“I don’t have one.”
“You don’t have a phone number?”
“I don’t have a phone, but I’ll stop and get one. I’ll call you with the number once it’s connected.”
“You actually don’t have a phone? Everyone has a phone.”
“I don’t usually have anyone to call. Besides, Lucinda didn’t have a phone.”
“You bet your ass she did,” Romy laughed. “Every teenager has a phone. She just didn’t have it on her when you pulled her out. It’s probably at the bottom of the lake.”
“Okay, I’ll do what I can, but you know it’s a long shot.”
“I know.”
An hour later I was back at the Walmart where I had bought the girl’s clothes. A young man who looked to be about twelve finally realized that I didn’t want the latest super phone and the two year unlimited calling and texting plan. After the kid showed me that even the simple ones could be used like a camera, I walked out with a simple phone and a phone card with five hundred minutes on it. I drove to the far end of the parking lot and parked the GT in some shade. I rolled the windows down. There was enough breeze for it to be pleasant. I called Romy and got her voicemail. One of those generic voicemails that just repeats the number back to you. I read my new number off the card the kid had given me and at the same time memorized it. I sat for a few minutes thinking, then I dialed another memorized number that I hadn’t called for over a year. After a long pause and some clicking noises I could finally hear it ringing. It was picked up on the third ring.
“Hello,” said the soft grandmotherly voice.
“Hello, Martha,” I said. “It’s Jackson.”
“Oh my, oh my,” she exclaimed. “Jackson. I’m so glad you called. It has been a long time. Are you alright?”
“Right as rain,” I said. “How are you and the family?”
“Everyone is real good. The grandkids are in high school and everyone is just fine. The boys are on the football team and Jennifer is the treasurer of her class.”
“Sophomore, right?”
“Oh heavens, she’s a junior now.”
“Time gets by doesn’t it?”
“It sure does. Now I know you didn’t call to chit chat, let me get him for you.”
“It was nice talking with you, Martha.”
“Wonderful to hear from you. He’ll be excited.” I could hear her set the phone down and heard faint voices in the background. Finally I could hear the phone being picked up.
“Well, young man, it’s been a while,” said that familiar gruff baritone.
“Yes sir, almost a year.” I could feel myself almost coming to attention. “How are you, Colonel?”
“Retired and pissed off about it. Forty-five years and they replace me with some snotnose out of West Point.”
I laughed. “You and I both know it took more than that to replace you,”
“How are you and your foot getting along?”
“Me and my lack of foot are just fine. They are doing amazing things with prosthetics now days.”
“Yes, I see that when I visit the hospital. Are you still living on that boat?”
“Yes sir, still the boat bum.”
“What can I help you with?” he said, always to the point.
“Sir, I’m working on something and I was hoping I could enlist your help.”
“What can I do for you number ten? I hope it’s something dark and juicy.”
I laughed, “Juicy enough, sir.”
I recounted the events of the past two days, keeping it simple and factual just like the reports I had given him when we were both active.
“So no idea why the girl was dumped?”
“No sir.”
“And no idea where she went off to?”
“My gut says back to the gang where she is comfortable.”
“Yes, me too. Well, it seems we need to get a lead on this fella Roland. Hold on a moment.”
“Sir, one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Can you see what you can find on a Frank Bavaro. He’s an attorney that fronts the Hermanos cartel.”
“Frank Bavaro? Don’t know him but the Hermanos are bad, bad people. Okay, hold on.”
He set the phone down and was gone for several minutes, to the point where I started counting the minutes and subtracting them from my five hundred. At six he came back on the line.
“Still with me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here’s a place to start. There’s a fella that works in the violent gangs section Phoenix PD, name of Sergeant Mike Mendoza. Ex-Marine. Records show he served under Jerry Anderson, you remember Jerry? One star in Intel Com group.”
“No sir, I don’t think I worked with him.”
“Well, doesn’t matter. Mendoza probably knows your Roland or how to find him. Also, there’s a halfway house on Fillmore called Safehouse that is ran by Father Jorge Correa. The good Father has the pulse of the south end.”
I had fumbled a pen out of the glove box and was writing these names on the box the phone had come in.
“As for Frank Bavaro, I’m going to need more time. I find he is a partner in a law firm, Phelps, Gutierrez and Tamoso, but other than that he’s a blank slate. At least on the surface. I’ll call you back on that, and, by the way, you know number two is in Phoenix.”
I stopped writing. “Blackhawk, here?”
“Yes, he owns a club on Durango Street close to 19th Avenue.”
“How long has he been in Phoenix?”
“You had been sent stateside when the unit was disbanded. About a year ago.”
“Why didn’t you let me know?”
He laughed, “Hell son, you are both professionals. If you wanted to find each other, you would’ve.”
“I had to call you to get a line on a gangbanger.”
I could feel him smiling through the phone. “That’s because it was easy. If I wasn’t here you would have still got there.”
“What’s the name of Blackhawk’s club?”
“El Patron. They do all that Spanish dancing there.”
“Blackhawk’s not Hispanic, I don’t even think he was Indian till he got the code name.”
“Probably not, but small stuff like that never stopped him before.”
“Thanks for your help, Colonel.”
“Anytime, and if you are in Missouri, Martha would be disappointed if you didn’t stay with us. So number ten….”
“Yes, sir.”
“When you see number two, give him my best.” Then in typical Colonel fashion, the conversation was finished and the phone disconnected.
“Yes, sir,” I said to the dead phone. Blackhawk in Phoenix. I sat and thought about that for a few moments. “Damn,” I said. I started the Mustang and jockeyed my way out of the shopping center, went through a maddening round-a-bout, merged into southbound I-17, and pointed its nose toward 19th Avenue and Durango.
9
Interstate 17 runs south from Flagstaff to what is known as the Durango curve, just on the north end of the south belly of Phoenix. The oldest freeway in Phoenix is known as the Black Canyon Highway, and as you travel south the city gets older in front of your eyes. Bracketed by old strip centers and older buildings, the tired asphalt is traveled by enough old vintage vehicles and rusty beaters to remind you that you aren’t around the Mercedes set in Scottsdale. Traveling the Black Canyon you pretty much feel you are taking your life in your hands. The speed limit was a suggestion not followed by most.
After a couple of false starts, I found the El Patron on a corner north of the Salt River. It was identified by a sign located on a tall steel pole that touted live entertainment. It was a large two-story rectangular building surrounded on three sides by a vast parking lot. If Blackhawk filled this lot he had a very popular place indeed.
There were a half dozen cars parked close to the front, including a very sleek, black Jaguar that had to be Blackhawk’s. I parked the Mustang on the end and walked to
the entrance. The door opened easily. It revealed a large foyer with a greeter’s podium and bench seats on the wall. The room was empty. I stepped in and let the door shut behind me. It was very dark and I waited for my eyes to adjust. Once my eyes were good, I could see a hallway leading away to my left. I followed it. It was an extra-wide hallway and halfway down there was an open double door to my left. I peered in and saw what appeared to be a small cocktail lounge with tables surrounding a small round dance floor. There was a small bandstand in the corner and about fifteen feet of mahogany bar along the side: a bar in a bar. A few steps further was a similar door on the right. Here was a mirror image of the first room: a bar within a bar beside a bar. Another twenty feet down was another set of large double doors. The place smelled of stale beer and humanity but there was no cigarette odor. Except for the cigarette thing it smelled like every bar I had ever been in, no matter what part of the world.
I pushed on one of the big double doors and it slid open easily. Beyond it was a huge room. The room had a large square bar in the middle. Each side of the square held at least fifteen stools. Against the walls were tables and chairs, leaving the space between them and the bar as a dance floor. The floor gleamed with polish. The ceiling was very high. At the second story level there was a balcony around three sides. A flight of stairs led to the fourth side where there was a door at the top. A much larger bandstand covered one corner of the room. It was filled with sound equipment, mic stands, drums and monitors and such.
Behind the bar a man was washing glasses. A bigger man sat at the bar with what appeared to be a cup of coffee. He was reading a newspaper. He had little reading glasses perched on his nose. His hair was long, past his shoulders, and dark and sleek. He had what was almost a Fu Manchu mustache. He wore jeans, boots and a black tee shirt. His arms were muscled and covered with tattoos.
He turned and looked at me. I walked toward him.
“We’re closed. Happy hour starts at five.”
I reached the bar and slid up on a stool.
“You hard of hearing?”
“Is the owner here?”
“If you had looked you would’ve seen a no soliciting sign out front.”
I smiled my best smile, which usually makes girls faint but didn’t seem to affect this guy. “Would you please tell your boss that an old friend of his is here?”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because if you don’t he will be pissed, and if you do he will be happy. How about we make him happy.”
The guy looked at me for a long moment. It wasn’t one of those hard-ass tough guy looks that macho men try to scare people with. It was just appraisal. The guy exuded confidence and my guess was he could handle himself pretty well.
I held his eye and tried not to quiver. Finally, he set the paper down, laying his glasses on top.
“Name?”
“Jackson.”
With that he looked at me another long minute before he slid off the stool. He went around the bar and up the stairs. He disappeared behind the door at the top.
The guy washing the glasses didn’t even look up. Dedication.
A minute later the door opened and the guy stepped out. “Come on up,” he said, his voice reverberating.
I went up the stairs and he held the door for me. I stepped into a hallway with another door in front of me. The big guy opened this door and I stepped into what appeared to be a waiting room. Two chairs and a couch with end tables with fake plants and magazines. There was yet another door across and the guy opened it and waved me through.
This room was much larger. Blackhawk was sitting behind a massive desk, one elbow on the desk and his right hand resting on an open drawer. He shut the drawer.
“Sig Sauer?” I said.
He nodded, smiling, “Always. Good enough for the Secret Service, good enough for me.”
The big guy had followed me into the room and stood to the side of the door with his back to the wall.
Blackhawk nodded toward him, “This is Nacho, my segundo.”
“Nacho, like with chilies and cheese?” I said, smiling.
“Nacho, like, if you aren’t nice, Nacho will break your legs,” Nacho said without expression.
Blackhawk stood and walked around the desk. We looked at each other for a long moment, then we hugged each other. You are not to ever get emotional but I almost was.
“This is my friend, Jackson.” Blackhawk said to Nacho. “Anything he wants.”
Nacho nodded, “So you are Jackson. Where’s your fucking cape?”
“Only on formal occasions.”
“I’ll be downstairs,” he said to Blackhawk. He turned and went back out the door, shutting it behind him.
I looked at Blackhawk. His hair was long, as long as Nacho’s. Last time I saw him it was a crew cut. Butch Marine. Other than that he looked the same. About an inch taller than me, about the same weight. He never was a big weightlifter looking guy but he was inordinately strong and he was very quick. He was the most dangerous man I had ever known. Back in the day, two hundred yards away, too far to help, I had glassed him taking out four guys hand to hand, thinking they had him cold.
He looked fit. He gestured to one of the two high backed chairs that bracketed the front of his desk.
“Can I get you a drink?”
I sat down, “Too early for me.”
“Good for you,” he said. “Lot of us that are out either live in the bottle or eat their gun. How did you find me?”
“The Colonel.”
“Really? How is he?”
“Don’t you know?”
Blackhawk laughed, “Martha talks to you, you think he’s on a farm someplace. Tending the garden. He ain’t retired. He’s just out. Like you and me. Doing it for God, money and country. Not just God and country.”
“He told me to tell number two howdy.”
He laughed.
We all had known there were many teams of ten. Our team was known as Strike Force Black Mamba. Number two on the team was B for Blackhawk. I was number ten. J for Jackson. We never knew anyone’s real names. They didn’t matter. A for Adam. B for Blackhawk. C for Charlie. D for Dakota. Men and women, each one had been through the toughest training the military had to offer, Seals, Rangers whatever, it didn’t matter. The ones that couldn’t handle it, and it was usually a mental strength thing, rang the bell three times and were done. The rest of us morons kept pushing, too stubborn to quit. Then one day you graduated, and it was the greatest day of your life and you celebrated with your brothers and you got drunk and if lucky you got laid, and then you waited for your orders.
And you waited. And you watched the others called up and pack their shit and leave, and you waited.
Then you received a strange order. You were to bring nothing. They put you on a plane, and when you landed it was night and there was an escort, and they took you to a government building and guys in suits took you through a series of detectors and you sat in a nondescript green room for two hours. The only thing in the room was a camera high in a corner staring straight at you. Then they took you into a colonel’s office. A colonel you had never seen before. The Colonel smiled and shook your hand, and in his deep baritone told you that out of all the soldiers that had successfully completed the training, you had been selected for a special team. Then later, you found out that they had discharged you so that you were no longer military. Plausible deniability. If something went wrong, you were just some hapless civilian at the wrong place at the wrong time. After this meeting the training really began. I mean real intense covert skills.
One thing I found we all had in common was that none of us had family.
“It’s been a while,” Blackhawk said. His eyes still carried that bemused look that was always with him. Like he knew the joke no one else knew.
“Last time was when you were handing my boot up to the gunny in the chopper.”
He laughed, “Your foot still in it. They ever put it back on?”
“N
aw, I got a new one.”
“I didn’t see a limp.”
“Science,” I said. “So I guess my question is why you are here?”
“Here? Like in Phoenix?”
“Here as in out of the unit. Far as I can tell, you have all your appendages.”
He looked at me, serious now. “They broke us up after you were gone. Offered to replace you with a newbie, but enough of us said no, so they offered the chance to muster out or transfer. I mustered.”
“Loyalty to me? Democracy? I never saw that shit.”
He smiled, “Not so much as self-preservation. You got a team that works well and your life depends on each other. Echo, Charlie, Fabian and Dakota voted with me and the Colonel honored it and said adios. I hear the new guy doesn’t give the option. Just bad luck that the IED was where it was. You didn’t have to jump there.”
“Did you see the girl with the pail of water?”
“Yeah, I saw her.”
“I had to jump then.”
Blackhawk looked at the wall a while, then back at me. “Yeah, you had to go. Bad luck all around.”
“Yeah, bad luck.”
Now, I kind of wished I’d accepted the drink. “So now I read and fish and fish and read. I’m pretty bored. Not much use for our set of skills out here.”
“Get a bar,” he said.
I smiled, “I just did.”
“Yeah, so, where are you staying?”
I told him about the boat. Then I told him about the girl.
10
“So you tilting at windmills now?”
I shrugged, “Chinese law. You save someone’s life, you owe them yours. This guy Roland ring any bells? Or the Seventh Avenue Playboy Diablos?”
Blackhawk shook his head. “Get some bangers in here once in a while. Nacho keeps the trouble at a minimum. Not usually the guys start the trouble. Usually the women. Get one guy started at another. Women start doing tequila shots, get drunk, try to make out with the bartenders, scares the good business away so Nacho don’t let it get going. No, I don’t know any Roland. Let’s ask Nacho.”
I followed him down the stairs. Nacho was sitting in the same seat but was now watching a basketball game on the television. The dishwasher was gone. We sat on either side of him.
The Girl at the Deep End of the Lake Page 4
