by Glenn Trust
“Uh, well, yes, sir. That’s about exactly what Lucky said.”
“Seemed like a threat that should be addressed at the time rather than later.” Sole shrugged. “So you see, I had plenty of reason.”
Krieg and Zabala exchanged glances, and Krieg nodded. “Get dressed and come outside. We’ll talk.” He nodded at the pistol in Sole’s hand. “Bring that along if you want, but there won’t be any need for it. Just talk.”
It only took a minute for Sole to pull his jeans on and slide a tee-shirt over his head. He stepped onto the shack’s stoop in bare feet.
“What do you want to talk about?” he asked, checking the hands of his visitors for weapons and then tucking the Colt into his waistband.
“You know who we are?” Krieg asked.
“No.” Sole shook his head. “Some sort of head bosses around here or something like that.”
“Something like that.” Krieg allowed a faint smile to cross his face.
Zabala grinned wide. “Goddamned right, something like that. We are the head bosses around here.”
“Okay. So what do you head bosses want with me?”
“Not many people would dare pull a pistol on us.” Krieg stared into Sole’s face. “No one, in fact.”
“You come crashing into my room while I’m asleep.” Sole shrugged. “Seemed like the smart thing to do at the time.”
“Still, that took balls. Showed you were ready for whatever happened. We might be able to use a man like you.”
“Doing what?”
“Security. We run a fleet of trucks.”
“No.” Sole shook his head. “I’m just passing through.”
“Passing through to where?”
“My business.” Sole shook his head. “Not yours.”
“Fair enough, but you’ll need money wherever you’re headed, and we pay pretty good.” Krieg persisted, softening his tone a bit. “Best wages you’ll find anywhere around here. All you have to do is ride shotgun on our trucks a couple of times a week picking up loads below the border and bringing them back over … you know, keep a lookout for banditos.”
“Below the border? Mexico?”
“That’s what I said.” Krieg nodded. “That worry you?”
“Nope. You just hired yourself a security man.”
“Good. Get some rest then come out to our depot.” He nodded at Isabella and Sherm, watching the exchange from the street. “They can tell you where it is. By the way, what’s your name?”
“Bill Myers.”
“You have ID that will get you across the border and back? We do things legal.”
“I expect so. Driver’s license and a passport card.”
“That’ll do.”
Krieg and Zabala turned away. Stu Pearce gave a smile. “Welcome aboard.”
“That’s the motherfucker!” Doyle Krieg came running down the road from Mazey’s. “That’s the motherfucker that roughed me up!”
Krieg stopped and looked at his son. “Roughed you up? How?” He turned to Bud Lawton who had followed Doyle into the street. “What happened, Bud?”
“Doyle had a little confrontation with that fella there.” He nodded at Sole standing barefooted on the bungalow stoop. “Didn’t amount to much.”
“Amount to much!” Doyle hollered. “He grabbed me by the neck, nearly choked me and goddammit he took hold of …” Doyle stopped, realizing that the rest of the description was less flattering.
“And what?” Krieg stared at his son whose face reddened. He turned to Lawton. “Bud?”
“Well, he sort of grabbed Doyle by the nuts, and you know … squeezed.”
Zabala laughed. Krieg shook his head in disgust.
“Why?” Krieg looked at Sole.
“He used some nasty language to Isabella.”
“What did he say?”
“I’d rather not repeat it.”
“You put hands on my boy. I expect an answer as to why.”
Sole remained silent, his eyes locked on Krieg’s.
“He called me puta—whore.” Isabella stepped forward. “Myers here stepped in at that point, and I appreciate what he did. Doyle had it coming.”
Krieg eyed his son for a moment and nodded. “I expect he did.”
He turned and led the way back to his pickup. A minute later, the big Dodge headed out of town. Doyle Krieg stood open-mouthed in the road. Bud Lawton shared a grin with Sherm.
“Can I go back to bed now?” Sole turned back to the drill shack, yawning and shaking his head. He grumbled, “All this commotion when a man’s trying to sleep … downright rude where I’m from.”
19.
Work to Do
A lone, desultory fly droned against the windowpane. It didn’t seem too unhappy about its captivity inside the air-conditioned office of Comandante Enrique Valera of the Policía Estatal. Whenever it came into the intense superheated rays of sunlight refracted by the window glass, it buzzed away toward the cooler air blowing from an overhead register
Border Patrol Officer-in-Charge, Emmett Brewer, watched the fly move in lazy arcs around the office, its gauze-like wings barely keeping it aloft. After a minute or two, it would return to the window, driven by some inscrutable fly instinct to seek escape, although not very enthusiastic about the idea.
Brewer was there for the weekly coordination meeting between the local Mexican state police and the Border Patrol agents operating in the adjacent district across the river. The sessions alternated between the Policía Estatal Comisaría—State Police Station—and the Border Patrol offices.
This week they met in Reynosa, across the Rio Grande from McAllen, Texas. Brewer waited patiently for Valera to arrive. He had learned during his five years of service in this district that their Mexican counterparts had a more fluid understanding of time. Any suggestion that they should arrive in a more timely fashion invariably led to even longer delays and the inevitable smiling lecture about the norteamericano custom of being ruled by the clock in all matters.
He crossed his legs, relaxed in the chair, and watched the fly. Brewer had come to accept the delays and even tended to agree with his Mexican counterpart about unnecessary rushing about. Slavery to the clock was not conducive to good health, Valera had said once. Brewer couldn’t argue, and if they wanted to take their time about things, so would he.
Fifteen more minutes passed before Comandante Valera arrived. Trim and neat in his sharply pressed black trousers and white uniform shirt bearing his badge of rank, Valera walked briskly to his desk and took a seat. There was no greeting or the usual exchange of pleasantries.
“How are you, Enrique? Well, I hope.” Brewer greeted him in fluent Spanish. “You seem a bit agitated.”
Valera tossed a brown envelope he held onto the desk. “We must speak of this.”
“Alright.” Brewer reached for the envelope, lifted the flap, and turned it up for the contents to fall out on the desk. He raised his eyes to Valera. “What’s this?”
“A bullet, of course.” Valera’s eyes narrowed. “You should ask where it came from.”
“Okay.” Brewer nodded. “I’ll play along, Enrique.” He lifted the clear plastic bag and examined the bullet inside. “Copper jacketed, about a hundred and fifty grains, but it’s a little hard to be exact because of the deformation. It struck something hard. I’d say .30-30 caliber, but I can’t be sure.” He put the plastic evidence bag back on the desk. “So, where did it come from?”
“It was fired across the Rio Grande from your side, along with many others like it.”
“Do you know who fired it?”
“No.” Valera shook his head and sat back in his chair, hands folded on the desk, regarding his counterpart. “But I know who it was fired at and why?”
“Are you going to tell me?” Brewer’s face twisted up in a wry smile. “Or make me guess.”
“This is not a laughing matter, Emmett.”
“Never said it was, but you’re playing the drama without giving me any facts. Tell
me what this is about.”
“Someone fired this round and others at a family attempting to cross the river.”
“A family?”
“Yes.” Valera’s voice was icy, his eyes fixed on Brewer’s. “A family. A father leading his wife and children to cross the river. Some were no more than babies.”
“Babies,” Brewer whispered and leaned forward to pick up the plastic evidence bag again and peer at the mangled bullet. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to the question, but he asked, “What did it hit?”
“Ah, yes.” Valera nodded. “At least that is fortunate. It struck the father, hit him in the leg, and broke his femur. That explains the bullet deformation.”
“Yes, it does.” Brewer nodded. “The father? He survived?”
“Fortunately, he still lives. It may take him years to recover fully, and the doctors say he will never walk without limping, but yes, he survived.”
“That’s good.” Brewer’s mind flipped into investigative mode. “Did the family get a look at who was shooting at them?”
“We interviewed the father and mother and two of the older children. They could tell he was a white American. There was another with him, but the second did not shoot.” He shook his head. “The distance was too far. They couldn’t give any more description than that and did not get a good look at their faces.”
“But we have this.” Brewer held up the evidence bag with the bullet.
“If you can find the rifle that fired it.”
“We’ll do our best, Enrique.”
“You must do better than that, Emmett. We may have a difference of opinion on how to control the border between our countries, but I hope we can agree that shooting at unarmed men and women is not an acceptable practice.” Valera leaned over the desk, his eyes hard. “You must control your vigilantes and find the ones who did this.” He cast a glance at the bullet. “They must be punished.”
“They will be,” Brewer said evenly without breaking away from Valera’s stare. “But out of respect for our working relationship, keep in mind that the Policía Estatal has agreed to patrol your side of the river to prevent people from trying to cross.”
“Are you trying to place the blame for this incident on us?” Valera’s voice rose in indignation.
“Not at all. Shooting at anyone, on either side of the river is a violation of our laws and yours. You have my word that we will find those responsible and punish them.” Brewer raised an eyebrow. “I am only wondering how an entire family, including several small children, escaped undetected by your patrols. Crossing illegally is also a violation of the law, ours and yours. I merely suggest that we both have some investigating to do.”
Valera rose, standing at near attention in front of Brewer. “I will await your report on the matter.”
“And I, yours.” Brewer stood. “Work with us on this, Enrique, not against us. If we want to play the blame game, there is more than enough to go around. Blame is for the politicians. You and I …” Brewer’s hand motioned from his chest to Valera’s. “We have work to do.”
20.
Not so Bad
“Clean this shit up.” Tom Krieg walked from the bathroom adjoining his master bedroom in the rambling ranch house and kicked at a pair of women’s panties lying on the floor.
“You didn’t mind them there last night when you pulled them off my ass.” Claire Toussaint stretched on the king bed and peered at Krieg over a mound of rumpled sheets. “In fact, you were in a hurry to drop them there as I recall.”
“Clean the place up.” Krieg picked up a pair of jeans from the chair where he had dropped them the night before, pushed one leg in then the other. “Not in the mood for your shit this morning.”
“You can treat me like your whore. I guess that’s what I am, but you don’t have to be an asshole about it.” Claire lay on one side, her head resting on her hand, watching him. “I could do something and maybe to make you less of an asshole.”
Claire leaned back, stroking her curving hip and thigh, letting her hand rest between her legs. She smiled at him and sat up suddenly so that her breasts swayed enticingly. Krieg ignored her and continued dressing.
He found his boots and sat down on the bed to pull them on. Claire put an arm around his waist, her hand finding the zipper on his jeans.
“Stop,” Krieg said gruffly, tugging at one boot.
Claire had the zipper down now. Her hand slid inside.
“Stop.” His voice was less gruff.
Claire swung her legs over the side of the bed and knelt before him.
“I have to go.” Krieg spoke through gritted teeth, angry at himself and at Claire, but unable to deny his arousal.
“Soon,” Claire cooed.
He moaned as she lowered her head. His hands clutched at her hair, dark and flowing down over her face as she worked on him. He pulled her head down, thrusting deeper, his head thrown back, eyes closed.
She gagged and choked. Her eyes watered. He held her head, tearing at her hair and ears. She wanted to cry out but couldn’t as he forced her head down.
There was no love-making involved, only the satisfaction of an animal need. Claire had known it would be like that when she began tempting him. She didn’t care. Keeping him with her, even for this, was all she expected from life.
***
She had been nothing more than a New Orleans whore when she met Tom Krieg. He was younger then, just graduated from the University of Texas and doing a bachelor tour around the country with his Tex-Mex friend Raul Zabala.
It began as a one night fuck, then another. Soon, he would find reasons to come to New Orleans to find release with her for the animal raging inside him. Eventually, he brought her to Texas and set her up in an apartment in Laredo.
She was still his whore, bought and paid for, but she had outlasted the wife who had given him a son. The wife had suspected their arrangement and challenged him one day. Krieg laughed at her and admitted it. He could do what he wanted, and she was powerless to stop it. She knew it was true and left. Krieg moved Claire into the guesthouse on the ranch the next day.
She remained there because she put no restrictions on him. She understood a man like Krieg and her place in his world. As for her world, she had none. Her life was bound to his.
Tom Krieg could come and go as he pleased. He could whore around with other women and hear no protest from her. She expected no kind words and never received any. Tenderness was never in his touch. He used her, and being used by Tom Krieg was all the world she knew or expected.
Claire understood being used. She was good at it. Being used was a lifestyle, familiar and comfortable for her. It was the life she had led since being raped by her father’s brother at the age of ten. She understood the rules to this life, and perversely, understanding the rules, gave her the only sort of security she had ever found.
***
Krieg grunted. His hands clenched, pulling her hair until Claire wanted to shriek in pain, but he held her head down, thrusting deeper. He gave final shuddering grunt and pushed her away.
She sat on the floor, gagging, hands at her mouth, looking up at Krieg through watery eyes like a dog hoping to have pleased his master. He pulled on the other boot.
“I’ve got business today.” He stood and stepped around her. “Sleep in the guesthouse tonight. I want to be alone.” As he walked down the hall from the bedroom, he shouted over his shoulder, “And get that shit cleaned up!”
Then he was gone.
Claire Toussaint sat on the floor, face red, lips bruised. After a while, she became aware that she was cold and reached up to pull the sheet from the bed to cover her nude body. Wrapped in the sheet, she lay on her side on the floor, her cheek resting on her hand.
A drop of blood seeped from the corner of her lips. She must have bitten her tongue as he used her. She ignored the blood. It would heal. Next time she would be more careful.
21.
The Devil’s Door
At
least they were comfortable. The bed was small. The room had no windows. The noise from the air conditioner mounted through the wall over Jacinta’s bed was loud and made the wall vibrate when it came on in the night, blowing cold air down on her.
But the sheets on the bed were clean and crisp, and the blanket was warm. Compared to the little room in the house where she had watched over the children, Jacinta was more comfortable than she had been in years. She pulled the blanket tight around her and hugged the pillow, pretending it was her mother, and they were holding each other in the dark room in this new place.
Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow they would send her on the other truck to Houston.
No, wait! Not tomorrow! Today! It must be after midnight. They had been in the beds in the room for hours. She would be with her uncle and family today!
Uncle Arturo would be surprised and would take her to his home. He would tell her stories about her mother about the games they played together as children. They would be like the stories her mother had told her, and she would smile because they were the same stories but a little different because it was Uncle Arturo telling them and not Mama.
Jacinta willed herself to go back to sleep so that the time would pass quickly. Eyes clenched shut, she was like a child waiting for Christmas morning. After a time, her breathing became regular, and she drifted into sleep, a smile spreading across her face.
***
“Hola, paisano.” Raul Zabala looked up from the newspaper he had spread across his desk in the office they shared.
“You gotta talk that Mex shit to me first thing in the morning?” Krieg plopped into the chair behind his desk.
“Gotta keep you practiced up.” Zabala grinned. “Noticed you forgetting how to roll your r’s.”
“Fuck my r’s.” Krieg poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the credenza behind his desk. He lifted it and nodded at Zabala. “Thanks for making the coffee.”