Hunter's Moon

by Chuck Logan

  Slapped alert by the pepper sauce, Harry consulted a map and found the turnoff for the Duluth airport. They left Jesse’s car in the lot, went into the terminal, rented a locker, and stowed Cox’s AWOL

  bag. Hat pulled down, sunglasses low on his battered nose, he went to the ticket counter and bought passage on the Northwest flight he’d reserved when he called from the trailer. They had a short hop to the Cities, then connect to Denver and on to Phoenix. It left in 45 minutes.

  Becky shouldered her mother’s travel bag and said she was going to the john. Harry sat in a smoking area making a circle of butts on the floor as the Niacin came on and blasted his capillaries and sandpapered his skin. The crimson rush subsided and, hopefully, it rooted some of the gunk from his veins. He chewed a dozen 1,000

  mm Vitamin Cs and washed them down with the water. Checked the time.

  When he’d called Dorothy from the trailer, she didn’t even pause when he told her about the killings and the time Mitch had bought them. She’d said: “Move fast, Harry. You were right from the start.

  It’s a blackmail situation that got out of hand. Hop the first thing smoking to Phoenix. Randall will explain. I know it’s dicey, but Hollywood thinks there could be a federal angle and maybe he’ll be able to help. Bring the girl. Call me when you get to the airport.”

  Harry dropped quarters into the pay phone and dialed the number in St. Paul. As the phone rang, he watched Becky stroll across the lobby. She’d changed into a light pair of

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  pedal pushers and a quiet silk blouse Jesse must have packed. She lowered a pair of sunglasses over her eyes. Absolutely poised, she lit a Marlboro, folded her arms, and watched an airport security man walk across the terminal.

  Dorothy answered crisply and he asked, “How many laws am I breaking right now?”

  “Give me the flight number and arrival time in Phoenix.” Harry did. “Somebody will meet you,” she said.

  “Dorothy, the sonofabitch has been setting me up—”

  “Longer than you think,” said Dorothy cryptically. “Don’t miss the plane.” She hung up.

  At the boarding gate, Becky turned to him. “You try to pretend something didn’t happen. But it really did.” Her voice had aged ten years.

  “We all pretend about a lot of things,” said Harry.

  “This guy where we’re going, you trust him?”

  “He’s like…my father.”

  “Has he ever killed anybody?”

  “He quit counting people when he started counting governments.”

  Minnesota, with its corpses and its snow, receded below them and Harry crashed to the whisper of jet engines. They landed in a Denver snowstorm and were delayed. Waiting on their connection, Harry grabbed a few more hours sleep on a terminal bench. They ate breakfast and caught their plane and, from 10,000 feet, Harry watched Denver erect a drowsy brown tent of pollution against the Rockies. He slept all the way to Phoenix and jerked awake when the wheels lowered for landing. Becky was holding his hand.

  A burly man—mid-forties, twelve-inch wrists—waited in aviator sunglasses, khaki desert pants, a Banlon body shirt, and a thin, blue nylon windbreaker with uppercase letters—DEA—stenciled on his left breast. His golden mane of curls framed classic North American features that grappled in a ceaseless tension between beast and boy.

  HUNTER’S MOON / 361

  His given name was Dwayne Milan and he traced his family tree back to the Alamo. He had flawless Texas manners, the kind that would smile patiently at an insult right up until he reached for an excessively calibered handgun.

  Hollywood’s quick handshake radiated military urgency. “You got your teeth fixed. What the fuck happened to your face?”

  “Zigged when I should have zagged. What’s Randall up to?”

  “Don’t sweat the small stuff. You’re safely back in Uncle’s bosom.”

  Hollywood flashed a tight smile.

  “What? Are you still with the fucking CIA? I thought—”

  “Justice Department. There’s a war on, don’tcha know? Drugs,”

  Hollywood whispered.

  They looked at each other, burst into crazed laughter, and both blurted at the same time. “You haven’t changed…”

  “Becky meet Hollywood,” said Harry.

  The woman of mystery behind her dark glasses, Becky extended a slender hand.

  “You have any baggage to claim?” asked Hollywood.

  “Just what we’re carrying.”

  “Wait here a second.” Hollywood walked off a few paces and whipped out a cellular phone. Becky leaned against Harry’s shoulder and said, “He’s got a gun on under that jacket.” The first words she had spoken since they boarded in Duluth.

  Hollywood rejoined them, gallantly took Becky’s shoulder bag, and walked them through a door, down a stairway, and through a basement corridor. They came out onto the tarmac and the dry, bright heat stunned them. Mountains floated in a wreath of smog.

  “Where are we going?” asked Harry.

  “To jail if we get caught. I’m cutting some corners on this one.”

  They stopped in front of a hangar and Hollywood jogged into a small office. Two Bell UH1 helicopters sat with drooping rotors on the sun-cooked cement. And a Cessna.

  Hollywood came back out and pointed to the Cessna.

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  “That’s our chariot.” Becky and Harry climbed in while Hollywood made his preflight checks.

  “You ever flown in a small plane?” Harry asked her.

  She ran her hands over the interior of the craft and lowered her sunglasses, looking at him with large eyes. “Harry, I’ve never flown in anything before today. This is like…a video.”

  Color and curiosity were returning to her face. He squeezed her hand. “Good girl. Hang in there.”

  Hollywood piled into the cockpit and cranked the motor. As they taxied to the runway, Hollywood talked to the tower. Becky came forward, leaning between them, fascinated at the radio traffic, all the dials and gauges. She clamped her eyes shut when they took off.

  Harry watched the compass spin as they banked through a turn, gained altitude and leveled off. South.

  “Mind if I smoke?” he said.

  “Go ahead. Your funeral. Hardest part of the Nam to give up. The goddamn cigarettes.”

  “So what are you, a narc?”

  Hollywood laughed. “Justice Department. Special Task Force. I’m down here narking the narcs. Too damn much money in the drug industry, Harry. Too few men who can’t be bought. Assholes in Washington gotta realize it’s time to bring back the firing squad.”

  He grinned. “Need to breed another generation of fanatics like we were. A little fucking American fundamentalism.”

  “You like your work, huh?”

  “Most of the time I feel like a cockroach on the Titanic.”

  Harry tried to absorb the vast desert sky and the mountain ranges.

  He shook his head. “Yesterday I was in the woods in northern Minnesota. It was snowing. Now I don’t have a clue—”

  Hollywood smiled. “Just like old times.”

  “What’s Randall up to?”

  “He’s operating in midair. Something popped up on a computer screen in my office and considering that you’re our old asshole buddy…we put all this together in one day flat.”

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  “Put what together?”

  Hollywood had yet to show his eyes behind the sleek black glasses.

  He chewed his lip, “Another little Valentine from the heart of fucking darkness.”

  Harry dozed to the warm chug of the propeller. When he awoke, he heard Becky quizzing Hollywood about the mountains. They flew over desert and mesa, parallel to a highway. A mountain range loomed ahead of them, speckled in sunlight.

  “Those are the Chiricahua Mountains. Down there, that wide place off the road that looks like a junkyard? That’s Chato, Arizona.

  We have a couple roo
ms in the one motel,” said Hollywood. He dropped low and skimmed over the mesquite and cactus, flying toward the foothills of the mountains.

  Harry turned soberly to Hollywood. “This is all great eye-fucking, the scenery and all, but you guys could wind up accessories to murder.”

  Hollywood grinned. “Story of our lives, huh?” He pointed out the window at an abandoned airstrip with a decrepit hangar, the sides caved in. The figure of a man stood next to a station wagon, staked to a long shadow. A wind sock fluttered from the vehicle’s antenna.

  The shadow of the Cessna swooped over the car. Hollywood waggled the wings, put the left one practically into the mesquite, and veered back to the runway.

  “Where’d you learn to fly?” Harry gripped his seat.

  “Air America. Laos. After you split. Strictly an amateur. Sure miss those short landings and takeoffs.”

  “Hold on, Becky,” said Harry.

  Hollywood cut power and wallowed down onto the cracked, weed-choked tarmac. They came to a jarring halt. Becky’s hair was in her eyes.

  They got out. Becky looked around at the mesquite, Spanish bayonet, and prickly pear. The space and light. “Weird,” she said.

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  Hollywood smiled. “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”

  The guy on the ground was hardcore DEA cowboy; short, cropped hair, weightlifter muscles, black baseball cap, and a face unavailable behind sunglasses. He removed a solid-state radio, a small cooler, and a Tom Clancy paperback from the station wagon and walked to the shade of the plane.

  Hollywood drove toward the highway. In seconds they were painted with red dust.

  “Where’s Randall?” asked Harry.

  “With the guy you’re going to talk to. Owns a gas station in town.”

  Life had passed Chato by when the new highway detoured around it. They turned onto the old highway and entered a museum of boarded-up storefronts and streets that ended in the sand. The gas station was left over from The Grapes of Wrath. A closed sign hung on the door.

  “C’mon, he lives around the back.” said Hollywood. Jay Cox’s cowboy boots kicked up a horned toad among the bull thorns as they went around the building. The back room of the station had been converted to living quarters. A concrete patio was being re-claimed by the desert. Rusty abandoned cars clustered in the mesquite.

  Tim Randall sat at a wrought-iron table in the shade of an um-brella. He wore the same clothes he’d been wearing the day Harry’d met him on the street in Hue City: a frayed pinstriped shirt, tennis shoes, a leather vest, jeans, and a Chicago Cubs baseball cap. He was smoking a taboo Pall Mall.

  Even dignified with age, he was still the last guy in the joint you’d ever want to meet.

  The man who sat across from Randall was a sinewy, dark Latino in jeans, a tank top, and slick black hair gathered in a ponytail. His sturdy mechanic’s fingers drummed on the table and jailhouse tattooes twined on his arms like plump coral snakes. He stood up and watched Harry, Hollywood, and Becky approach.

  HUNTER’S MOON / 365

  Hollywood spoke offhand. “His name is Hector Jefferson Cruz.

  An L.A. street entrepreneur who didn’t quite make the grade as middle management with a multinational out of Bogata. With a little plea-bargain evangelism, we made Hector see the light. He’s our Lobo now. Watches the border,” said Hollywood. He nodded at the guy. “Hiya Hector.”

  Hector’s glassy obsidian eyes fixed on Harry.

  Hollywood clucked his tongue. “Hector’s been down some pretty hairy ratholes for us. But he never mentioned Witness Protection until we showed him a picture of you and this Maston guy.”

  They stood at the table, Harry face-to-face with Hector Cruz.

  Randall had not moved from his chair. Impassive, he ignored Hector and seemed more interested in Becky. Hollywood said, “Tell Hector what happened last night to Jason Emmet Cox.”

  Harry engaged the nervous shine in Hector’s eyes. “Bud Maston killed him.”

  “Does he kill like a man or like a devil?” asked Hector.

  “He mutilates.”

  Hector nodded. “Remove the shades.”

  Harry took off the Ray-Bans. Hector raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross. His fingers stayed on his muscled bronze chest, clasping a crucifix on a gold chain, and his eyes jockeyed, eerie, in trance. His voice made a hoarse whisper in the dry air.

  “Hombre, this ain’t right. I seen you dead.” He held up his powerful hands. “Martin, I put you in a body bag with these hands.”

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  Becky was drawn to Randall and they sat at the table and began a quietly intense conversation in the shade of the um-brella. Hollywood, Harry, and Hector drifted to the edge of the patio and, as they began to talk, they squatted 366 / CHUCK LOGAN

  peasant-fashion on their haunches. Harry drew nonsense designs in the sand with a stick. Every time he looked up, Hector was staring at him.

  Hollywood ran it down.

  “Sheer damn luck. Drinking in the basement at Justice after hours.

  For the hell of it, we ran Cox through the computers. At first he turned out innocent enough. Retread, lots of mileage. Jarhead lifer.

  Three tours in Nam. Wounded. Ninety percent disability. Great Lakes, then mucho VA hospital time out in Washington State. De-faulted small business loans and a few hassles with the IRS. He had a small construction business in Seattle.”

  Hollywood looked at Randall. “Colonel says dig deeper. So I ran a spot search through the files of current DEA operations. Cox’s name pops up in a surveillance log they were running with Hector.

  Year ago, September. Time frame ring any bells?”

  Harry squinted. “Just before Bud Maston dropped out of the primary for Congress.”

  Hollywood nodded. “Uh-huh. Cox visited Hector here in Chato.

  DEA ran his stats. No drug connection. Just like Hector reported.

  So we ran a parallel check on both their backgrounds to see if they were associated any time in the past.”

  Becky left the table and joined them and sat cross-legged with Jesse’s saddlebag purse between her knees. Slowly she poured sand back and forth between her hands. Randall stared at the mountains, stroking his chin in the cleft of his palm.

  Hollywood went on. “Both jarheads, in the same platoon at the same time in Vietnam in 1969. Guess who their commanding officer was?”

  Harry chewed his lip. “Bud Maston.”

  “Right. So we decided to fly out here and have a talk with Hector.”

  Hollywood stood up, he put his hand on Hector’s shoulder like the snitch was his pet Caliban. Hector shook the hand off. Hollywood smiled and removed his sunglasses. His lynx-eyes were the color of cold honey. “Had Dorothy fax some pictures of Bud she had around the house from a party. The idea was to show him Bud’s picture.”

  HUNTER’S MOON / 367

  Hector broke in, “One look and I freaked. Not about Maston, but you in the picture.”

  “The same way Cox reacted the first time he saw me,” said Harry.

  “Randall told me that. I ran your military records against Hector’s and Cox’s. No way you two were in any of the same places at the same time, either in Nam or stateside.” Hollywood nudged Hector, who pulled a picture from his back jeans pocket.

  Hector shrugged. “I had it in my stuff.”

  A young Bud Maston, his shirt off, warrior-lean in a bush hat, arm in arm with a young man who bore a striking resemblance to Harry Griffin. In the background, a mamasan in baggy pantaloons bent under the weight of a carrying pole. Rice paddies. Mountains.

  The photo was sepia-toned but Harry could see the heavy saffron air, the red dirt, and feel the sweat on the young bodies.

  “Jesus.”

  “Creepy, ain’t it?” said Hector.

  Becky held up her hand. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a battered mask cut from a photograph. It was an enlargement of the expression on the man’s face who stood next
to Bud.

  “I’ve got a twin,” said Harry.

  “Not quite,” said Hollywood. “Look at the teeth. His are straight.

  Back then, you looked like a werewolf.” He turned the mask in Becky’s fingers. “So what the hell is this?”

  Becky looked away. “Bud made Chris wear this when they…had sex.”

  “Christ,” muttered Hollywood.

  Hector stood up and walked like a matador into his house. He returned with a can of Coke and bottles of Mexican beer. He gave the Coke to Becky, then he twisted the caps off the beers with his callused hands and handed them around. Harry did not decline.

  Hector gazed through the shimmering heat at the far mountains.

  Watching him, it struck Harry that Hector was probably 368 / CHUCK LOGAN

  the future. The golden mud of his skin had been spit in by African slaves, Mexican Indians, Chinese coolies, and white trash.

  “Okay,” said Hector softly. “This is for Gunny Cox.” The reflexive sneer went out of his handsome, ravaged face.

  “Who is he?” Harry pointed to the Adonis marine with his arm around Bud Maston.

  “Martin Kessler,” said Hector with a wistful smile. “We called him Fearless Faggot.” Hector waffled his hand, loose at the wrist. “A homo.” Hector paused and a pocket of memory deepened his eyes.

  “Didn’t put it on Front Street but didn’t deny it, either. He had this tattoo on his thigh, two little cherries. Three months in the bush and he added some words. KILL MORE GOOKS.” Hector gave a dry laugh. “He was a crazy fucker, you know, from loving and hating the war. But he carried the platoon radio. He took care of us all.”

  “And Jay Cox?” asked Harry.

  “Gunny,” said Hector. “Platoon sergeant. On his third tour when I met him. His nerves were shot after we hit the shit at Cam Lo.

  Other two platoons in the company got really torn up. The skipper and all three lieutenants got wasted. Martin and Gunny pulled us through. Didn’t lose a single guy from our platoon except the lieutenant. We got so we were superstitious about Martin. And then, we drew Maston as our new lieutenant…” Hector stopped.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Harry.

  “The chica. Maybe you should send her away,” said Hector.