jaw and the baffled expression of a stunned ox. He stared at the computer screen as if he'd never seen one before, occasionally clicking a few keys.
Behind him a wall of glass separated the counter area from the manager's office. No one occupied the desk in the office and the lights were off. No help there.
In the windows, Estes could see his reflection frowning back. He was a direct contrast in every way to the kid behind the counter. He stood ramrod straight and his stomach was flat and his crisp khaki shirt fit him perfectly. His steel-gray hair was clipped to a precise half-inch all over, while the rental car kid looked to be wearing a black feather duster on his head.
"Excuse me," Estes said. "Is there some problem?"
"Just waiting on the computer, sir."
"You sure it's the computer? Maybe it's the operator. Because I have to tell you, son, I've seen people move faster than you underwater."
That got the slob's attention. He looked at Estes and said, "Excuse me?"
"What's your name, son?"
"Teddy." The guy pointed at the name badge pinned to his rumpled blazer.
"Okay, Teddy. Tell me. Are you new at this job?"
"No, sir. I've been here four years."
"Four years."
"That's right."
"And would you say you've gotten slower or faster at the job during those four years?"
"I dunno. About the same, I guess."
"About the same. Is that what you want, Teddy? You want to be about the same? Never improving?"
"Sir, I—"
"How old are you, Teddy?"
"What?"
"You heard me."
"I'm twenty-nine."
"Twenty-nine. That's exactly half my age, Teddy. Now look at me and look at yourself. What do you see?"
"Look, Mister—" Teddy checked the screen. "—Duvernay, I don't know what—"
"Colonel, if you don't mind."
"Huh?"
"I haven't been retired from the Army that long," Estes said. "I still prefer to be called Colonel Duvernay."
"Okay, Colonel, um, I've got your car here—"
"You're twenty-nine years old, Teddy, and you're wearing a purple sports coat like someone in a sideshow and you're moving at half-speed all day. Is that how you want to go through life, son? Just sitting there on auto-pilot all day, eating Fritos and staring at your cell phone like a schoolgirl?"
Teddy sat up straighter. "I do my job, sir."
"Well, do it faster, Teddy. Show some spirit. Act like you give an ever-loving shit. Maybe you'll find some ambition."
Teddy seemed like he wanted to argue, but he pressed his lips together and looked away. Customer's always right.
Estes sometimes boggled at how inefficiently the civilian world worked and how poorly people did their jobs. In the Army, poor performance gets punished. Excellence gets rewarded. Things seemed a lot more haphazard out here among the general population.
Teddy hit another button and the printer beside his computer started coughing up the rental contract, one rat-a-tat line at a time.
"Let me ask you something, Teddy. How many push-ups can you do?"
"What?"
"Push-ups. You're familiar with the term, right? Exercise?"
Teddy went sullen again. "Sure."
"How many can you do? And not sissy push-ups either. Military style."
"I dunno. It's been a while."
"I do one hundred push-ups every morning," Estes said. "First thing out of bed. Before I've even had my coffee. You know what that does for me?"
Teddy shrugged.
"It energizes me for the rest of the day. I start off feeling fit and ready to tackle the day ahead. Compare that to how you feel when you wake up in the morning."
Estes smiled at him, thinking how he'd like to get Teddy into basic training for a few days. Show him what push-ups are all about. Teach him some self-respect.
The printer stopped and Teddy ever so slowly tore the page free along its perforation. Then he carefully went through the document, marking all the places the customer needed to initial or sign. Estes scrawled on all the indicated spaces, still trying to hurry this along. Teddy, meanwhile, sullenly spewed the company boilerplate about returning the car and gassing it up and checking it for damage.
Their transaction finally completed, Este snatched the keys from Teddy's hand. He leaned across the counter to whisper to him.
<
br /> "Challenge yourself, Teddy. Be better than you are."
Then he turned on his heel and marched away, his flight bag rolling along behind him like a faithful dog.
Outside, the cloud cover was breaking up, and sunbeams streamed down on the city. Estes pulled his aviator-style sunglasses out of his flapped shirt pocket and slid them onto his face.
The central location for all the auto rental franchises was a short bus ride south of the airport, up on the edge of a mesa overlooking Albuquerque. To the north, he could see the dozen office towers of downtown, stubby fingers jutting up from endless sprawl. The glittering Rio Grande meandered through the city, all elbows and knees as it flowed south.
Estes turned away from the view and searched for his rental car. It was a four-door sedan, as requested, a plain white Ford, and he opened the trunk and set his bag inside. He unzipped the bag and pulled out a lightweight jacket made of a gray microfiber that resisted wrinkles. He slipped the jacket on, then dug around in the bottom of his bag until he came up with a plastic bag containing a disassembled .45-caliber pistol and a clip full of bullets. He looked around the parking lot, but no one was watching. He quickly assembled the gun and slid the clip into the butt and racked a bullet into the chamber. Then he set the safety and tucked the gun into his belt in the back.
Bringing the pistol had meant checking his bag, but it had been worth the hassle of waiting at baggage claim. He didn't want to waste time scrambling around Albuquerque in search of a firearm, and he sure as hell wouldn't go unarmed to his planned business meeting with a couple of crazy skinheads.
Estes got behind the wheel and put on his seat belt and adjusted his mirrors. Once everything was in order and the engine was warming, he fished his phone from his other shirt pocket and pushed three buttons on the keypad.
He held the phone to ear and listened to it ring. On the fourth ring, Tex Russell finally picked up.
"Where are you?" Estes said without preamble. "I thought you were meeting me at the airport."
"That was the plan, Colonel," Tex drawled. "You're right about that. But there's been a hitch with that shipment."
"A hitch? What the hell does that mean?"
