Tularosa - Michael McGarrity

by Michael McGarrity

  "How did Rose Moya come to refer you? She has never sent someone to me before."

  "I lied and told her I was a policeman working on a murder case involving the Mafiosios."

  Posada chuckled, but his eyes hardened.

  "I'm sure that appealed to her sense of social justice. Are you a policeman, Mr. Kerney? Kerney laughed.

  "I was. Now I'm in business for myself. Imports and exports. I would like to expand into the Mexican market."

  "What do you wish to export, Mr. Kerney?"

  "Artifacts. Historical documents of great value. Military memorabilia and rare coins."

  "An unusual assortment of merchandise," Posada commented.

  "But quite valuable," Kerney replied.

  "You need a broker, I assume," Posada noted. "Someone who will act on your behalf with discretion."

  "Exactly."

  "It might be possible to arrange an introduction," Posada said, with a serene smile.

  "I would be grateful."

  "But I am reluctant," Posada added. "You have come to me in a most unusual way."

  "I am new to my profession, senor," Kerney replied.

  "It is difficult to find one's way without assistance." Posada rubbed his mustache with a twisted knuckle.

  "How much is your merchandise worth?"

  "It has been appraised at four million dollars." The figure didn't startle Posada at all.

  "If you agree to a two percent commission, plus my standard fee, I would be inclined to accept you as a client."

  "What is your standard fee?" Kerney asked.

  "Five thousand dollars." The whole wad, Kerney thought. "I'll go one percent payable after delivery with the five thousand up front," he said.

  "Agreed," Posada replied. He gestured to the houseboy, who stepped quickly to his side. The boy helped Posada to his feet.

  "Seek out Enrique De Leon at the Little Turtle gambling house. I am sure he would be interested in your desire to do business in Mexico."

  "Will you speak to Senor De Leon on my behalf?" Kerney asked, as he stood up.

  "Of course. Do you wish me to pass along a message?"

  "No. I would like you to keep the details of our discussion confidential, if that is possible." Posada nodded in agreement.

  "All my client conversations are privileged. Senor De Leon will be satisfied with the knowledge that I have accepted you as a client."

  "Excellent."

  "Please pay Juan before you leave." He smiled lovingly at the young man.

  "Thank you, Senor Posada," Kerney replied with a slight bow of his head. Posada bowed back.

  "It is a pleasure to meet a norteamericano who speaks our language, admires our art, and knows how to conduct business. I look forward to seeing you again."

  ** *

  Greg Benton hung up the phone in disgust. He dug out the portable printer, hooked it up, disconnected the phone jack, plugged in the laptop computer, and accessed the fax modern program. The motel room phone had been rewired at the junction box the night Benton checked in. It was secure, direct, and untraceable. He paced the room waiting for the fax. The whole fucking scheme had started to go haywire from the day he whacked the Indian soldier up on the mesa. And unexpected events kept floating in, like shit from a plugged-up toilet: the burglary at the old lady's house, Gutierrez's failure to make the final delivery, the tossed apartment in Santa Fe--all signs that the plan wasn't neat and tidy anymore. Benton walked to the window and looked out.

  The motel was a dump; the whores kept him awake at night, and the air conditioner barely worked. He looked at his watch. Meehan wanted him to meet with De Leon and tell him the delivery might be delayed. Damn right it would be delayed, with Gutierrez dead and the last shipment missing. De Leon would be pissed but probably wouldn't cancel the deal. Not with the amount of money that was at stake. He would have to come up with a good story for De Leon.

  Benton looked at his watch again. It was too early to catch De Leon at the Little Turtle. He was never available until evening. There was time for a workout at Kike's Gym and a good steak before crossing the border. He hated Mexican food. In the bathroom, Benton stripped down and

  examined himself in the mirror. He liked what he saw. His body was fit and hard, and his gray eyes under curly black hair drew a fair share of attention from the ladies. The small scar on his chin made his face interesting. He smiled at himself and put on his sweats.

  Then he pulled the fax off the printer, put the computer away, grabbed his gym bag, and walked out into the hot west Texas sun. The garbage blowing down the street didn't bother him anymore, and the graffiti-adorned car wash, the boarded-up gas station, and the junked cars in the vacant lot were now just part of the normal barrio landscape. The street ended at a concrete abutment where the freeway cut off through traffic. The fat hooker in front of the Caballito Bar saw him and waved as he got into his car. He waved back. Each time he went to buy lunch at the bar, she showed him a different tattoo and offered to fuck him for ten dollars--the going rate for locals. With all the low-riders, addicts, pimps, and whores in the neighborhood there was no difference between the barrio and Juarez. Benton thought it would be a good idea to give El Paso back to the Mexicans.

  He drove toward the freeway on-ramp, looking at the fax picture. So this was the cop Meehan

  wanted him to find and kill. No problem, Benton thought to himself. After all, damage control was his specialty. It gave him something to look forward to.

  ***

  The painkillers the doctor had given Eddie made him woozy. He had spent the afternoon either chained to the cot or throwing up in the bathroom. Now Carlos stood over him, a clean white cook's uniform in his hand. "So, you are going to live, Eddie," Carlos predicted. There was a hint of friendliness in his voice.

  "Have you finished puking?"

  "It would seem so," Eddie agreed, "although my stomach now thinks I am starving."

  "There will be food for you." Carlos picked his nose with his forefinger while he pushed his upper plate into place with his thumb.

  "Are you well enough to work tonight?"

  "Of course. I must. I gave my word to the patron." Carlos bent over and unshackled Eddie's leg.

  "Friday night is very busy. Many of Don Enrique's friends come early before leaving for their homes in the country. Clean yourself. Can you do it with one arm?"

  "I can manage," Eddie answered, swinging his legs off the bed.

  "And your wound?" Carlos asked. Eddie stood and wiggled the fingers that protruded from the sling around his arm.

  "I must thank the doctor when I see him. The arm feels much better."

  "Tomorrow he will stitch you," Carlos reminded him. "Thank him then."

  "I will," Eddie replied, determined that in the morning, at the latest, he would be at the Fort Bliss military hospital being treated by an Army doctor who wasn't on De Leon pad. Carlos walked him to the dressing room and told him not to be long, as others might have need for the toilet.

  He would be outside, waiting. Eddie bathed quickly, keeping the wound dry as he sponged himself, washed his hair, and used his left hand to shave with a razor Carlos gave him, nicking himself several times. He dressed in the clean clothes--a much better fit than yesterday's apparel--dried his hair, and adjusted the sling and the hump. He felt good enough to think about escaping. His plan was simple: given enough of a distraction he would run away. Carlos knocked at the door. Eddie opened it, and one of the cooks brushed by him on the way to the urinal, unbuttoning his fly as he went.

  "Time for your meal, jorobado," Carlos noted, "and then to work."

  "I am ready." Eddie smiled at the ugly man as he handed back the razor.

  ***

  Kerney stood inside the Little Turtle and looked around the room. The gambling house was filled with well-dressed men and women busy placing bets, socializing, and milling about the casino. It had a party atmosphere to it, and from the way people mixed, it was not a gathering of strangers. Kerney picked out a
bodyguard hovering near a man with a slick-looking woman draped on his arm, and another close by an older gentleman betting at a monte table. He counted six more bodyguards in the room before switching his attention to the bar. More muscle, Kerney thought to himself, as he sized up the man standing directly behind a table at the corner of the bar. A thug with acne scars and a bushy mustache, the bodyguard carefully scanned the room with watchful eyes. At the table the goon guarded, a man and a young woman were talking. On a bar stool to one side sat a hunchback dressed in a cook's uniform, smiling stupidly at everybody. Kerney walked toward the table, and the bodyguard cut him off.

  "What do you want?" Carlos asked in heavy English, looking the gringo up and down. The man wore an expensive suit with an Italian cut that accentuated his square shoulders. He was tall and deeply tanned, with blue eyes that crinkled at the corners. He's a big son of a bitch, Carlos thought to himself. Kerney smiled.

  "I have an appointment with Senor De Leon he said in Spanish.

  "Your name?"

  "Kevin Kerney."

  "You must wait, senor," Carlos said, nodding at the table. De Leon was still talking with the girl, who wore tight designer jeans and a scoop-neck silk top that revealed remarkable breasts.

  "I will tell the senor you are here." Kerney nodded, slipped onto the empty stool next to the hunchback, watched Carlos walk quickly to De Leon and whisper in his ear. De Leon looked up in irritation, glanced at Kerney, nodded to the bodyguard, and returned to his conversation.

  Kerney watched De Leon for a brief time and spoke to Eddie. "Are you bringing the customers luck?" he asked in Spanish, patting the hump.

  "I hope so, senor," Eddie answered, trying to mask the astonishment he felt. Dressed up, Kerney looked like a major player, not at all like a shit kicking cop from New Mexico. Kerney pointed to the sling and held out a twenty dollar bill.

  "It looks like you didn't keep any luck for yourself."

  "A minor accident." Eddie put the money in his pocket. "Thank you." He glanced at Carlos and decided he couldn't risk saying more.

  The girl with De Leon pouted, stood up, flipped her long hair over a shoulder, kissed De Leon on the cheek, and pranced off to a monte table. De Leon gestured for Kerney to approach.

  "Senor Kerney," he said, rising.

  "Please join me."

  "Thank you." Kerney studied De Leon as he settled in. A good-looking man with pale blue eyes and strong features, freshly shaved and dressed in a tan business suit, De Leon smiled back at him. His hands were soft and his nails manicured.

  "Francisco Posada said you wished to secure the services of a broker."

  "That is correct."

  "What type of products do you wish to ship?"

  "Artifacts." De Leon raised an eyebrow.

  "That covers a wide range." Kerney handed De Leon a typed copy of Gutierrez's list and waited for a reaction. De Leon scanned the contents and smiled warmly at Kerney, his mind racing. His chartered plane, scheduled to leave Mexico City for Hong Kong in two days, would carry an

  identical cargo. It was an impossible duplication.

  "Where did you get such treasures?" De Leon inquired.

  "That's not important," Kerney countered. "Do you know anyone who specializes in such antiques?"

  "A select few deal in antiques," De Leon replied, tapping his fingers together in thought.

  "But all I see are items written on paper. Authentication would be necessary."

  "I can provide samples," Kerney replied, "but there is some urgency to the matter."

  "I understand," De Leon replied.

  "Time is money, is it not? I have an associate who might be interested. May I keep the list to show him?" Kerney didn't like the idea, but he had no choice.

  "Certainly." De Leon folded the papers and put them in a pocket.

  "Excellent. Could you return later this evening?"

  "Will your associate be joining us?"

  "Yes. Come back after midnight." De Leon stood and offered Kerney his hand.

  "I'm sure we can accommodate you."

  "I look forward to it," Kerney said.

  He shook De Leon hand and left, walking past a man at the door entering the club. The man eyed Kerney intensely. He had a weight lifter's build, gray eyes, and a small scar on his chin. Kerney nodded and kept moving. Benton pushed his way through the crowd to De Leon who whispered

  something to Carlos as the bodyguard leaned across the table. De Leon eyes snapped when he saw Benton.

  "Wait," he ordered Carlos. He shoved some papers across the table at Benton.

  "What is going on?" he demanded.

  "He's a cop," Benton said, thumbing through the inventory.

  "How did he get the list?"

  "Our courier died in a traffic accident. The inventory was in his vehicle, and the cop found it. He's just snooping around."

  "And the last shipment?"

  "Still on the base. We'll get it out."

  "Are you lying to me, Benton? Benton shook his head.

  "The cop's name is Kevin Kerney. He's a sheriff's lieutenant from Las Cruces. All he has is the fucking list. I swear it."

  "Then you will dispose of Lieutenant Kerney, instead of Carlos."

  "That's why I'm here."

  "Do it," De Leon ordered, his eyes narrow, "and clean up after yourself when you're finished." He walked toward the young woman in the scoop-neck top and the stone-washed jeans, who was still at the monte table, betting heavily.

  ***

  Outside the club, Kerney looked for a taxi. Expensive automobiles were double-parked around the small plaza, blocking most incoming traffic, and there were no waiting or cruising cabs. A fat cop with an enormous head wandered between the cars, his hand resting on his pistol grip. Kerney gave him some money and asked him where he could get a taxi. "I can call one for you, senor," Dominguez replied.

  "It can be here in less than ten minutes."

  Kerney could see the thoroughfare about a mile in the distance, down the narrow residential street leading from the plaza. He didn't like the idea of waiting. It only gave De Leon time to have him followed, which was a sure bet.

  "The night air feels good," Kerney said. "I'll walk. Thanks anyway." He started out at a brisk pace, looking for some thing he could use as a weapon if De Leon decided to send some muscle after him, which was another possibility. What he really wanted was the pistol safely locked in the glove compartment of his truck.

  Carlos watched Benton hurry from the club and felt Eddie tugging on his sleeve.

  "I must go to the bafio," Eddie announced, in a loud voice. Several people at the bar looked up from their drinks.

  "Not now," Carlos answered.

  "I will soil myself," Eddie rejoined shrilly, trying to look miserable.

  "My bowels are loose." Carlos gave him a peevish look.

  "If you must go, be quick about it."

  "I won't be but a minute." Eddie scooted toward the cantina, almost knocking over a waiter coming through the swinging door. He moved through the kitchen to the rear door and ran into the alley. No one tried to stop him. The lane paralleled the plaza and ran straight to the main drag. Eddie took off in a sprint, tugging his arm out of the sling. He ripped off his shirt, yanked the harness free, and threw the contraption to the ground. He veered through the backyard of a small house and onto the street, stopping to catch his breath. Ahead, he could see Kerney walking toward the strip, making slow progress. He stepped into the darkness at the side of a house and checked for Benton behind him. Nothing yet. The street was quiet. A few viejos were on the front steps of a house, enjoying the mild evening.

  Eddie froze as a car drove out of the plaza coming in his direction. As it passed under a streetlamp, Eddie recognized the driver and relaxed; it was one of De Leon customers. He started running again. He had heard De Leon order Kerney killed, and he needed to reach the lieutenant before Benton showed up.

  ***

  Greg Benton saw an obese cop at the end of the sq
uare chasing some kids away from a Range Rover. He called him over, gave him a fistful of dollars, and asked about a gringo in a suit with a limp. The cop pointed in the direction of the main drag and told him Kerney was on foot. He ran his car up on the sidewalk to avoid the parked vehicles on the plaza, found an opening, bumped into the street, and floored the gas pedal, burning rubber as he accelerated toward the strip. He flicked on his high beams and saw two men on the sidewalk about a hundred yards apart. He passed the first one; some punk in white pants running at full tilt. Up ahead Kerney moved in an awkward gait. Benton laughed; it was a ludicrous sight. First Kerney, Benton decided. If the kid posed a problem, he would deal with it later. Kerney heard the car coming and left the street at a run, disappearing between two houses. Tires screeched on the street, and he ran faster. He pulled himself over a backyard fence, ducked under the low branches of a tree, and doubled back down the cobblestone alley. He needed to find cover and something to use as a weapon. Benton left the car in the street and gave chase on foot. He stopped at a backyard fence next to an alley, where the low branch of a tree moved gently in the still air. He listened for sounds and heard a slight clacking of heels on the cobblestones. Kerney was moving back toward the Little Turtle.

  Benton smiled to himself and reached for the knife in his ankle sheath. It would be a good hunt after all. He stepped into the alley and started stalking.

  ***

  As far as Kerney could tell, he was alone in the alley. He found the jagged top of an oil drum that had been cut with a welding torch and a stubby piece of metal pipe. They would have to do. He stood with his back against the wall of a shed listening to the rats inside squeak at his presence. He knew someone was out there, going, he hoped, in the wrong direction. He took a fast look down the alley. The light from the concourse gave him enough illumination to pick up any movement. Nothing. A car door slammed and he pulled back his head. The sound was followed by rapid, loud Spanish. Somebody wanted to know who the asshole was who had left his car parked in the middle of the street. He looked again and saw movement, a shadowy ripple against the light. The movement stopped under a solitary tree, a good fifty feet away. Slowly Kerney crouched down, hoping his attacker would be searching at eye level. Risking one last glimpse, Kerney saw a discernible shape moving cautiously in his direction. Kerney held his breath and waited until the man was almost on top of him. When he saw the knife, he came out of his crouch and swung the stubby pipe at the man's head. Benton skipped back and kicked, the blow landing full force on Kerney's bad knee. The leg caved in and put Kerney on his back. Rolling to avoid another kick, he threw the lid as a distraction and scrambled to his feet, his back against the shed wall, waiting for the man's next move. He was the gray-eyed bodybuilder with the scar on his chin. Benton laughed. He had a knife in his hand, held low so it could rip into the belly. "Can't you do any better than that?" he jeered. Benton stepped in for the kill, feinting an overhand lunge at Kerney's chest. He stopped the thrust in midair, rotated his wrist, and arched the blade up to slash Kerney's gut. Kerney slammed the metal pipe on Benton's wrist. Benton grunted and sprang back as Kerney tried to swipe him across the face.