Day of the Dead

by R. Allen Chappell

  “Your informant was beaten? I thought you said it wouldn’t be dangerous?”

  “I said your part wouldn’t be dangerous, Charlie. You wouldn’t be an informant, which can be tricky under the best of circumstances. As I said, this guy isn’t an agent, he’s an offender; one who racked up federal charges in a previous case—still pending by the way—but serious enough he thought he might be better off turning state’s evidence. He wants out now, saying he’d rather face the old charges and go to jail. He’d thought he might be safer in an American prison but has now been convinced otherwise. We’re afraid if this guy talks our entire operation could be compromised. A week or so ago one of our local surveillance people was found in a dumpster. He’d taken it upon himself to do a little inside reconnaissance…young guy, looking to score points on his own…you know that never ends well. It looks like he’s going to be all right eventually, but probably won’t ever walk without a limp. Both guys were working for us, but they were independent operatives—neither one aware of the other. Our entire operation might be blown if the informant caves to the Espinosas. That could leave us with no one inside the organization, at least not on this side of the border. It would be like starting over up here.”

  “Your surveillance guy wound up in a dumpster?” Charlie’s interest in working with the agent was fading. “I wouldn’t be a surveillance guy, right?” Charlie touched the tip of his tongue to his upper lip and considered, “This might be a good time to tell me exactly what I would be, Bob.”

  “Don’t worry about that. We’ll take care of you no matter what. Like I’ve said before, while your part will be delicate, it shouldn’t be dangerous.” The agent played with his spoon, twiddling it back and forth between two fingers. “We first need to find who beat and stabbed our guy and then find our informant, who’ll most likely have to be set up in a witness protection program. Assuming, of course, he can be found. It’s beginning to look like the man may have disappeared entirely…either on the run…or, and I hate to say this, already dead.”

  “Whoa…that’s pretty heavy talk, Bob. I can see what you’re up against—what I don’t see is how I can be of any help; not from what you’ve told me so far.” Charlie was thinking this was less of an opportunity than he first imagined, and he might be better off opting out while he could.

  “We think you can help, Charlie. The man who roughed up our informant may be Robert Ashki. Fred Smith, with the FBI, called to advise us the man was out of prison and making some pretty serious threats against you and several others. The description fits and when we checked with the prison warden we found Ashki spent the last few years hanging out with some pretty bad boys. The warden said Ashki became a tough cookie himself—other inmates thought he was crazy and many were actually afraid of him. And that’s a pretty desperate crowd down there as I’m sure you know.”

  “Ashki?” Charlie came upright in his chair. “You have to be wrong, Bob. Robert Ashki was well past forty when he went up…a Tribal Councilman…more or less just a businessman—even though it was mostly crooked business. Oh, he was known to coerce and bully people all right. The man was, for damn sure corrupt to the core, but that’s about the extent of it. He threatened people on a regular basis but we have no real proof of physical violence. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t put anything past him, but this seems a little over the top, even for Ashki.” Charlie looked the agent in the eye and shook his head, “He’s never had any drug ties either, not that anyone here is aware of. The FBI’s file on him doesn’t mention anything about drugs and neither does Tribal, and believe me, I’ve read both files from front to back.”

  “Did those files say he made some serious threats against Thomas Begay and his son…and Thomas’s uncle John Nez, too? Being in the joint, even for only a few years, can change a man in some awfully serious ways, Charlie”

  “No, the files I read didn’t mention those things. I’m not saying they’re not true, but I find some of it pretty hard to believe.”

  “Well, there you have it, my friend. No one’s infallible, God knows my own people fall down often enough.”

  Charlie turned toward the bedroom and inclined his head, listening, as baby noises filtered down the hall. “Uh-oh, someone’s waking up.”

  Bob Freeman had children of his own and immediately came to his feet, stretched, and nodded to the Legal Services Investigator. “I’ll give you a call in about an hour. I’m expecting an update then. We’ll go from there.” The agent reached out a hand and Charlie shook it, despite the apprehension he might be sealing some sort of implied contract. At the door, the agent half-turned and held up a finger, as though touching the brim of an imaginary hat. Charlie immediately thought this, too, might be some sort of salute, or insider signal, and again wondered if he’d fallen under some secret covenant. But for what, he couldn’t envision.

  “I thought I heard voices?” Sue stood in her robe peering out the kitchen window as she studied an almost invisible haze of dust lying over the new driveway.

  Charlie, obviously lost in thought, leaned back against the open front door. When he finally turned back to the kitchen he sounded distant, yet smiled when he said, “I had the radio on. I turned it off when I heard the baby. That’s probably what you heard.” He had no reason to lie, but then, he’d heard this was the way these things started, first the paranoia, then the lying. This wasn’t who he was, but he couldn’t help wondering if it was who he might become should he fall in with these people.

  The Calling

  Tressa Tarango could not have imagined the far-reaching consequences of the bouncer’s beating, or its effect on the stateside tentacles of the Espinosa organization. Coming on the heels of the previous week’s disturbance—the one ending in the dumpster incident—it didn’t take Hector, “The Ear” Espinosa very long at all to be made aware of his enforcer’s failure to carry out his duty. The punishment was rumored to be immediate and severe enough to strike fear in the hearts of anyone even remotely associated with the man. Even Little Abe felt the heat of Hector’s displeasure; not reporting his rendering first-aid to the bouncer was seen as a lack of loyalty and a direct affront to El Escuche himself. It was only through the auspices of his old father, and what friends he had left in Sinaloa, that Abraham escaped even more serious repercussions. His chance of promotion to a better position, however, was now just another broken dream.

  Carlos Espinosa was assigned to keep an eye on both the busboy and Tressa; the two of them being lumped together as cohorts, troublesome, and an ongoing problem—a problem not likely to go away on its own. In the back office, permanent remedies were already being discussed.

  The barkeep, for his part, was taking evasive action. His cousin’s lack of ability in handling his recent assignment was a personal embarrassment. Cabrón! The man made his living beating up people. The barman had no proof of other incompetence or transgressions, but his cousin had been acting a bit strange since his last courier expedition from Mexico. He’d thought little of it until now but was determined to distance himself from his relative, and as quickly, and completely as possible. Something was certainly not right with the man. The bartender was thinking, as a precautionary measure, he should put out word his cousin might be leaking information. To whom, or about what, he couldn’t conjure up, not in any believable way, and was thus forced to abandon that particular strategy. He would never know how close he was to the truth but would soon come to the realization it didn’t matter.

  Little Abe was certain both his and Tressa’s days were numbered, and perhaps her plan to kill the Espinosas, if she’d ever really had a plan, should be immediately put into action.

  The two of them, sitting in Tressa’s miserable little room—made even more depressing by the tone of the conversation—sat staring hopelessly at one another, neither able to contribute a comforting thought. Despite his ongoing attraction to her, Abraham’s faith in the woman was faltering

  “I’m afraid, Tressa.” He couldn’t put it more bluntly t
han that. He could see now that an early grave in Sinaloa was no different than an early grave anywhere else. He eyed the bottle of cheap tequila, already half-empty on the table, and gritted his teeth. “If we are going to do ‘em, we better do ’em pretty quick.”

  Knowing Abe had grown up in this sort of violence, Tressa thought he could be right. A little frightened herself now, she felt she might indeed be losing control of an already tenuous situation, and that could mean the end of both of them. She poured Little Abe a hefty shot from the bottle. She’d already had several herself, and didn’t quite trust her ability to handle another, not quite yet anyway. She knew tequila required a certain amount of restraint. She was not, ordinarily, much of a drinker and felt she might already be treading on thin ice. With a slight slur, she admonished Abe in a loud voice, “Be a man, Hombre!” She slapped the table. “You need to pull yourself together. Esse! Ahorita!” She grabbed his arm. “Thish is no time to falls apart on me Abraham. Tomorrow is Saturday. If we can make it till then, we have a chance to fix them good and maybe have a little traveling money thrown in. You know…if they don’ kill us before that.”

  This was not the self-assured talk Little Abe had come to expect from the woman. He did, however, take some measure of heart from the fact she wasn’t giving up completely. He calmed himself, to the extent he was able to ask how they should go about it. “We don’ got no gun or nothing…”

  “No, Abraham, we don’ have a gun, but I don’ expect you to kill them with your bare hands, either—much as I’d like to see their necks wrung like a couple of pollos.” Here Tressa leapt from her chair, and flapping her arms, danced a little circle, laughing, fluttering her fingers in the air, and making choking noises, as she jerked her head from side to side.

  This was very disconcerting for Abe. Thinking the woman’s mind might have snapped he unconsciously drew back from her…there had been a lot of pressure... and this is when Little Abe took into account the bottle of tequila, already half-gone when he came in. This epiphany lessened his anxiety to some extent. Tressa was just a little borracho. He was feeling the effect of the liquor himself, but for him, the tequila was tempering his fear; replacing it with a growing sense of confidence. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. It was quite obvious now that everything might eventually fall to him…and he was ready. He intended to show this woman how a man handled himself in such a situation, though that man might, himself, be teetering on the brink of disaster.

  ~~~~~~

  Turning the hall corner, Carlos Espinosa had seen the tail of Little Abe’s white apron disappearing into Tressa’s room. He’d thought all morning the little wetback was acting suspiciously, exchanging guarded glances and worried looks with Tressa. Carlos congratulated himself on his assessment of the situation. Easing up to the door he put an ear close against the peeling paint and held his breath as he listened. His lips twisted in a grim little smile at their conversation. These two little louses are biting off a big chew—one they will soon choke on if I have any say.

  An hour later, going about his business out front, Carlos still had not reported the plot. It came as a thief of good intentions. It might not be such a bad thing should his uncle no longer be boss. If uncle Hector fell, he, Carlos, would be next in line to take over the operation. Surely the big man in Sinaloa would think him the logical choice to take his uncle’s place, especially when he delivered up these two murderous little traitors. The trick would be to let his uncle be eliminated first then, Carlos could eliminate those two scheming nobodies before he should become a victim in their vicious plot. It would require some quick and serious thinking on his part, but given the opportunity, this was the sort of thing he was good at. No one ever seemed to recognize his true capabilities; everyone constantly underestimated him, but that was about to change.

  ~~~~~~

  Saturday morning Tressa Tarango’s head was pounding like a drum. Little Abe poured her another jolt of coffee—strong black Mexican coffee—with just a hint of cinnamon to quicken the heart. Eventually, she realized the noise was not all in her head—the mariachi band was practicing out back in the shade of the ramada. Though it hadn’t been easy, Abe had finally taken her bottle away the previous evening and tried desperately to bring the woman to her senses. She did seem better now, but still not her old self by any measure.

  From time to time, Abe noticed from the corner of an eye the smug face of Carlos Espinosa, peering at them through the little round window in the kitchen door. The man didn’t bother coming into the kitchen to deride or insult them and that in itself was a cautionary sign. Abe was getting a bad feeling from all this. He wished Tressa would at least recover enough to let him know what was to be done. His confidence of the previous evening had evaporated with the alcohol, leaving him once again frightened and feeling dependent. His head was hurting, and he desperately needed some sign she was ready to resume some semblance of leadership.

  Tressa, finally able to focus on his face, murmured in a low and ragged voice, “Did Carlos already take Hector’s breakfast tray to him, Abe?”

  It had long been the nephew’s duty to oversee the preparation of his uncle’s meals, the man trusted no one else to do it. “Who knows,” he would tell Carlos, “what evil might lurk in the minds of these ungrateful peasants?” Usually, the food was delivered to the office with Carlos’s own hands, the coffee, laced with the old man’s favorite liqueur. Carlos shared the meals with his uncle, as further indication of his willingness to assure the food had not been tampered with.

  Abe, glad to hear a sensible question at last, was quick to reply, “Yes, he took the tray a little while ago.”

  “And did he put a few of those special little arbole peppers on the side? You know, the ones from Hector’s private jar in the back of the refrigerator?”

  “Yes, I believe I saw them.” In his mind’s eye Abe could almost see the little red peppers jiggling along on the tray.

  “Good.” She said, almost instantly feeling better, and thought, everything seems to be the same as usual—nothing seems to have changed. She gave Abe a little half-smile and said, “It’s going to be all right, Abraham.” And then to herself, tonight is the night.

  All day long Carlos Espinosa hovered outside the kitchen, taking covert little peeks through the window and smiling to himself.

  “You don’t think he suspects anything, do you, Abe?”

  “I don’ see how he could, Tressa…unless he’s a witch, or able to read minds. Old Man Espinosa probably just told him to keep an eye on us, that is all it is.”

  Promptly at eight o’clock Carlos checked on his two charges before preparing to take his place with the band which would begin around nine, a little later if the crowd was not yet big enough or people were still eating.

  It was after midnight when the mariachis quit playing, were paid, and packed up their instruments. They would pick up their sound equipment and the oversize marimba the next morning. By two a.m. the last of the customers had dwindled to two or three past-their-limit drunks who were escorted out and the doors locked behind them.

  Little Abe was taking his last load of glasses back to the kitchen when he saw Carlos at a back table sorting money into bags, one from the restaurant, one from the bar, and the last containing the cover charge among other things—only a little of which he paid to the band when he finally settled up. It was the establishment’s biggest night ever. The old man would be pleased, Carlos thought, giving Abraham a sly grin as he passed with the money bags in one arm and his and his uncle’s late-night dinner tray held above his head.

  Little Abe pretended not to notice but back in the kitchen he told Tressa about the money and said, “You were right to wait till now, Tressa. There is a lot of money tonight.”

  She looked nervous but smiled, “I tol’ you so, Abe. Tonight’s our night. Here’s how we’re gonna do it…”

  Underworld

  It wasn’t even an hour before the DEA Agent called Charlie back. The Legal Services Investi
gator hardly got “Hello” out of his mouth before the agent began talking.

  “I’ll try to make this quick…we have a lot going on right now.” He forged ahead without waiting for Charlie to reply. “First off, you were right about Robert Ashki—it wasn’t him who roughed up our guy in Colorado.” The Agent stopped to take a breath and Charlie jumped in before he could continue.

  “When did this change, Bob? You seemed pretty sure it was him an hour ago?”

  “Well, now, I’m sure it’s not. Robert Ashki’s been dead for two days—car wreck. It seems he borrowed his clan-brother’s pickup and was on his way to Albuquerque when he went off the road just out of Cuba.” The agent paused a moment to let this sink in.

  Charlie took a deep breath and held it, trying to get a grip on what he was hearing. “He’s dead? That’s all you know, Bob? Why didn’t it show up on the wire yesterday? I talked to Fred Smith before I left work on Friday, and he didn’t say anything about it either.”

  “He didn’t know, Charlie. No one knew it was Robert Ashki; he wasn’t carrying any ID. Probably hadn’t had time to renew his driver’s license after getting out. New Mexico State Patrol assumed from the truck registration that it was this clan brother who was driving. They only found out it was Robert Ashki this morning when they were finally able to get in touch with his brother’s wife, who lives up at Navajo Mountain. The guy is pretty hard to get ahold of, I guess. Anyway, the State Patrol is waiting on Forensics. We haven’t heard anything back from the Coroner’s Office in Albuquerque, either.” Bob paused, and Charlie could hear the rustle of papers. “The investigating officer didn’t seem to think the truck’s damage was all that bad, at least not bad enough to kill the guy, but you know how that goes, sometimes it doesn’t take much to kill a man. They estimated he was doing a little more than the speed limit, which is sixty-five on that stretch; the truck was coming down onto the flats when it happened...not much in the way of skid marks either. Apparently Ashki didn’t see it coming. That’s according to the State Patrolman I talked to, we may know more later on today. I’ll keep you posted but I expect the FBI will be all over it by then.”