Verdugo Dawn

by Blake Banner

  “Where…?”

  “Don’t ask me about it. I don’t know anything, and even if I did, I could not tell you.” She hesitated again. “We all had an understanding. They—you—would do everything you could to keep me safe, and I would ask no questions. I helped out because…” Another big sigh. “In some way, I believed in what you were doing.”

  “What? Sole, what were we doing?”

  “You are pushing too hard. I can’t tell you. I have to think of myself, and the future well-being of my children depends on my toeing the line.” She watched me sag back in my chair. Then her face softened and she closed her eyes. “Look, I have no idea what you all did, but I can tell you that after you came back from your job in Mexico, several leading members of the biggest of the Sinaloa cartels were found dead, as well as officials and political figures associated with them.” She paused, watching my face, then added, “I hate them, too. Don’t ask me why, because I won’t tell you. But I helped in what small ways I could.”

  She waved at the waitress and when she came over, she said, “Pam, bring us bottle of tequila and a couple of shot glasses.” She offered me the better half of a smile. “You like tequila. That much I know.”

  “So we were lovers.”

  She nodded. “For a few weeks. They both warned me against you. They said you were complicated and had a complicated life.” She shrugged. “I thought maybe I could simplify it for you. I was wrong.”

  Pam, the smiling, bobbing blonde, brought us over a bottle of tequila, some salt and lemon and two shot glasses. She went away and Sole poured us two measures. I watched her do the whole salt and lemon thing and knock back a shot. She smacked her lips and blinked. Then she looked at my glass. “I ain’t doing this alone, pal.” She pointed at my hand. “Sal, limón, tequila!”

  I heard my voice, as though it was somebody else’s, quiet, distant. “Who were they? Should I mourn them? Were they like… family?”

  Her eyes glazed for a moment and became hooded, and she nodded slowly. “Yes, they were like family for you, and you should mourn them.”

  “I should go to Washington. That senator must know who I am, what happened…”

  “Yeah, you should do that, but you cannot tell them I gave you any information. They will come after me and my kids.”

  “What do you mean, come after you?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. At the very least, they’ll take back everything he left me. They may even take away my restaurant. It could be worse than that. They are ruthless people—you are ruthless people. You are one of them.”

  I shook my head. “I would never hurt you.”

  She smiled. “Good. So don’t tell them you spoke to me. Now, tonight, please, drink tequila with me, and let me celebrate that you are alive.”

  I smiled and took up my glass. I raised it to her and said, “To our fallen friends. They wait for us in Valhalla.”

  I drank the shot and as it warmed my belly, I saw the tears start in her eyes and spill down toward the corner of her mouth.

  “Yes, they wait for us in Valhalla.”

  We finished the bottle between us, and we laughed a lot. Somehow, we mocked tragedy, laughed at grief and saw, for an hour or two, the great cosmic joke that is life, and is death, and is impermanence: the only constant in a universe of change, where reality is a product of perspective. We closed the restaurant and they were pleased to see us go.

  The moon had risen and the desert air was cold under icy stars. She linked her arm through mine and we crossed the concrete under the dead yellow light of the tall, alien lamps, and then we crossed the big, dusty lot in the close embrace of the silent dark. There, we whispered for no particular reason, except that it made us lean closer to hear. And what we whispered about was nonsense—the eerie silhouette of a saguaro, the clean smell of the night air, the translucent infinity of the dome of the night, and the ice-cold light of the stars.

  Finally, we came to Casa Castaneda and my sleeping Jeep, with its dark windshield under the moon. I asked her, “Where do you live?”

  She smiled and said, “Right here, in the house you bought me.”

  “So I guess I already walked you home then.”

  “Somewhere inside that barbarian, maybe there is a gentleman.”

  “And an officer…?”

  She reached up and touched my face with her fingers. “I can’t let you drive with half a bottle of tequila inside you. Especially in that diabolical beast of a car.”

  “Y’all have a barn I can sleep in, ma’am?”

  “No.” She stepped close and went on tiptoes to take hold of my face. “But I have a bed.” And she kissed me long and slow, with lips flavored faintly with lemon and tequila, and it was the sweetest kiss of my whole life.

  * * *

  When I awoke, I was alone. Dawn light was gray on the glass in the bedroom window. I could hear the shower sighing like rain in the en suite bathroom. It stopped and I sat up. My head ached and I felt nauseous.

  The bathroom door opened and she stood in silhouette, backlit by the bathroom light. She had no clothes on, but was drying her hair with a towel. She didn’t smile. Her voice was tense.

  “You’re awake.”

  “Good morning.”

  She began to pull on her clothes. “I have to open the restaurant. The breakfast crowd will be coming in soon.”

  “The morning crowd?”

  “Yeah, I run a restaurant, you know.”

  I swung out of bed and started to dress. “Biting sarcasm before coffee. Not sure I’m up to that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So do I get breakfast or is this wham, bam, thank you, sir?”

  She was buttoning her plaid shirt, paused and sighed with her eyes closed.

  “Last night was a mistake. I’m sorry. It shouldn’t have happened.”

  “Is that you talking, or the morning crowd?”

  “You’ll find toast and coffee in the kitchen. I’d appreciate it if you left before nine. That gives you two hours…”

  “I don’t need your toast, your coffee or your time. I’ll leave now.”

  She stood motionless. I finished dressing and made the door before I stopped and turned.

  “What’s my name?”

  There was a loud buzz and she gasped and turned terrified eyes on me.

  “Please!”

  I frowned. “What?”

  “Don’t go yet!”

  “What the hell? You just kicked me out!”

  “Please wait! Please just wait!”

  She pushed past me and clattered down the stairs, shouting, “Voy! Voy!”

  I felt a hot twist in my gut and went to the top of the stairs. I couldn’t see her, but I heard the front door open and a low, male voice. She laughed and I heard the door close. Behind me on the landing, there was another door. I opened it and stepped into a bedroom. It was a girl’s room. By the posters on the wall and the books she had on her small bookcase, I figured she was about ten or twelve years old. I crossed the room to the window and looked out. Below, I could see my Jeep parked out front, and beside it a black Mercedes. The two goons I’d seen the other day were there, leaning against the doors, smoking. The big, freckled one looked up. His eyes narrowed and he said something to his pal, who turned and looked up too.

  I stepped away from the window, crossed the bedroom and closed the door. I opened the next door on the landing and looked inside. It was a boy’s room, about the same age or maybe a bit older. He had books on vintage cars, customized bikes, military aircraft and Vikings.

  I left his room, went down the stairs and stepped out onto the porch. Freckles and his pal looked surprised. Maybe they thought I was going to hide. I stopped in front of the Mercedes and pulled a pack of Camels from my pocket and a blue, plastic disposable lighter. They watched me light up, suck the smoke into my lungs and let it go in a slow stream.

  I smiled at them. “Good morning.”

  They glanced at each other.

 
“You boys know where an enterprising man from out east might be able to buy a substantial holding in heroin and cocaine in these parts? I’d be looking also to invest in a few personable young ladies who could be persuaded, albeit against their better judgment, to entertain discerning gentlemen who are willing to part with their cash in exchange for the granting of sexual favors. My question is, can you help me?”

  Freckles remained silent, probably because his brain had overloaded and he had no idea what I had said. His Latino friend said, “Friend, you are like a blocked sewer. You so full of shit, you gonna overflow. You got any brains in that crazy head, you better get away from this restaurant, get out of Tularosa and get the hell out of New Mexico.”

  I took another long drag and smiled as I let the smoke out through my teeth.

  “Get the hell out of Dodge, huh?”

  “He seen your car, he knows you spent the night, Sole gonna get a castigo…”

  “Castigo?”

  “She gonna get ponish.”

  “What kind of punishment would that be?”

  “Well, that depends how mad he is, and how much in love he is. If he’s still real in love and he ain’t too mad, then he gonna beat her up a little so she knows to be good in future. Bot if he’s growin’ bored with her, and he’s real mad about the disrespect, then maybe he gonna cut her face and make her ogly for other guys.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Yeah, I say. Bot that ain’t what you gotta be worryin’ about, gringo. What you need to worry about is that he gonna send us after you, and you gonna end up in the desert with the buzzards and the coyotes eatin’ your fockin’ eyes.”

  “Well, it’s mighty civil of you boys to give me the warning, and don’t think I don’t appreciate it. In fact, to show my appreciation, I will advise you that within the next fifteen to twenty minutes, I will kill both of you and your boss. I will kill you two first, and then I will kill that asshole with the shiny suit and the embarrassing mustache.” I grinned amiably. “You boys have a nice day now, y’hear?”

  I turned and pushed through the door. Sole was leaning across the counter, holding a jug of coffee in her hand. The asshole with the shiny suit and the embarrassing mustache had her wrist in his left hand and was pinching her cheek with his right. She was trying to suppress her tears and he was snarling into her face. They both turned to look at me. Her eyes widened with fear, his with rage.

  He spluttered, “Hijo de la gran puta!”

  I took three long strides across the floor. That was as long as it took him to let go of Sole’s wrist and face and reach inside his jacket. Meanwhile, behind me, I heard the restaurant door open and the two geniuses from outside push inside.

  I slammed my left hand hard against his right forearm, where it was reaching for his piece. I pinned it hard against his chest and drove a right cross into the tip of his jaw. He staggered back three steps and crashed to the floor. My ears were full of Sole’s screaming, “No! No! Don’t do that!”

  She screamed something else, but I didn’t catch it. Meanwhile, behind me there were feet running. On the counter was the jug of hot coffee that Sole had been holding. I grabbed it as I turned and hurled it in the Latino guy’s face. It was scalding hot and he backed up screaming with his hands clasped to his face.

  There are three places worth kicking when your opponent is standing up: his gut, his balls and his knees. If the guy is moving in on you at speed, a side kick to the knee will bring him down fast and for good. The blade of my boot connected with Freckles’ joint and I felt and heard an ugly crunch. His face flushed red and he screamed, but not for long. As my foot touched the ground, I flicked my hip and rammed my left fist into his windpipe. While he choked for air, I roared and rammed my right fist into his solar plexus, forcing all the air out of his lungs.

  His windpipe was broken and his lungs were empty. His heart went into cardiac arrest and he fell to the floor. I stamped on the back of his neck to put him out of his misery and went for the Latino. It had been only a couple of seconds since I’d thrown the coffee in his face. Now he was blinking it away, his face twisted with rage. He reached for his piece, but he was shaking and he was too slow. As he pulled it from his holster, I took his elbow in my left hand, grabbed the barrel in my right and levered it into his gut. My left slid up and pulled the trigger, twice.

  Death from a shot in the belly is slow and painful, so as he went down, I hooked my arm around his neck with his chin in the crook of my elbow, lifted and twisted and felt his vertebrae snap.

  He dropped to the floor and there was stillness and silence. The guy with the silk suit was still lying motionless on the floor. Sole was staring at me with eyes that were wide with horror—horror and another emotion I could not read. I felt a jab of pain in my gut, but it was not a physical pain. It was a pain like grief, like isolation and loneliness. It was a pain I could not afford to listen to.

  I ignored her and walked to where the guy in the silk suit was lying. I hunkered down and reached inside his jacket. He had a leather holster, and nestled in it a nice Sig Sauer P226. I slipped it out and cocked it. I was aware of the absolute silence from the counter behind me. I slapped the guy a couple of times until his eyes opened, with his pupils wide and unfocused.

  I put the gun in his face. “Open your mouth.”

  He made a noise of panic and confusion, shaking his head in rapid jerks. I rammed the pistol in his crotch and said, “You don’t understand. Open your mouth.”

  His jaw was shaking so bad his teeth rattled on the barrel as I pushed it in. I said, “Do I have your attention?”

  He nodded and made more guttural noises.

  “I want you to know why you are going to die.” A shrill shriek from deep in his throat, and violent shaking of his head. “You’re going to die because…”

  There was a movement, a rush of feet. I looked and Sole was coming around the counter, hissing at me, “Go! Get out of here! Go now! Fast!” I drew breath to answer her, but her voice came shrilly, “The deputy! Get out of here! Out the back! Now!”

  I slipped the Sig into my waistband behind my back and looked into the terrified face on the floor. “Make peace with your god. I’m coming for you.”

  Then I vaulted the counter and slipped into the kitchen while Sole ran for the front door, screaming, “Hank! Hank!”

  I found the back door by the trash cans and stepped out into the early morning sun.

  Eight

  I ran. I sprinted across the back of the lot, fifty yards to a thin row of poplars that separated Sole’s lot from the lot next door. I dropped and scrambled in among the grass and weeds, behind a large tree trunk, and lay motionless for thirty long seconds. Nothing happened.

  I didn’t hesitate. Somebody, I couldn’t remember who, somebody long ago in another life, had told me, death slips in through the gaps you leave when you hesitate.

  I was in something that looked like a miniature ranch. It was some kind of small holding, with allotments for vegetables, fruit trees and chickens. There were a couple of trucks, but I didn’t want the trucks. I wanted anonymity.

  I reached Calle de la Rosa and began to walk at a steady pace, no hurry, like I had every right to be there. I turned into Mirasol Lane and passed two big, expensive houses. There were no cars in the drive and I figured they were on the school run. Pretty soon, I heard sirens approaching at speed. That would be the crime scene officers and the ME. But no sign of any chase meant that Sole had spun the deputy some kind of a yarn. That was good, for more reasons than one.

  Left onto Mirasol Lane took me past another mansion and onto 7th Street. I was getting away, but I was going too slow. I needed a vehicle, but I couldn’t afford the attention of getting caught driving a stolen car.

  At the intersection with Calle del Flor, on the left I saw a family bungalow with a cream BMW in the drive. It was midweek and that time of the morning when most people were on their way to work. The owner of this car was either retired or part of the new breed o
f flexi-time stay-at-home employees. I crossed his lawn and rang his doorbell. He must have been just inside the door because he opened it almost immediately.

  He was in his mid to late sixties, tall, well-groomed with a gray pencil mustache. He had a pipe in his hand and the smell of aromatic tobacco wafted out as he opened the door.

  “May I help you?” His voice was cultured and pleasant.

  I smiled. “Yes, I need to rent your car.” I pulled the Sig from my waistband. “Please don’t be alarmed.” I said it with a pleasant smile. “I really don’t want to hurt you, but I really do need your car. May I come in?”

  His face flushed. “Son of a bitch!”

  I pointed behind him with the Sig. “Let’s go.”

  He wasn’t scared, but he wasn’t crazy either. He stepped back and I went in and closed the door. We were in a large room that opened out to the right. Morning sun was leaning in through large, plate-glass windows, creating a bizarrely pleasant mood in a room where a young man was threatening an old man with a gun. There was a large, cream calico sofa, and two large armchairs set around a coffee table in front of an open fireplace, which was flanked by two tall bookcases. A glance told me they were mainly history and biography. The TV was small and to one side. His bearing and his manner told me he was a military man.

  I said, without thinking, “Major?”

  His eyes widened. He looked affronted. “Colonel!”

  I pointed at the sofa. “Sit down, please, Colonel.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  I winced. “Let’s not find out.”

  I meant it, because I was pretty sure I couldn’t hurt this man, but he took it as a threat, strode across the room and lowered himself into one of the armchairs, a small act of defiance.

  I went and stood with my back to the fireplace, where I could keep him covered and look out the window at the same time.

  “It’s a close community here, right?”

  He scowled at me, but didn’t answer.

  “You look out for each other. Any neighbors likely to call today?”