The Charlie Parker Collection 2

by John Connolly

  “You forgot one of your bags,” he said.

  “Thanks,” said Louis.

  “No problem. Car okay?”

  “My friend here doesn’t like it.”

  The guy knelt down, removed a penknife from his pocket, and carefully inserted the blade into the right front tire. He twisted the knife, removed it, and watched with satisfaction as the tire started to deflate.

  “So go get something else,” he said, then walked out of the garage and into a waiting white SUV, which immediately drove away.

  “I guess he doesn’t really work for a rental company,” said Angel.

  “You should be a detective.”

  “Doesn’t pay enough. I’ll go get us a bigger car.”

  Angel returned minutes later with the key to a red Mercury. Louis took the baggage and walked to the car, then popped the trunk. He glanced around before opening the titanium case. Two Glock nines were revealed, alongside eight spare clips bound with rubber bands into four sets of two. They wouldn’t need any more than that, unless they decided to declare war on Mexico. He slipped the guns into the outer pockets of his coat and added the clips, then closed the trunk. He got in the car and found “Shiver” playing on an indie station. Louis liked Howe Gelb. It was good to support the local boys. He passed one of the Glocks and two of the spare clips to Angel. Both men checked the guns, then, once they were satisfied, put them away.

  “You know where we’re going?” said Angel.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Great. I hate reading maps.”

  He reached for the radio dial.

  “Don’t touch that dial, man, I’m warning you.”

  “Boring.”

  “Leave it.”

  Angel sighed. They emerged from the gloom of the garage into the greater darkness outside. The sky was dusted with stars, and a little cool desert air flowed through the vents, refreshing the men.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Angel.

  “I guess.”

  The smaller man took in the vista for a few seconds more, then said: “You think we could stop for doughnuts?”

  It was late, and I was back at Cortlandt Alley, the taste of the Thai food still lingering in my mouth. I could hear laughter over on Lafayette as people smoked and flirted outside one of the local bars. The window of Ancient & Classic Inc. was illuminated, the men inside carefully positioning a new delivery of furniture and ornaments. A sign warned of a hollow sidewalk, and I thought that I could almost hear my footsteps echoing through the layers beneath my feet.

  I made my way to Neddo’s doorway. This time, he didn’t bother with the chain once I’d told him who I was. He led me into the same back office and offered me some tea.

  “I get it from the people run the store at the corner. It’s good.”

  I watched as he poured it into a pair of china cups so small they looked like they belonged in a doll’s house. As I held one in my hand I could see that it was very old, the interior a mass of tiny brown hairline cracks. The tea was fragrant and strong.

  “I’ve been reading all about the killing in the newspapers,” said Neddo. “Kept your name out of it, I see.”

  “Maybe they’re concerned for my safety.”

  “More concerned than you are, clearly. Someone might suspect that you had a death wish, Mr. Parker.”

  “I’m happy to say that it’s unfulfilled.”

  “So far. I trust that you weren’t followed here. I have no desire to link my life expectancy with yours.”

  I had been careful, and told him so.

  “Tell me about Santa Muerte, Mr. Neddo.”

  Neddo looked puzzled for a moment, then his face cleared.

  “The Mexican who died. This is about him, isn’t it?

  “Tell me first, then I’ll see what I can give you in return.”

  Neddo nodded his assent.

  “She’s a Mexican icon,” he said. “Saint Death: the angel of the outcasts, of the lawless. Even criminals and evil men need their saints. She is adored on the first day of every month, sometimes in public, more often in secret. Old women pray to her to save their sons and nephews from crime, while the same sons and nephews pray to her for good pickings, or for help in killing their enemies. Death is the last great power, Mr. Parker. Depending upon how its scythe falls, it can offer protection or destruction. It can be an accomplice or an assassin. Through Santa Muerte, Death is given form. She is a creation of men, not of God.”

  Neddo rose and disappeared into the confusion of his store. He returned with a skull on a crude wooden block, wrapped in blue gauze decorated with images of the sun. It had been painted black, apart from its teeth, which were gold. Cheap earrings had been screwed into the bone, and a crude crown of painted wire sat upon its head.

  “This,” said Neddo, “is Santa Muerte. She is typically presented as a skeleton or a decorated skull, often surrounded by offerings or candles. She enjoys sex, but since she has no flesh she approves of the desires of others, and lives vicariously through them. She wears gaudy clothes, and rings upon her fingers. She likes neat whiskey, cigarettes, and chocolate. Instead of singing hymns to her during services, they play mariachi music. She is the ‘Secret Saint’. The Virgin of Guadalupe may be the country’s patron saint, but Mexico is a place where people are poor and struggling, and turn to crime either through necessity or inclination. They remain profoundly religious, yet they have to break the laws of church and state to survive, albeit a state that they regard as profoundly corrupt. Santa Muerte allows them to reconcile their needs with their beliefs. There are shrines to her in Tepito, in Tijuana, in Sonora, in Juárez, wherever poor people gather.”

  “It sounds like a cult.”

  “It is a cult. The Catholic Church has condemned her adoration as devil worship, and while I have a great many difficulties with that institution, it’s not hard to see that in this case there is some justification for its position. Most of those who pray to her merely seek protection from harm in their own lives. There are others who require that she approve the visitation of harm upon others. The cult has grown powerful among the foulest of men: drug traffickers, people smugglers, purveyors of child prostitutes. There was a spate of killings in Sinaloa earlier this year in which more than fifty people died. Most of the bodies bore her image in tattoos, or on amulets and rings.”

  He reached across and brushed a little dust from beneath the empty sockets of the icon.

  “And they are far from the worst,” he concluded. “More tea?”

  He refilled my cup.

  “The man who died in the apartment had a statue like this one hidden in the wall of one room, and he called on Santa Muerte throughout the attack,” I said. “I think he, and maybe others, used the room to hurt and to kill. I believe the skull came from the woman I was looking for.”

  Neddo glanced at the skull upon his own desk.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Had I known that, I would have been more sensitive about showing you this icon. I can remove it, if you prefer.”

  “You can leave it. At least I know now what it was meant to represent.”

  “The man you killed,” said Neddo, “have they identified him?”

  “His name was Homero Garcia. He had a criminal record from his youth in Mexico.”

  I didn’t tell Neddo that the Federales were very interested in Garcia. The news of his death had drawn a great many telephone calls to the Nine-Six from the Mexicans, including a formal request from the Mexican ambassador that the NYPD cooperate in every way possible with Mexican law enforcement by providing them with copies of any and all material relating to the investigation into Garcia’s death. Former juvenile delinquents did not usually excite such interest in diplomatic and legal circles.

  “Where did he come from?”

  I was reluctant to say more. I still knew little about Neddo, and his fascination with the display of human remains made me uneasy. He recognized my distrust.

  “Mr. Parker, you may approve or disapp
rove of my interests, and of how I make my living, but mark me: I know more about these matters than almost anyone else in this city. I have a scholar’s fascination. I can help you, but only if you tell me what you’ve learned.”

  It seemed that I didn’t have too much choice.

  “The Mexicans are more interested in him than they should be, given his record,” I said. “They’ve provided some information about him to the police, but it’s clear that they’re holding back on more. Garcia was born in Tapito, but his family left there when he was an infant. He began training as a silversmith. Apparently, it was a tradition in his family. It seems he was melting down stolen items in return for a cut of the resale value, which led to his arrest. He was jailed for three years, then was released and returned to his trade. Officially, he was never in trouble again after that.”

  Neddo leaned forward in his chair.

  “Where did he practice his craft, Mr. Parker?” he said, and there was a new urgency to his voice. “Where was he based?”

  “In Juárez,” I said. “He was based in Juárez.”

  Neddo released a long sigh of understanding.

  “Women,” he said. “The girl for whom you were searching was not the first. I think Homero Garcia was a professional killer of women.”

  Harry’s Best Rest was less than busy when the Mercury, now considerably dustier than before, pulled up in the parking lot. There were still rigs scattered through the darkness, but there was nobody eating in the diner, and any lonely trucker looking for comfort from the cantina women could have enjoyed a range of choice had he arrived earlier in the evening, although the attentions of the police in the aftermath of the Spyhole killings had somewhat depleted even their numbers. The cantina was locked up for the night and only two of the women remained, slouched sleepily at the bar in the hope of picking up a ride from the man who remained with them, smoking a joint and sipping a last Tecate in the murk, the carnival lights that illuminated the bar barely touching his features.

  Harry was out back, stacking beer crates, when Louis emerged from the darkness.

  “You own this place?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” said Harry. “You looking for something?”

  “Someone,” Louis corrected. “Who takes care of the women around here?”

  “The women around here take care of themselves,” said Harry. He smiled at his own little joke, then turned to go back inside. His partners would deal with this man, once he had informed them of his presence.

  Harry found his way blocked by a small man with three days’ worth of stubble and a haircut that was a month past good. The guy looked like he was putting on a little weight, too. Harry didn’t mention that. Harry didn’t say anything, because the man at the door had a gun in his hand. It wasn’t quite pointed at Harry, but the situation was a developing one, and there was no telling right now how it might end.

  “A name,” said Louis. “I want the name of the man who ran Sereta.”

  “I don’t know any Sereta.”

  “Past tense,” said Louis. “She’s dead. She died at the Spyhole.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Harry.

  “You can tell her yourself, you don’t give me a name.”

  “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Those your cabanas over there?” asked Louis, indicating three little huts that stood right at the edge of the parking lot.

  “Yeah, sometimes a man gets tired of sleeping in his truck. He wants to, he can have clean sheets for a night.”

  “Or an hour.”

  “Whatever.”

  “If you don’t start cooperating, I’m going to take you into one of those cabanas and I’m going to hurt you until you tell me what I need to know. If you give me his name, and you’re lying to me, I’ll come back, take you into one of those cabanas, and kill you. You have a third option.”

  “Octavio,” said Harry quickly. “His name’s Octavio, but he’s gone. He left when the whore got killed.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “She’d been working for a couple of days when men came. One was a fat guy, real fat, the other was a quiet guy in blue. They knew to ask for Octavio. They spoke to him some, then left. He told me to forget them. That night, all those folks got killed up at the motel.”

  “Where did Octavio go?”

  “I don’t know. Honest, he didn’t say. He was running scared.”

  “Who’s looking after his women while he’s gone?”

  “His nephew.”

  “Describe him to me.”

  “Tall, for a Mexican. Thin mustache. He’s wearing a green shirt, blue jeans, a white hat. He’s in there now.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ernesto.”

  “Does he carry a gun?”

  “Jesus, they all carry guns.”

  “Call him.”

  “What?”

  “I said, ‘Call him.’ Tell him there’s a girl out here wants to see him about work.”

  “Then he’ll know I sold him out.”

  “I’ll make sure he sees our guns. I’m sure he’ll understand your reasons. Now call him.”

  Harry walked to the door.

  “Ernesto,” he shouted. “Girl out here says she’d like to talk to you about some work.”

  “Send her in,” said a man’s voice.

  “She won’t come in. Says she’s frightened.”

  The man swore. They heard his footsteps approach. The door was opened and a young Mexican stepped into the light. He looked sleepy, and the faint smell of pot hung about him.

  “Stuff will ruin your health,” said Louis as he slipped behind the Mexican’s back and removed a silver Colt from the young man’s belt, his own gun touching the nape of Ernesto’s neck. “Although not as fast as a bullet will. Let’s take a walk.”

  Louis turned to Harry.

  “He won’t be coming back. You tell anyone what happened here, and we’ll be talking again. You’re a busy man. You have a lot of things to forget now.”

  With that, they took Ernesto away. They drove for five miles until they found a dirt road, then headed into the darkness until they could no longer see the traffic on the highway. After a time, Ernesto told them what they wanted to know.

  They drove on, coming at last to a shabby trailer that sat behind an unfinished house on unfenced land. The man named Octavio heard them coming and tried to run, but Louis shot him in the leg. Octavio tumbled down a sandy slope and came to rest in a dried-out water hole. He was told to get rid of the gun in his hand, or die where he lay.

  Octavio threw away the gun and watched as the twin shadows descended on him.

  “The very worst,” said Neddo, “are in Juárez.”

  The tea had grown cold. The image of Santa Muerte still stood between us, listening without hearing, watching blindly.

  Juárez: now I understood.

  One and a half million people lived in Juárez, most of them in indescribable poverty made all the more difficult for being endured in the shadow of El Paso’s wealth. Here were smugglers of drugs and people. Here were prostitutes barely into puberty, and others who would never live long enough to see puberty. Here were the maquiladoras, the huge electrical assembly plants that provided microwaves and hair dryers to the First World, the prices kept down by paying the workers $10 a day and denying them legal protection or union representation. Outside the perimeter fences stretched row upon row of crate houses, the colonias populares without sanitation, running water, electricity, or paved roads, home to the men and women who labored in the maquiladoras, the more fortunate of whom were picked up each morning by the red-and-green buses once used to ferry American children to and from school, while the rest were forced to endure the perilous early morning walk through Sitio Colosio Valle or some similarly malodorous area. Beyond their homes lay the municipal dumps, where the scavengers made more than the factory workers. Here were the brothels of Mariscal, and the shooting galleries of Ugarte Street, where young men and
women injected themselves with Mexican tar, a cheap heroin derivative from Sinaloa, leaving a trail of bloodied needles in their wake. Here were eight hundred gangs, each roaming the streets of the city with relative impunity, their members beyond a law that was powerless to act against them, or more properly too corrupt to care, for the Federales and the FBI no longer informed the local police in Juárez of operations on their turf, in the certain knowledge that to do so would be to forewarn their targets.

  But that was not the worst of Juárez: in the last decade, over three hundred young women had been raped and murdered in the city, some putas, some faciles, but most simply hardworking, poor, and vulnerable girls. Usually it was the scavengers that found them, lying mutilated among the garbage, but the authorities in Chihuahua continued to turn a blind eye to the killings, even as the bodies continued to turn up with numbing regularity. Recently, the Federales had been drafted in to investigate, using accusations of organ-trafficking, a federal crime, as their excuse to intervene, but the organ-trafficking angle was largely a smokescreen. By far the most prevalent theories, bolstered by fear and paranoia, were the predations of wealthy men, and the actions of religious cults, among them Santa Muerte.

  Only one man had ever been convicted for any of the killings: the Egyptian Abdel Latif Sharif, allegedly linked to the slayings of up to twenty women. Even in jail, investigators claimed, Sharif continued his killings, paying members of Los Rebeldes, one of the city’s gangs, to murder women on his behalf. Each gang member who participated was reputedly paid 1,000 pesos. When the members of Los Rebeldes were jailed, Sharif was said to have recruited instead a quartet of bus drivers, who killed a further twenty women. Their reward: $1,200 per month, to be divided between them and a fifth man, as long as they killed at least four girls each month. Most of the charges against Sharif were dropped in 1999. Sharif was just one man, and even with his alleged associates could not have accounted for all of the victims. There were others operating, and they continued to kill even while Sharif was in jail.

  “There is a place called Anapra,” said Neddo. “It is a slum, a shanty. Twenty-five thousand people live there in the shadow of Mount Christo Rey. Do you know what lies at the top of the mountain? A statue of Jesus.” He laughed hollowly. “Is it any wonder that people turn away from God and look instead to a skeletal deity? It was from Anapra that Sharif was said to have stolen many of his victims, and now others have taken it upon themselves to prey upon Anapra’s women, or on those of Mariscal. More and more, the bodies are being found with images of Santa Muerte upon them. Some have been mutilated after death, deprived of limbs, heads. If one is to believe the rumors, those responsible have learned from the mistakes of their predecessors. They are careful. They have protection. It’s said that they are wealthy, and that they enjoy their sport. It may be true. It may not.”