The Librarian Her Daughter and the Man Who Lost His Head

by Sam Lee Jackson

  “I told you, at the park.”

  “Which park?” I said, trying not to punch him.

  “You been there,” he said looking at me like I was his really slow cousin.

  “Tell me.”

  “Remember when we rousted Benny Yoon?”

  “Margaret Hance Park?”

  “I think that’s it. The one downtown.”

  I got up and started out of the room.

  “Where you going?”

  “To see if I can get my phone back.”

  21

  I was leaning against the wall in Mendoza’s office, sweating. Typical Phoenix this time of year. This morning it had been just a tad over fifty degrees and now it was in the eighties. The city managers had the air conditioning off to save money. Mendoza was immaculate in a crisp white shirt and maroon tie. The shirt was damp under his arms. He didn’t seem to notice.

  I had a hand in my pocket, absentmindedly rubbing the thumb drive Blackhawk had made of the video of Ramirez. Boyce and Evan Renfro came in, followed by two men in suits. Renfro carried a briefcase. Boyce moved across the room and leaned against the wall opposite me. She didn’t look at me. The other men took the two chairs that were already in the room. The last one in snagged a chair from one of the desks outside the office and brought it in with him. They both wore suits and left their jackets on, despite the warmth. The older one was thick, but moved well. He had his hair cropped close and his scalp shined through. Instead of a neck he had a roll of flesh at the base of his skull. The other one was taller and sandy-haired.

  Once they got settled, the sandy one looked at me.

  “Who is this?”

  Mendoza looked at him for a moment. His eyes were cool and non-committal.

  “This is Mr. Jackson. He has brought some information to me that might be of use to you.”

  “What is it?” the man said curtly.

  Mendoza leaned back, his eyes still on the man. I was hoping the man would piss Mendoza off. I’d like to see what would happen. But as always, Mendoza was cool.

  “Mr. Jackson and a colleague were watching the news feed of the alleged Sedona bomber, and the colleague identified the location of where the video was filmed.”

  “We have an entire agency working on that,” Renfro said. He looked at me. “What makes you think you know?”

  I looked at Mendoza and he nodded.

  “I’ll let my, uh, colleague answer that,” I said, pushing away from the wall. I leaned out of the office and signaled Nacho. He was sitting across the room drinking a Coke. Looking uncomfortable. He stood and came across. In the openness of El Patron, his bulk seems almost normal. Here, in this closed space, surrounded by desks and chairs, his shoulders looked enormous. I stepped aside and motioned him into the room. He stepped in; his eyes flicked across the men in suits, then stayed on Mendoza. I stepped around him and went back to my spot on the wall. He stood beside me.

  “This is Nacho,” I said.

  “Nacho?” the sandy one said.

  “Ignacio Pombo,” Mendoza said. “He is an old acquaintance of mine.” Boyce was hiding a smile.

  “An acquaintance of yours?” Renfro said.

  “He put me away,” Nacho said.

  They all just looked at him.

  “Two years for dealing,” Nacho said.

  “Mr. Pombo paid his dues and is now an upstanding member of the community,” Mendoza deadpanned.

  A broad smile broke out on Nacho’s face, and Boyce had to turn away.

  “Very commendable,” Renfro said.

  “What makes you think you know where that video was filmed?” the sandy one said.

  Nacho’s smile went away.

  “Would you recognize your own backyard?” Nacho said. “That was filmed in my backyard.”

  Renfro looked at Mendoza, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Before Nacho did his time and saw the error of his ways, he was dealing drugs at Margaret Hance Park. Here in downtown Phoenix. That’s where he thinks the video was filmed.”

  “Thinks?” the sandy man said.

  “Play the video,” I said.

  Renfro looked at me. He reached down and opened his briefcase and took out an old electronic tablet. He fiddled with it for a couple of minutes, then I could hear the video start. He paused it and set it up on Mendoza’s desk where we could all see it. Mendoza stood and moved around to where he could see it too. Renfro tapped the screen and the video played.

  When it ended, Nacho said, “Play it again. Show me how to pause it.”

  Renfro started it again, then immediately tapped the screen to pause it. “Just tap on this,” he said to Nacho. Nacho reached over and tapped the screen and the video began again. He watched it intently, then halfway through he tapped the screen and it paused. He pointed over the talking man’s shoulder.

  “See that tree with the bush trimmed around it? I can take you to it. Just to the right and back a ways, just out of sight, is a little jungle gym for the kids.”

  “That could be any tree,” Sandy-man said.

  Nacho looked at me and shook his head, like see.

  Renfro looked at Mendoza. “So there are drug dealers doing business right in the heart of Phoenix. Dozens of policemen patrolling the area, right next to a children’s playground?”

  “The safest place for the fly is on the flyswatter,” I said.

  Mendoza took his jacket off the hat rack. “Let’s go look at a tree.”

  22

  We were standing in the middle of the park and Renfro played the video a half-dozen times. It was the tree. Mendoza already had the SWAT guys there before we arrived, and they were swarming the park and the surrounding neighborhoods.

  “They don’t really expect them to still be here?” Nacho said.

  I shook my head.

  “I’m surprised I didn’t recognize at least one of them,” he said.

  Boyce was standing a few feet off. She heard him and came over.

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  He shrugged, “Why would they choose this spot unless one of them had been here? Knew the place. Probably did some business here. And I already know most of those guys.”

  “Drug dealers blowing up shit in Sedona in the name of Allah?” I said.

  “Lot of so-called Muslims in the joint,” he said. “Somebody goes to the joint, if they don’t have a gang they get one. If they don’t have a religion, they get one. It’s how you survive. Lot of the black guys become Muslims. You know, Malcom X and Mohammad X and that kinda shit. Some Mexicans too, unless they belong to MS13 or the Mafia. Guys get really radicalized in the joint. You become a skinhead or a mafia guy or a Muslim, they teach you to hate everyone. Everyone that ain’t like you. With the Muslims you had to be the right kind of Muslim, and you know who the Muslims are ‘cause they get on their knees and pray several times a day.”

  “How did you survive?” Boyce asked innocently.

  He smiled that smile of his. He’d had all his teeth capped and they looked like they belonged to a movie star.

  “’Cause I was the meanest motherfucker in the joint.”

  “Of course,” she said without smiling. She looked at me. “We have a line on the room in Cottonwood where your guy Ramirez was staying. We have a team there seeing if they can lift some prints, maybe get some DNA. Find out who the guy really is.”

  “You’ll let me know?”

  “Sure.”

  “Might get you in trouble with Renfro.”

  “Fuck Renfro,” she said, and my phone rang.

  It was Blackhawk.

  “You and Nacho going to be much longer?”

  “Don’t have to be.”

  “Good, I have a situation here.”

  23

  When Nacho and I got back to El Patron they were sitting in the main room at the bar. It was Blackhawk and Elena and a smallish man with long, greasy black hair that curled around his ears. His suit and shoes were black and shiny like his hair. He lo
oked like a pimp.

  As we came out of the hallway and into the bar, Nacho said, “Crap,” under his breath.

  “You know this guy?” I asked as we moved across the dance floor.

  “Elena’s cousin,” he said under his breath. “He’s a shit bag, but she loves him. Family.” He said all this without moving his lips. The last word was said with a certain disgust. They watched us approach.

  They were seated at the bar at the spot where Nacho normally read his morning paper. Blackhawk sat on the corner. Sat isn’t the right word. He occupied the stool like a dancer occupies a stage. Elena was next to him; she was half turned looking at her cousin and the cousin sat, perched on his stool like a canary, his feet not touching the foot rail. When Elena turned to look at us, I realized that I had never really seen her angry. Now she was angry.

  I took the seat on the other line of the corner, next to Blackhawk. Nacho remained standing.

  “This is Elena’s cousin, Luis Diaz. He’s got himself in a little bit of a pickle,” Blackhawk said, his face not showing anything. The man didn’t look up.

  Elena looked at me. “Blackhawk has convinced me to include you in this,” she said. “I don’t want to, but my cousin has done something stupid and if he doesn’t fix it, he will be killed.”

  Her eyes welled up.

  The little man, Luis, started to say something and she turned and slapped him so hard it almost took him off the stool.

  “Estupido!”

  Diaz covered up, afraid she’d hit him again. She slid off her stool and went up the stairs. She didn’t look back.

  Blackhawk had turned and watched her go. He turned back to me.

  “Luis is a mule. He drives a truck across the border at Douglas. He brings marijuana and coke, and sometimes heroin, into Phoenix. He carries cash back across.”

  He turned to Luis. “Tell Jackson what happened.”

  The man had a red spot on his cheek and his eye watered from Elena’s blow.

  “I was tricked,” he said.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  He looked at Blackhawk. “Can I get a beer, or something?”

  “Tell him before I slap you,” Blackhawk said.

  He swallowed and looked at me. “I had a run back south, and I had chorizo and eggs for breakfast.”

  Nacho snorted, “Nobody gives a shit about what you had for breakfast.”

  “It’s the reason I had to stop. I think the chorizo was bad. I got out of Tucson and all of a sudden I had to drop a deuce. I mean real bad, so I know of this place between Benson and St. David. It’s like a Circle K. It has toilets on the outside of the building so you don’t have to go in. I pulled in and parked to the side. I barely made it.”

  Blackhawk glanced at me, a tired look on his face. “Get on with it.”

  “When I got done I couldn’t get out,” he continued.

  “You couldn’t get out,” I said.

  “The door was jammed. I panicked. I thought someone was jamming me in so they could fuckin’ rob me, which at the time, I thought was stupid because if someone stole money from the people I work for, they’re dead.”

  “But that’s what happened,” I said.

  He nodded. “I started yelling and a guy that just happened to be there waiting to use the john opened the door from the other side.”

  “But you were robbed.”

  “I didn’t know it at the time. I checked the truck and the cash is hidden really good, and I didn’t dare tear everything apart to check on it and I couldn’t see that anything had been moved, so I kept going.”

  “But you were robbed,” Blackhawk said again.

  He nodded. “When I got to our warehouse and they unloaded, the money was gone. I about shit my pants.”

  “The guy that let you out, do you know him?”

  “Just some guy. Never saw him before.”

  “Why are you still alive?”

  He was sweating now. He reached across the bar and picked up a paper napkin. He mopped his face and neck. “They gave me a week to get the money back.”

  “That was generous, who stole it?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know; if I did, I’d go and get it back.”

  Nacho snorted. Almost a laugh, but not quite.

  “Who do you work for?” I asked.

  “Emilio Garza is the main guy.”

  “Who does Garza work for?”

  He shrugged. “He works for the family.”

  “The Valdez cartel.”

  He nodded.

  I looked at Blackhawk. He was studying his fingernails. I looked at Nacho. He shook his head, disgusted with the whole thing. I looked back to Diaz.

  “You got someplace to stay, they don’t know about?”

  He looked at Blackhawk. “I thought I would stay here.”

  Blackhawk didn’t look up. “You thought wrong.” Blackhawk looked at Nacho. “Take him to the Best Western by I-17, check him in under your name.” He looked at Diaz. “There’s a restaurant attached, eat all your meals there. Don’t leave the room except to eat.”

  “What the hell am I going to do all day?” He was whining.

  “Play with yourself, watch TV, what the hell do I care?” Blackhawk said. “But if you leave, you are on your own.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Whatever Elena wants me to do, which, luckily for you, will probably save your life.”

  24

  After Nacho and Diaz left, I followed Blackhawk upstairs. Elena had a lighted mirror set up on the ottoman and was applying her makeup. I flopped on an overstuffed leather chair and hung one leg over the arm.

  Still applying her lipstick, Elena said, “Are you going to help Luis?”

  “No,” I said.

  She looked up at me, her eyes flashing.

  “I’m going to help Blackhawk and I’m going to help you, but I don’t give a damn about Luis.”

  “I don’t give a damn about him either. But he is family and I do give a damn about Aunty Lorraine. He is her oldest. If he dies, it will break her heart.” She pursed her lips in the mirror, studying her handiwork.

  I pulled out my phone and dialed the marina store. Eddie and I had a lot in common, one of which was an aversion to electronic devices. They had swarmed across the world like a horde of locusts and while I had succumbed to the phone, Eddie had resisted it, and all else. He figured if you wanted to talk to him, come and sit, have a conversation. If you wanted to be entertained, go fishing. He absolutely hated the fact that you couldn’t repair a modern automobile without a diagnostic computer. He figured that if you wanted to know what was behind you while backing your vehicle, you could turn and look. What are mirrors for? I once asked him if he liked the access to information the internet gave him. He replied that at his age he already knew everything he needed to know. He said old people don’t forget things, they just have so many more memories to sift through. It takes longer.

  One of the new kids answered the store phone, and I gave him my number and asked him to pass it on to Eddie when he came in. He said he would. I had my doubts.

  I dialed Boyce. To my complete surprise, she answered.

  “Boyce.”

  “It’s me.”

  “I know.”

  “Have you heard any more about Ramirez?”

  “I’m working right now,” she said. “We’ll talk later.”

  I started to hang up when I heard Renfro’s tinny voice say, “Who was that?”

  “My sister,” Boyce said, her voice fainter. She had not disconnected and was obviously holding the phone so I could hear. Boyce didn’t have a sister. “So what were you saying about the fingerprints at the boardinghouse?”

  “We lifted clean prints in the bathroom. Ramirez is really Ali Ibrahim Atef,” said Renfro’s tinny voice. “He was born in the U.S. while his Jordanian father was part of a diplomatic mission here. So he has citizenship. When he was a child, his father was assigned to a mission in Venezuela, and he learned to speak Span
ish fluently.”

  “That’s why he could pass for Hispanic, and why he can travel in and out of the U.S.” Boyce said.

  “Exactly. When he came of age he returned to the U.S. and subsequently began to get in more and more trouble, eventually doing three years for assault, drug running and money laundering. That’s why we have the prints.”

  “Sounds like a sweetheart.”

  “While he was inside, he converted, or should I say, re-converted to Islam. The radical version. After he got out, he disappeared. The last the State Department had was that he was trained by militias in Iraq and fought with the IS in Syria.”

  “How do we find him?” she asked.

  “How would you find him?”

  “Put his face out everywhere. Somebody knows where he is.”

  “Soon as we do that, he’ll go to ground.”

  “He’s already gone to ground,” she said. There was silence, then a rustling sound. I could hear some more rustling. She was moving away from him. Then I could hear his faint voice. He was talking to someone else.

  “Guy’s an asshole,” she said in my ear, in a low tone. “Did you hear what he said?”

  “Yes, don’t know what I’ll do with it, but I appreciate it.”

  “I’m sending you a picture of Ramirez. Hang up and look at it, then call me back.”

  I disconnected. A moment later, my phone buzzed. I managed to thumb the appropriate places to bring the picture up. The picture was cropped in tight to Ramirez’s face. He wasn’t smiling. He was a handsome, dark-haired man. His eyes were baleful, dark and empty. I called Boyce back.

  “You get it?”

  “Yeah, it might help.”

  “I hope so,” she said. “If my phone is bugged, I’m out of a job and probably in prison.”

  “They’d bug your phone?”

  “Jackson, you have no idea what they will do.”

  “What about freedom of speech?”

  She barked a short laugh and disconnected.

  25

  I showed the picture to Blackhawk, but his mind was on something else.

  “You think it’s Dos Hermanos took the money?” Blackhawk asked.