American Blood

by Ben Sanders

  Cohen adjusted the glasses, a tiny nudge to get them level. “Indeed they could have.”

  Marshall said, “Good story.”

  “Yeah. Point I was working round to is: I’ve got a wife, not so different to the lady was shot, and two little girls before long’ll be eight years old themselves. So given all that, my little Farmington adventure resonated a bit, and I guess I’ve lost any meager tolerance I mighta had for gun thugs.” He chewed and looked out across the street. “Funny, you have a family, kids, you realize you’d do anything to keep’m safe.” He looked at Marshall. “But then, what is it about anyone else on this earth that makes them undeserving of the same devotion, other’n that you don’t share blood.”

  Marshall ate his eggs. They spent a moment not talking. At length, Marshall said, “So what’s Bolt done that you’re after him?”

  The wind kicked up, laid Cohen’s tie across his shoulder. He restored order without looking down. He said, “He’s out of federal lockup on supervised release, wasn’t filing his reports, which I believe is a Class D felony all by itself. Anyway. He’s got a former missus out in Lubbock, marshal’s sent two deputies along to reconnoiter, pair of them met a pretty insalubrious end.” He drained his mug. “And I’d say the good money is on Mr. Bolt having a hand in their departure. Needless to say, death of anyone’s a tragedy, but to my mind Texas men are among the very finest, so I’m extra saddened by that sort of news.”

  Marshall said, “So you want him dead.”

  Cohen made a claw of one hand, inspected his nails. “I think that’s a dangerous thing for a federal officer to be putting honest comment to. But I think society would be radically improved should Mr. Bolt stop living. Never met him of course, but Cyrus strikes me as the sort of man doesn’t like to go quietly when given the option; check out in a hail of gunfire, if he got the chance. So yeah. I think I’m lookin’ forward to seeing him in the flesh.”

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  Cohen said, “That nice police detective lady. Shore. She speculated maybe you’d showed Mr. Bolt his grave.”

  Watching him carefully now. Marshall said, “Speculating’s her prerogative.”

  “Mmm. I guess what I’m fishing for is whether there’s any merit to her wonderings, or if it’s just a bunch of fanciful what-ifs.”

  Marshall said, “If I killed someone I wouldn’t tell you about it.”

  Cohen looked at him over the top of the aviators, add some weight to things. “What if I told you that whatever’s shared between us during a nice session of eggs and toast remains our private business?”

  Marshall sat a while, toying with words, didn’t get the feeling he was being taken for a ride. He said, “I don’t think you need to worry about him.”

  “And what about Mr. Rojas?”

  “He’s still worth investing some serious time in.”

  Cohen nodded slowly to himself. “Right. I had a suspicion that might be the case.”

  “Is there a federal warrant out on him?”

  Cohen clasped his hands on his knee, tilted his head while he thought about it. “I’m not entirely sure that there is. But I do know APD missing persons would dearly like to talk with him, and he held a police officer at gunpoint last night, so I’d say the feds’ll be after him sooner or later.” He paired up his cutlery. “Troy’s had a busy time, so there’s bound to be something in Title 18 he’s violated. Section 1201, maybe.”

  “That the part about kidnapping?”

  Cohen nodded. “I do believe that is the part about kidnapping.”

  Marshall set his fork down, finished his coffee. He sat up in his chair a bit and folded his legs the way Cohen had, and the two of them sat looking out at the street. The wall behind them shadowing the little courtyard, and at the opposite curb the square adobe frontage of the old public library was warm and blemish-free in the sun. The sky a clear and pale blue.

  Cohen said, “You going to help me find Mr. Rojas?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “What I meant more broadly is, are you going to cooperate with me?”

  “Well. What are the alternatives? Hypothetically.”

  Cohen smiled, Cheshire cat, like a dentist’s brochure. “Hypothetically. I could take you in, put some questions to you about those drugs in the back of your car, or all them boxes of shit stacked in your living room. Asset forfeiture type concern.”

  “The drugs are fake. And the boxes are my tenant’s.”

  Cohen said, “Unofficially, I believe you. Officially though, we’ve heard it all before, son.”

  “Can you make me a special deputy?”

  “You be on your best behavior, maybe we’ll work something out.”

  Marshall didn’t answer. He stood up, walked around the table toward the door. He said, “I’ll pay. Meet you in the car.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Wayne Banister

  Eight A.M. he went looking for Sean Frazer. He had visions of killing him in a car, give him the same fate as the old man.

  Fourth Street was in a narrow band of development between I-25 and the Rio Grande, not a prosperous-looking area, and Razor Rentals fit in fine. It was in a low off-white building that might have been a grocery store at one stage: big plywood-backed windows facing the street, timber signage along the eave, whited out to leave just a red hue. RAZOR RENTALS had been stenciled over in chrome blue.

  The building adjoined a large concrete lot, chain-link fence along the other three sides, a wide swing gate to permit vehicle access. There were maybe twenty cars parked in there: sedans, SUVs, a few pickups. Nothing less than ten years old. Down the back he could see an old Dodge Charger with its hood up, two Hispanic guys leaning in over the engine bay.

  Wayne parked a block away and sat watching. No traffic. The storefronts tired, untenanted. A bars-over-windows type of neighborhood. He took the red phone from his pocket and looked at it and thought of calling home, but he didn’t. Too great a distraction. Talk to the child and all those moral questions start weighing in.

  It’s just a job, you’re good at it, it’s a single-variable problem:

  How are you going to do it this time?

  He sat there working it through, watched the two guys jack up the front of the Charger. A moment later the quick squeal of a pneumatic wrench. He leaned and put the phone in the glove compartment and checked his mirrors. Then he got out and blipped the locks and crossed the street without looking, buttoning his jacket as he walked.

  There was a steel security screen over the front door, but it wasn’t locked. He stepped in and mariachi greeted him, radio cranked way up to catch a weak signal, the noise equal parts static and music. He was in a small office, a new partition in the front half of the original building, bright new gypsum board on the rear wall. No cameras. There was a fat guy of about fifty wearing a ball cap seated behind a desk, a Jewish man in full black attire bent over to sign documents. Sidelocks gently pendulous as he wrote. A door to the left accessed the lot, and the shrill tone of the wrench was clear over the radio.

  Wayne stood at the entry until the customer had left with a key, and then he sat down in a torn office chair on casters in front of the desk. He rolled himself back slightly so he could see through the door to where the two guys were working on the Charger.

  The man behind the desk gathered the documents and tamped the edges square. He said, “Been doing this a while, but that’s my first whaddya call it. Orthodox Jew. All dressed up like that.”

  He looked out at the lot, like the sight of the guy had been some kind of rare spectacle he wanted to savor. “Asked for one of them people mover things, but we didn’t have one, had to give him an SUV. Funny, knew a guy in Brooklyn did this, said Jews always want big cars. Especially on weekends, you know, move their big families around.”

  Wayne sat quietly, and when he felt they were done with Jews he said, “I’m looking for Frazer.”

  “What?”

  Hard to hear over the radio. Wayne turned his fi
ngers in a little dial motion and the guy leaned and turned down the volume. The noise faded back to static only.

  Wayne said, “I’m looking for Frazer.”

  The guy dropped the papers in a drawer, scraped it shut. “Which one, Senior or Junior?”

  Wayne thought about it and said, “Either.”

  “They’re not here. You can leave a message I guess.”

  “I’d rather just talk to them.”

  The guy shrugged.

  Wayne said, “It’s Junior I’m really after.”

  The guy leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk. He smiled and touched his hat brim, pushed it back a fraction. He said, “If it’s a rental you’re after I can probably help you.”

  “I’m not after a car.”

  The guy didn’t answer.

  Wayne heard an engine start and watched the man in black ease a Subaru Forester out the gate onto the road. He said, “You know where Junior is?”

  The guy spread his hands. “Look, he’s on an errand.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t think he’ll be too much longer.”

  Wayne smiled, patient. He put a foot up on the edge of the desk. “Is there anyone else here who might be a little more forthcoming?”

  “Forthcoming. Well, what’s your Spanish like? You could try those two out there.” He laughed.

  Wayne leaned back and looked at them. The old wheel was off and a new one was being rolled into place. Give it a minute and that wrench would be up and running again. He drew the silenced SIG from the shoulder holster and propped it on his raised knee.

  The guy’s face went slack and his mouth fell open very slowly. He cleared his throat but kept his voice low. “You don’t, we can.” He closed his eyes, showed Wayne his palms. “Just, relax.”

  Wayne said, “I am relaxed. What do you think relaxed is?”

  “Just. You don’t need that.”

  “Where’s Frazer?”

  “I don’t know where Emile is.”

  “I told you. I’m after Junior.”

  “What for?”

  He was watching the gun. Wayne said, “You just need to tell me where he is.”

  “Okay, okay.” Head lowered as he spoke. “He’s at Andrea’s. You probably drove past it. That Mexican place. He likes breakfast there.”

  “Back a couple blocks?”

  “Yeah. Two, three blocks, not far. Look, man, I just do the car stuff, I promise. I have absolutely zero involvement in, you know.” Eyes still downcast, like if he didn’t look it wouldn’t happen. “The other stuff they’re running. I mean, I know nothing about it.”

  Wayne said, “But you do know there’s other stuff they’re running.”

  The guy didn’t answer.

  Quiet a long time and then finally the squeal of the wrench. The guy looked up slowly. “We good?”

  Wayne nodded. “Yeah, we’re good.”

  The wrench again, perfect sound cover, and Wayne squeezed the trigger. The round caught the guy on the bridge of the nose and sprayed his brains on that clean white gypsum. The limp corpse tipping slowly back, squeak of springs as it went almost horizontal, like a dentist’s chair.

  Wayne let his breath out.

  Blood and pink matter dripping on the floor. A final blast off the wrench. He took his foot off the desk and stood up and holstered his piece. Sharp smell of gun smoke. Standing in the doorway watching, one hand on the frame, was a little boy about four or five years old.

  Wayne still had his hand on the SIG. He said, “Ah, shit.”

  * * *

  He drove slow to Andrea’s. It gave him time to call home. Bad form being diverted midjob, but he needed to hear her voice. He dialed on the red phone, and she was always so happy it was him.

  He could see the sign up ahead, but he still got to talk to her for two blocks, and it made the rest of it disappear.

  * * *

  Andrea’s Restaurante Mexicana was in a low concrete-block building opposite a supermarket turned Mormon headquarters. A security gate covered the door and there were mesh screens over the windows, the steelwork all bright yellow, like it was purely adornment.

  There was a line of cars parked nose-in at an angle along one side of the building beneath a metal verandah. Wayne turned in and parked next to a gleaming red Humvee and got out and locked the car and walked around to the front. A sandwich board at the curb announced today’s special: sopapilla with green or red chili. He went in, and more mariachi music greeted him, probably the same station as the dead man’s. To the left was a counter and register surrounded by potted plants, and behind it a door through to the kitchen. Two families of four seated separately, and down the back facing the entry a man of about thirty eating alone.

  Wayne went over and pulled out a metal chair and sat down opposite. He leaned forward and rested his clasped hands on the edge of the table.

  The guy looked up. He had Emile’s features but with less droop and less neck. He wiped his mouth with the back of a wrist. “Help you?”

  Wayne said, “I’m the Dallas Man.”

  Frazer laughed quietly and looked around. “Well shit, I wondered when I’d see you.” He let his fork drift idly through his meal, like doodling on a blotter. He had rice and enchiladas in a big plate of green chili. He said, “Haven’t heard from Dad since he met you yesterday.”

  Wayne said, “Not answering his phone?”

  Frazer shook his head. “Nah, nothing.”

  Wayne nodded slowly. He clucked his tongue. He said, “Doesn’t that make you wonder a little?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well. Doesn’t it make you wonder? About where he might be?”

  The guy didn’t answer.

  Wayne said, “Why didn’t you have the special?”

  “What?”

  “Why didn’t you have the special? Sopapilla.”

  The guy chewed some enchilada. “I dunno, I don’t like it as much.”

  Wayne sat watching him over his clasped hands, the other man clearly unsettled.

  Frazer said, “Do you know where he is?”

  Wayne nodded. “Yeah, I know where he is.”

  Frazer loading another forkful, waiting for it.

  Wayne said, “He’s in the desert out west with a bullet in his head.”

  The fork was en route to Frazer’s mouth when he dropped it on the table. He gave Wayne the same slack expression as the guy at the desk.

  “Jesus, you killed him?”

  His hand went to his mouth and his voice broke on the last word.

  Wayne said, “It was a conflict-of-interest issue. He wanted me to take out someone I’m already working for. It was just a professionalism thing.”

  He unwrapped the napkin from his cutlery and wiped up the spilled mouthful and balled it carefully.

  Frazer’s lip wavered, eyes filling as he looked at him. “God, you really killed him?”

  “I really killed him. Keep it together, we don’t want a scene.”

  Frazer started panting, glancing around, touched a hand to his brow. “God. Shit.”

  Wayne said, “Just keep it together. You’ve got an important decision to make.”

  Frazer leaned back, gripped the edge of the table. This little moment of desperation and the mariachi music just pushing on cheerily. Wayne liked the juxtaposition. He said, “We can either do it in here, or we can do it outside in the car.” Hoping for the car. Like father, like son.

  Frazer panting through his teeth. “Do what?”

  “Guess.”

  The guy didn’t answer.

  Wayne said, “What, you think this was a courtesy call? Let you know what happened?”

  Frazer wiped his brow, looked at his knife. Not worth the risk: no point on it.

  Wayne said, “That your Humvee out there?”

  “You piece of shit. Go to hell.”

  Wayne gave that a few seconds’ grace and then he repeated the question.

  Frazer nodded.

  Wayn
e said, “I always like guys like you. You know. Most days you got plenty of attitude, drive the sort of car that lets people know it, but then you hit a situation like this and we’re not getting much of a fight. Could of stabbed me with the fork or something.”

  Frazer didn’t answer.

  Wayne said, “You can choose where we do it, and you’re probably best to go for the car. I’ve got a gun in a shoulder rig so I can draw pretty fast, and I don’t think you’d have much hope. In the car I’m more hemmed in, so you’ll have more of a show.”

  Disbelief in the guy’s face and Wayne felt duty bound to answer the unspoken question. He said, “If I give you some options it eliminates the certainty of the outcome. It’s a gamble, which is sort of the essence of life. That element of unknowing. Suddenly we’re within a spectrum of likelihoods, which is more fun for me, because there’s that suspense factor, which is what we live for, and what you might die for.”

  Clench-jawed silence and then Frazer said, “Where is he?”

  “I told you. Out in the desert.”

  Frazer didn’t answer.

  Wayne said, “He was telling me he wanted to get to someone called the Patriarch. You know anything about that?”

  Frazer shook his head, eyes full of tears.

  Wayne said, “I thought that might be the case. You want to finish your meal, or shall we head outside?”

  Frazer chose the latter. Wayne left money on the table, a careful pincer motion so he wouldn’t leave a print, and then followed him out and round to where the Humvee was parked. He could see Frazer was unarmed.

  Wayne said, “You want driver or passenger seat?”

  Frazer said, “Passenger.”

  Wayne didn’t answer, just slid into the driver’s seat when Frazer unlocked the car. Frazer climbed slowly in and closed his door and then there was just the two of them and the quiet and Frazer looking at the glove compartment.

  Wayne said, “What have you got in there?”

  Frazer didn’t answer. He closed his eyes.

  Wayne said, “You’re not going to be much good for it if you’re not looking.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I went and talked to the guy at the shop.”