Shotgun Boogie

by Steve Brewer

  "Not gonna happen."

  "Please!"

  "Bye, Howard."

  She pushed the button to disconnect, then put the phone in her pocket. Almost immediately, it started ringing again. Jackie turned the ringer off and put it away again. She could feel it buzzing in her pocket like an angry hornet, but that was easier to ignore.

  She opened the door of the El Camino and looked inside.

  "You doing okay, Mom?"

  Marge didn't respond.

  Jackie got behind the wheel. "You ready to go home?"

  Nothing.

  Chapter 17

  Clyde Rawls stared out the tinted window of the Hummer at the passing human detritus. Bums and winos and junkies littered the sidewalk near a bus stop. All of them various shades of brown and black, baked by the relentless New Mexico sun until their skin took on the sheen of glazed pottery. They were bundled up against the cold weather in their grimy hoodies and hats and woolen rags, and Clyde could only imagine how they must smell.

  Some might look at these street people with pity, but to Clyde they were living proof of everything he believed. They were lesser beings, these mud people, with none of the ambition and ingenuity and drive that distinguished the white race. The purity of the Aryan bloodline is the only thing that might save the world from itself, Clyde believed. Otherwise, the whole world would eventually resemble the mutts and misfits on this sidewalk.

  His driver, Daryl Stewart, stopped for a red light, and a blubbery woman of indeterminate age shuffled through the crosswalk in front of them. She wore plastic shower shoes, green sweatpants, a purple jacket and a bright orange knit hat that stood tall above a face carved into a permanent scowl.

  "Whoa, look at that one!" Daryl hooted beside him. "I didn't know the circus was in town."

  Daryl laughed at his own joke, loud enough for both of them, which was just as well. These people depressed Clyde. They were reminders that these were the last days before the End of Civilization. And he still had so much to do.

  Clyde had first learned about the coming race war during a stint in prison for forgery. He was young and impressionable, and the tough guys of the Aryan Brotherhood offered him protection from the other gangs that ran the cellblocks. He soon embraced the philosophy, but not the group itself. The Aryan Brotherhood was well-established, with its own hierarchy, and there was no way an undersized man like Clyde Rawls could ever climb that ladder.

  Instead, he started his own, similar group, the Anglo Brotherhood. Clyde and his thirty or so followers removed themselves from civilization before it could collapse into anarchy and apocalypse. They lived off the grid in the mountains of western New Mexico, in a fenced compound of solar-powered cabins and barns and greenhouses on forty hilly acres Clyde had inherited from his grandmother. They raised most of their own food, patrolled the perimeter day and night, and avoided interaction with their neighbors.

  Most of the time, Clyde was kept so busy building his little kingdom, he was able to block out the rest of the world and its problems. But a drive through Albuquerque was a good reminder that the end was nigh.

  The light changed and Daryl stomped the accelerator and they roared away from the intersection. Clyde had repeatedly asked him to avoid such jackrabbit starts. The Hummer already gulped gasoline like it was drunk on the stuff.

  He glanced over at Daryl, but didn't scold him about his driving. The boy was excited about this rare visit to the big city, and Clyde didn't want to ruin it for him.

  Daryl had been with Clyde for three years now, longer than most members of the Anglo Brotherhood, which suffered a lot of turnover because some chickenshits were too soft for the off-the-grid lifestyle. They needed flush toilets and telephones and soda pop and TV.

  Daryl simply showed up one day at Clyde's compound, a slab-muscled kid with steel-toed boots and an empty head. Which suited Clyde, who had plenty of his own dogma to pour in there. Three years later, no one was more loyal than Daryl. He made a perfect bodyguard. He was well over six feet tall and weighed close to three hundred pounds. Just the sight of him was enough to deter anyone who might be tempted to fuck with Clyde Rawls.

  Clyde did what he could to project the proper Aryan menace, but it was tougher at five-foot-six and one-hundred-forty pounds. He wore his head shaved, of course. His big brown mustache walrused down over his mouth. His sinewy arms were littered with black tattoos that told the story of his hatred, and he had a swastika on one side of his neck and SS lightning bolts on the other.

  Most of that was show, of course. The only thing the Nazis got right, as far as he was concerned, was the supremacy of the white race. Otherwise, the Thousand-Year Reich was a seven-year flop. But as a symbol, it was hard to beat a swastika when it came to telling people to back the fuck off.

  If someone still didn't get the message, Clyde could flash the Luger that he always carried on his person. The German pistol, so familiar from war movies, was extremely persuasive. He hardly ever had to fire it.

  The Luger was one of only a handful of guns at the Anglo Brotherhood compound. Most of the members were convicted felons, so they couldn't buy guns through legal means. They made do with a motley collection of pistols and shotguns and hunting rifles, but that was about to change. The automatic weapons they were scheduled to buy today would give the Brotherhood the most firepower of anyone in the region, including law enforcement. Clyde would finally have the well-equipped army he'd always dreamed of. He'd be unstoppable.

  They went another mile before Daryl finally thought to ask, "Where we going anyway?"

  "I want to check out the hotel. Make sure they haven't set up some sort of trap."

  Daryl let the Hummer slow a little.

  "I thought you had this deal all set up," he said. "You think it's a trap?"

  "I didn't say that—"

  "Who? The feds? ATF?"

  "Calm down, Daryl. I didn't say it was a trap. I said I wanted to check it out. We'll take a walk around and make sure everything's cool."

  "But you think everything's okay?"

  "We'll see," Clyde said. "I don't trust Army guys, usually, but this retired colonel seems to be motivated by only money. Greed's much better than trust. Trust wavers. People betray you. But greed's always there."

  Daryl nodded eagerly, as usual, but Clyde wondered how much of his life advice was wasted. Deep thoughts seemed to bounce right off Daryl's thick skull.

  "You'll want to get in the left lane," Clyde said. "We're turning soon."

  Daryl turned on his blinker and looked back over his shoulder, checking traffic.

  "Your other left."

  Daryl blushed and said, "Oh. Right."

  He changed the blinker and let the gray Hummer drift into the left lane, ignoring the honking protests of motorists who had to stand on their brakes to miss the oversized vehicle.

  Clyde sighed. The sooner they got out of Albuquerque, the better.

  Chapter 18

  Nate McCoy's ears were still burning from the phone call as he returned to his booth at the Terminal Cafe. A water pipe at his home had burst in the Missouri cold, and his wife Flora Mae had been forced to call a plumber to the tune of six hundred bucks they couldn't afford. She'd had some choice words about Nate sitting around a truck stop in sunny New Mexico, drinking coffee and jawing with his pals, while she was saving the farm.

  What the hell was he supposed to do? The insurance company wouldn't declare his truck unrecoverable until it had been missing for eighteen days. Only then would the adjustor cut him a check, which probably wouldn't cover the cost of replacement.

  Nate didn't want a check. He wanted his own goddamned truck back, with all its amenities intact. He kept talking to people at the truck stop, telling them his woes and asking for help in finding his rig. One or two had offered theories that he was pursuing, but he didn't know if—

  His thoughts were interrupted by a man stepping up to the dish-littered booth where Nate was practically living these days. Nate had to lean back to look
up at the man's face, which was square-jawed and serious.

  "Nate McCoy?"

  "That's right."

  "My name's Duvernay. Might I have a word?"

  "Sure," Nate said. "Have a seat."

  Duvernay moved a stack of newspapers out of the way and slid into the booth opposite him. The man had great posture, stiff as a goddamned board, which told Nate he was no truck driver. His gray hair was cut close to his scalp, and he wore a dark car coat over crisp khaki clothes.

  Nate felt wrinkled and soiled in comparison. He ran a hand over his scratchy three-day-old beard.

  "The waitress pointed you out when I asked," Duvernay said. "I understand your truck was hijacked the other night."

  "That's right," Nate said. "A woman pepper-sprayed me in the face and drove out of here with my truck and a whole trailer full of cigarettes."

  "Damn."

  "I know! See how red and puffy my face is? That's from the pepper spray. Wonder I wasn't blinded."

  Duvernay nodded, but he seemed to have no time for sympathy.

  "The same woman stole another truck last night?"

  "That's right. I saw her climb up into the cab of this white Peterbilt. I recognized her right away."

  "In the dark?"

  "Plenty of lights out there in the parking lot and on all the rigs. I knew it was her, even though she was dressed like a man and wearing a ball cap."

  "You must have sharp eyes."

  "I guess so," Nate said. "Thirty years behind the wheel of a big rig."

  "Ever been hijacked before?'

  "Never. I carry a sawed-off shotgun in the cab with me for just such an eventuality. But when it finally came, I was too blinded to shoot anybody."

  "So she got your shotgun, too?"

  "That part really stings. I'd had that gun for years."

  A silver-haired waitress stopped by the table. She wore a full complement of rosy makeup and long false eyelashes. The effect was diminished by the reading glasses perched on the end of her ample nose.

  Duvernay ordered black coffee. When she shuffled away to get it, Nate said, "What's your interest in what happened to my truck?"

  "It's really the second truck that I want to know about," Duvernay said. "Did you see which direction she went when she drove away?"

  "South. A couple of the boys chased her after I raised the alarm, but they lost her over by Albuquerque High."

  "I see."

  "Tell me again," Nate said. "Who are you?"

  The man kept his voice low as he said, "Colonel Estes Duvernay, U.S. Army."

  "What's the Army's interest in all this?"

  "The cargo in the second truck belonged to the Army. I've been sent here to investigate."

  "How come you're not in uniform?"

  "I'm undercover."

  Nate squinted at him. "I gotta tell you, it ain't much of a disguise. I had you pegged for a military man right away."

  "Is that so?"

  "It's the posture. You look like you're marching, even when you're sitting still."

  Duvernay smiled without showing any teeth. "It's all right if people know the Army's interested in that cargo. Maybe the thieves will give it back."

  Nate laughed. "That ain't likely!"

  Again, the thin smile. As if smiling were something new to Duvernay, like his crisp civilian clothes, and he was testing it out.

  "What happens to trucks that get stolen around here?" he asked. "They go to Mexico?"

  "That's what they tell me," Nate said. "It's less than three hundred miles to the border. And most of the country down there is empty desert. All you need is a gravel road and balls enough to get past the Border Patrol."

  "Is that right?"

  "So I'm told," Nate said. "I don't go any farther south than I-10, not ever. And I only use I-10 during the worst of the winter. Closer you get to Mexico, the better your chances of trouble."

  Duvernay nodded.

  "I don't mean that in a racist way," Nate said. "It's just an economic reality. There's always a market for big trucks south of the border."

  Another nod, but Nate didn't need any prompting.

  "I was talking to a guy here this morning. Local guy, knows everybody. He said there's a salvage place here in Albuquerque that does a steady business with Mexico."

  "Illegal business?"

  "Nobody said that. I'm sure most of it's on the up-and-up, or the cops would be all over it. But say you're regularly selling trucks to Mexico. Wouldn't it be nice to slip a few hot ones into the mix? That's pure profit right there."

  "What about the cargo of these stolen trucks?" Duvernay asked. "Does that merchandise go to Mexico, too?"

  "I don't rightly know," Nate said. "Most shipments would be easy enough to sell here in the good ole U.S. of A. People are always looking for a bargain, especially one they can turn for a quick profit. Those cigarettes that got stolen off me? You can probably buy 'em on any street corner in Albuquerque by now."

  "This salvage business," Duvernay said when Nate took a breath, "do you know what it's called?"

  "Duke City Truck Salvage. It's way out on the south end of town somewhere."

  "Have you contacted them?"

  "Naw, that's up to the insurance people. I don't want to get caught in the middle myself."

  "I can see that."

  "Besides, I don't have any real evidence that they're involved. We're talking about truck-stop chitchat here, not a clue."

  Nate got a good laugh out of that, but humor seemed beyond Duvernay's grasp. Some people were just humorless like that. Nate always felt sorry for them. If you can't laugh at life—

  "Worth checking out, I guess."

  "Maybe to you," Nate said. "I'm happy to sit right here and have another slice of pie."

  "I was thinking you'd want to come with me," Duvernay said. "Maybe you'd spot your truck."

  The way the colonel said it sounded more like a command than an invitation. It made Nate nervous.

  "I'll stay here," he said. "Let me know if you have any luck."

  Duvernay frowned, as if not accustomed to people telling him no. Just when it looked as if he'd formed an argument, they got interrupted by yet another man approaching the booth. He was dressed in jeans and sneakers and a navy blue windbreaker.

  "Look here," Nate said. "Here's somebody else who's interested in those stolen trucks. This is Agent Sandoval with the ATF."

  Duvernay stood and nodded at the agent, but he didn't offer to shake hands.

  "Who's this?" Sandoval said, but Nate was done making introductions. They could take it themselves from here.

  "Colonel Estes Duvernay. U.S. Army."

  "The Army's interested in these thefts?"

  "In the second one," Duvernay said. "The cargo originated at Fort Bliss."

  "Is that right? What kind of cargo?"

  "Sorry." Duvernay smiled thinly. "That's classified."

  "Even from the ATF?"

  "Afraid so."

  A cloud passed over Sandoval's dark features.

  "You know that truck wasn't registered anywhere, right?"

  "That's what I'm told," Duvernay said. "We're investigating that, too."

  "Maybe we ought to be working together," the agent said, "so we don't stumble over each other's feet."

  "I'm sure you've got it well in hand," Duvernay said. "I'm just following up a few things for my commanding officer."

  He turned to Nate. "Thanks for your time. I'll let you know if I hear anything."

  Duvernay marched away, across the diner and out the front door. Sandoval slid into his place in the booth, clearly annoyed by the colonel's high-handedness.

  "Did that guy give you a card or show you any ID?" he asked.

  "No."

  "You just took his word that he was an Army investigator?"

  "Had no reason to doubt him."

  Sandoval took a deep breath and blew it out, calming himself. Then he said, "I have a few more questions."

  Chapter 19


  Howard Bell tried to focus on the papers on his desk, but he kept glancing up at the office door every minute or two. His hands were sweaty. Every time a tool clanged in the garage out back, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

  He wasn't making much progress on the paperwork. Jackie usually handled the title transfers and shipping manifests and other documents, keeping everything orderly and up to date. If he couldn't resolve this split with her, he'd be forced to find and train a new assistant. Assuming he wasn't too dead to stay in business.

  Howard checked the parking lot again, but the only car out there was his gray Mercedes-Benz. The cloud cover had broken up, and a sunbeam bounced off the car's windshield, throwing its glare through the office's tall windows. He cupped one hand along his brow to shield his eyes as he tried to focus on the proof-of-insurance form on his desk. The words seemed to swim before his eyes.

  His mind kept going to El Gűero, who could arrive any minute. What could Howard tell him? Was there any way he could buy some time?

  The stress was too much to bear. His head ached and his stomach gurgled and sweat tickled his face. By the time the light blue Ford bumped into the lot, two people inside, it was almost a relief.

  The driver's door opened and a man got out from behind the wheel. He was a medium-sized guy, late twenties, dressed in a light gray suit and a black crewneck shirt. Little gold chain around his neck. Big gold watch on his wrist. Tiny black wraparound sunglasses that rode his movie-star cheekbones.

  As if all that style weren't enough, there was his hair. Dark blond on the sides where it was short around his ears, but sun-bleached to a lighter blond on top, where it swept back from his perfect forehead. As Howard watched, the wind lifted the longer hair on top and dropped it again, and every strand fell back into place all by itself.

  Motherfucker.

  This guy, this Mexican, gets hair like that, while Howard was shiny-bald at twenty, stuck wearing a dead poodle on his head for the rest of his life. Absolute proof that life is never, ever fair.

  El Gűero buttoned his close-fitting jacket as he stepped around the front of the car. Every movement perfectly poised, every step just so, a man at ease with the world around him. Howard wondered what that must feel like. He'd been a plump stumblebum his whole life. To be graceful like that, if only for one day—