The Mexican Tree Duck

by James Crumley

  Jimmy stepped over an untidy spew of garbage, mouthing “sloppy fuckers” at me, then checked the door. Unlocked. Jimmy seemed as calm as if he was stopping by his mother’s for corned beef and cabbage, but as we checked our watches—two minutes tops inside, we’d planned—he stopped to look again at the garbage. Suddenly, he crouched, as I did, then we pulled down the ski masks and went in the back door in a quick silent duck walk, as I covered Jimmy’s advance with the .22.

  We found the first body, a busboy, just inside the hallway. Somebody had gutted him.

  What is it about human viscera that makes it stink so bad?

  Jimmy rolled his eyes, tried to breathe through his mouth.

  Why is the taste of death in the air more palatable than the smell?

  Since I had the weapon, I eased around Jimmy, careful to keep my feet out of the blood and entrails, trying to act calm as I peeked into the kitchen. Nothing moved. A longer look revealed two bodies in cook’s hats, one shot through the eye crumpled in front of the prep table, the other frying his brains on the grill. A busboy bowed his head into the bloody water of a sink. I couldn’t see where he’d been hit, but like the others I was sure he never knew what had hit him.

  “All of them,” I whispered to Jimmy. “Silencer.”

  “Frank?” was his soft question. To which I shook my head.

  The produce room door was open. But before we could look in, a waiter carrying a plastic tub of dirty dishes and a very haughty, angry frown came through the swinging doors. I covered the waiter, motioned for him to put the dish tub down, and when he started to stand up, Jimmy laid the sap neatly behind his ear, then used the unconscious body to block the doors as I dove into the produce room.

  Chato at least had time to stand up before he had taken three small-caliber jacketed rounds through his face and spread-eagled among flats of fancy lettuce. You could have covered the entrance wounds on his forehead with a silver dollar. You could have covered the three .22 wounds behind the ear of the dead cocktail waitress on the couch with a quarter.

  She looked familiar, even with her ankles and wrists bound with dish towels, her mouth gagged with a bar rag. It was Mel from Snowy Lake, her open eyes dead. What the fuck had she been doing here? I reached for her eyelids to close them, but for the first time in my life, I couldn’t touch a dead body. Wynona and Baby Lester were nowhere in sight, their only spoor a dirty diaper I couldn’t even smell after all the blood.

  Back in the hallway, Jimmy motioned me toward the open door of Dagoberto’s office, and I obeyed.

  They wanted Dagoberto to see it coming. Somebody had jerked out a couple of handfuls of his thick hair and stuffed an onion in his mouth before they cut his throat so deeply his head hung backward over the desk chair. The room was so full of blood I could only venture a couple of steps inside the door.

  Jimmy followed me out into the fresh air of the alley, where we unmasked, then strolled like two guys on our way to a beer. I glanced at my watch: in and out in less than two minutes. And not a sign left behind, nothing but more bad dreams carried away. A long two minutes.

  In the van, we tore out of our overalls, stuffed the .22 under my belt, then walked calmly to the front door of the Quirky Arms.

  “You get Frank the fuck out of here,” I said to Jimmy at the door as I shoved a wad of cash in his hand. “Then you guys get in the rent-car, take it to the Denver airport, pay cash for the day and the drop-off fee, and tell them to tear up the credit card receipt. Then you guys go home. You don’t need this shit.” Jimmy opened his mouth, but I shut it with a look.

  Two couples sat over coffee and drinks at one of the back tables, and another couple billed and cooed over a bottle of white wine at the bar. Frank was the only other customer and he had sense enough not to give me a funny look as I walked past him toward David at the end of the bar. He was Jimmy’s problem now.

  David looked a little surprised to see me, but I nested the silencer into his chubby ribs before he could complain.

  “Don’t say anything,” I said calmly, “just fucking listen. We’re in deep shit …”

  “You’re in deep shit, Sughrue …”

  “Shut the fuck up, David,” I said, “or I’ll pull the trigger right here. Shut up and listen. Everybody in the back is dead.” David jerked off his stool, but I kept the silencer screwed into his side. “If I’d done them, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, understand?”

  “Everybody?”

  “Except Wynona and the kid …”

  “They were out of here this morning,” he said, briefly confused, then composed his face to ask, “What about the other broad?”

  “It’s all a fucking mess,” I said, “three times behind the ear. Professional job.”

  “Shit. You didn’t call the cops?”

  “I assumed you wouldn’t want the cops running an investigation team through this place,” I said, watching Jimmy and Frank exit.

  “Are you kidding? We have to clean up this shit ourselves, then pray it’s clean.”

  “Then get rid of your customers, and let’s work a deal,” I suggested, then stuffed the .22 under my vest.

  It took longer than it should have, and I, no surprise, had two more large Scotches than I should have. The whisky didn’t make me drunk, it made me sick. But the knots in my gut wouldn’t be purged by retching. While David eased the customers out, I introduced myself to Roberto, assuming that one should know the names of people with whom you were about to commit multiple-count major felonies.

  “Roberto Reyna,” he said, no longer exactly a bartender.

  “C. W. Sughrue,” I said, extending my hand.

  “I know your name,” he answered in unaccented English, then smiled sadly as if that weren’t all.

  David locked the front door, stepped over to the bar, then sighed. “Let’s have a couple of shots of Herradura, Bob, and a couple of cans of Listón Azul.” Then he turned to me. “How about you, Sughrue?”

  “Why the fuck not?”

  We gunned the shots, then washed them down with the cold clear beers. I was willing to do anything to get Mel’s eyes out of my memory, knowing it would never happen.

  “So how bad is it?” Bob asked David.

  “Everybody,” David said. “Or so he said.”

  “Mr. Sughrue is here, David,” Bob said, “so I guess we can assume that he’s not going to lie to us.” Then he turned to me, gave me one of those sadly resigned smiles of a guy who had seen far too many bodies. “Is it bad?”

  I didn’t even have to answer.

  “Shit,” Bob said. “Can you stand it again?”

  “I’d rather not,” I admitted. “But I will. If you’ll pour some of that tequila for me.”

  “Sure,” Bob said, then poured shots for all of us, and they went down like the last hope of a dying race.

  We had another sip of beer, then went back to the killing ground.

  Whatever he did in his real life, Bob wasn’t a bartender, but, considering Frank’s suggestion that Dagoberto might be a DEA asset, Bob wasn’t a cop, either. Whatever he was, though, he was used to command and dead bodies. After he calmly checked the scene without disturbing it, we followed him into the alley.

  “I wish I still smoked,” he said.

  “Ditto,” I said.

  David handed us his cigarettes, so we stood in the alley smoking. After a minute, Bob said, “Pretty fucking slick. You were inside only two minutes?”

  “Maybe a little less,” I said. “So they were in and out in less than five minutes. And they knew we were coming.”

  “They wanted you to take the rap for this?”

  “I think so.”

  “How could they know?” Bob asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “I just don’t know.”

  “Maybe your friends …” David began.

  “No way,” I said. “They’re both wild cards. I didn’t even know I was going to use them for backup.”

  “But you won’t tell us thei
r names?” Bob said.

  “Not a chance,” I said. “I trust them with my life, and guarantee their lack of involvement with it.”

  “Believe me, you have,” Bob said. “But what about you, Mr. Sughrue? Is it possible you’re the betrayer?”

  “How could I be?” I said. “I still don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

  “Perhaps if you would tell me what you know, I could help you find out for both of us,” Bob said.

  “I’m looking for Sarita Cisneros Pines. Just like I said at the beginning,” I said. “And Wynona now.”

  “Do you know where Mrs. Pines is? Did the girl tell you? She wouldn’t tell us,” Bob said softly, then when I shook my head, he added, “David is a skilled man with a question. But he has this thing about women.”

  “Can’t stand to see them cry,” David said. “But men, man, I don’t give a fuck. They answer my questions.”

  “Fuck that shit,” I said. “Nobody asks questions from the grave.”

  “Or answers them,” Bob said. “Are you that quick?”

  “Quick enough,” I said, “and mad enough.” Then stuffed the .22 under his nose. “I don’t know what Mel was doing here, but she’s dead now. We could have been friends. I don’t mind starting payback with you guys. So let’s fucking see how many twenty-two rounds you can take before you can get your hands on me.” They didn’t like that much. For a moment I thought they might, but it was just blood and adrenaline.

  “Her presence was a regrettable mistake and I am deeply sorry about her death, and you must not feel responsible, Mr. Sughrue,” Bob said. “She showed up looking for a job. We hired her. Then we caught her in the office files. We had to restrain her until we could find out who she worked for … It was not your fault.”

  “Believe me, asshole,” I said, “responsible is not what I feel. And who the fuck is we?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to discuss this matter with you,” Bob answered.

  “Which bunch of Mexicans are you?”

  “I beg your pardon,” Bob said.

  “The ones who took Sarita Cisneros from the first bunch? Or the first bunch?”

  “I am not sure that I understand your question, Mr. Sughrue,” Bob said, then added, “but it gives nothing away to tell you that the health and safety of Señora Pines is of paramount importance to us.”

  “Right, but why?”

  “That’s none of your affair,” Bob said. “If I were you, I’d give up this case and go home.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Just as soon as I find her, make sure Wynona Jones and her baby are safe, and gut the motherfucker who did Mel. Then I’ll think about it.”

  “Please,” Bob said. “We’ll clean up this mess. Just go home. No bodies will appear on your doorstep. If you don’t go home, I can promise we can fill your bed with dead bodies.”

  “What the hell,” I said, “I live in a morgue. And you dudes are cold bastards even for cocaine dealers,” I said.

  “Believe me, my friend, this isn’t about cocaine,” Bob said. “You may have been an adequate soldier in a bad war a long time ago but you’re just a civilian in this one. Retire from the field, go home. War is a young man’s game but only an old man’s memory. Go back to Montana, resume your place at the bar, on the stool or on the tap, but go, enjoy your middle years …”

  I put a round between his feet, but Bob didn’t jump.

  “Some years ago in Denver,” he said calmly, “I understand you put a round in the foot of a pornographer just to get the answer to a single question. Now you shoot near my foot … I hope my point is well taken.”

  “It was two rounds,” I said, “from a derringer, .22 shorts. Just made him walk funny. This fucker is full of long rifle hollow points. The doctors will never be able to glue all those little bones together. And you may never walk again …”

  I let off another round close enough to shatter asphalt under the soles of his black leather sneakers. “I hope my point is well taken. I ain’t gonna retire until I finish my chores—now one of them is Mel—or I’m fucking dead.”

  Bob frowned, but not in fear; something closer to consternation, or maybe mild irritation. I was dealing with one tough, committed son of a bitch. Committed to what was the question.

  “I can see that this is a wasted conversation,” Bob finally said, “and David and I have a full night of chores. We’ll discuss these matters again. I’ll call you in a few days. Agreed?”

  “I’ll see how I feel wherever I am when you want to talk,” I said. “Call Solomon Rainbolt. Tell him your name is Dagoberto.”

  David snorted with something like laughter as I backed down the alley.

  “What the fuck’s funny, asshole?”

  “Dagoberto was my brother,” Bob said.

  “I knew that,” I said, lying and enjoying it, even if I didn’t know if I was lying to the good guys or the bad. “All you Reynas look the same.”

  Back at the campsite, as usual after the stress ended, I went directly into mental overload, and tried to achieve a chemical balance without any light and with only the drugs at hand. I needed a couple of long hits off the Jamaican roach to breathe deeply without hyperventilating. Then the speed calmed me as if I were a hyperactive child. A line of coke sharpened my focus. Three beers burned up some of the adrenaline. And the half a dozen cigarettes from a pack I’d bought on the way back to the campground satisfied my death wish.

  Since I had lost more adult friends to cigarettes than to drugs, alcohol, or gunfire, I hated to start again, but the evening didn’t seem to leave me any choice. What I really wanted was a Tuinal and a platoon of bush vets for a bodyguard. Maybe my heart would stop banging on my stomach wall then. But I did what I could.

  In the moonless dark, a cold wind moaning, fear warming my gut and freezing the sweat on my face, just as I tugged a sleeping bag out of the tent, planning to drag it over to a rock face where at least nobody could get behind me and the Browning, I heard a car turn off the road into the campground.

  It came toward me. When the headlights flashed down the track to our campsite, I rolled across their beams, my eyes tightly closed, crashed into a tree with my forehead, but managed to keep my eyes closed until I took cover looking away from the bright lights.

  “Pretty good, Sarge,” Jimmy’s voice cackled from the car as the lights switched off. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  Jimmy opened the passenger door, the interior light snapped on, and I put three 9mm rounds into the pine branch above his head.

  “Motherfucker!” I screamed.

  Jimmy scrambled under the car while Frank laughed behind the wheel of the rent-car.

  Even before the echoes of the gunfire had faded, some disgruntled tourist shouted, “Hold it down over there!” He must have made camp since we had left just after dark.

  How did I know it was a tourist? A reasonable person wouldn’t have shouted at me after just hearing three rounds thunk like a double-bit axe into the tree. But tourists are brave, not reasonable. In fact they are the bravest people in the world. They leap into giant vehicles and haul oversized trailers into places that most intelligent people wouldn’t take a D-9 Cat and at speeds most people wouldn’t attempt in sports cars. They try to sit their children on black bears with bags of marshmallows, they try to photograph the nasal passages of buffalo and moose, and they blunder their way up trails closed by grizzly bear signs, flouting their chocolate bears and menstrual pads, so they are so brave they scare the shit out of me.

  Which is why I didn’t lay a couple of rounds over the heads of whoever decided to camp nearby. Or maybe it was because Frank took the pistol away from me before I could pull the trigger.

  “My god, you look like shit,” Frank said a few hours later during breakfast at a truck stop outside Grand Junction.

  As soon as I could settle down we broke camp and fled, Jimmy driving the van, Frank following to make sure we weren’t tagged when we left Aspen. Once I had accused Jimmy
of not talking much for a fucking Harp, he stopped talking altogether, leaving me to try to destroy my mind by myself.

  Even in the truck stop, he wouldn’t talk to me. But Frank wouldn’t stop.

  “You never even looked this bad in the bush. Guess you ain’t as tough as you used to be,” Frank said, dumping syrup over two pancake sandwiches. “Or as smart. You know, when you came into the company, we all knew you were some lifer football pogue who had decided that the war was some way to justify your worthless and wasted life.”

  “Sigmund Freud on the M-60.”

  Frank took a large bite of pancakes dripping syrup and egg yolk. I don’t know why I didn’t puke. Or why I hadn’t yet.

  “Any asshole with a room-temperature IQ could tell it,” he said when he finished chewing. “But you weren’t stupid, you humped your own gear and dug your own holes, and you weren’t some dumbshit lifer. So we kept you alive until you were able to hump your own weight.” He paused, his large black eyes, those eyes that had seen it all from all the genetic directions. “So what the fuck happened?”

  “Maybe I needed a longer break between wars,” I said, then laughed my way into the hiccoughs, then hiccoughed my way into tears. Which I took outside. Then puked, finally, the bile, the acid, the tears scraping out my throat like a wire brush.

  “You okay now?” Frank asked when I slid back into the booth.

  “What are you motherfuckers looking at?” I said to the truckers who had turned to watch.

  “Guess not,” Frank said, then stood up. A large man of dubious hue holding a badge is an impressive sight. The truckers, who had stood up, sat quickly down.

  “What if we hadn’t been here?” he asked as soon as he sat down.

  “I’d have had my ass kicked,” I said, semi-lucid, “but they wouldn’t be getting a cherry.”

  “And what if we’d been the bad guys driving into camp instead of us?” Frank said.

  “They would have been fucking sorry.”

  “And you would have been dead.”

  “Tell me somebody who might give a shit,” I said. If you’re going to dip your toe into the false warmth of self-pity, you might as well put your whole foot into the sloppy brew of true sentimentality.