"That is not the question, the question is, why didn't you know, or why didn't you at least make allowances for the possibility?"
Sanchez shrugged. He'd give Calderone a point. He screwed up, plain and simple on that one.
Now waving a full five fingers at the man, Calderone concluded his litany. "I ask you to make room for our people at Waywayanda Farm, and there is still no room. You make me look like a fool in front of that madman Tyack. I tell him I can handle everything. I tell him no problem for me, and no headaches for him. And what is happening, eh? Nothing. That is what is happening. Nothing at all."
"I'll take care of it, Don Calderone."
"You'd better, Tomás. You'd better do just that. You have been with me a long time, and I like you. But this is business, and businessmen can't afford mistakes. If you are getting old, if you lose a step or two, it is time to retire, maybe, no? And in this business, when you retire, Tomás, there are no gold watches, eh?"
"No gold watches. I understand. I'll take care of it myself."
"Okay, my friend, I'll be waiting. Soon, eh? This Tyack is unpredictable."
* * *
Downtown Tucson was quiet. Tomás Sanchez drifted through the night streets listening to the sand hiss under the wheels of his van. He wasn't at ease with himself, or with the job he had to do. False papers in his pocket — acquired at great expense, and meticulously supported by all the appropriate files and documents in the usual government data banks — testified to his legitimacy. But he didn't feel legitimate. And that made him nervous.
He carried all the proof anyone could ever want that he was precisely what he seemed to be, just another Chicano making a buck or two, hustling to keep up with the rent and the cost of living. No longer a stranger in a strange land, at least as far as the papers went.
But he felt as if he were a stranger, and all the paper in the world couldn't change that. And Arizona would always be a strange land. He wondered whether it was strange even to the tall, bearlike Anglos who could drag out a family tree with two-hundred-year-old roots and maps of the family trek from Kentucky and Missouri. Somehow, clinging to life on the very edge of the desert had to be at least a little bit strange, even for them.
Strangest of all, though, was the way he made his living. That it was better than life in Guerrero, where his family had fought off starvation with a stick, was unquestionable. But whether he had somehow lost something of himself in the process was less certain.
It wasn't a question of ethics, exactly, and it wasn't a guilty conscience. What it was he wasn't sure, but it was there, all the same. It was more like some vague premonition that he had purchased something without asking its price. Someday, when he least expected it, the bill would come due, and the price would be high.
He knew all that, and that wasn't what bothered him, either. What really gnawed at him was the knowledge that whatever the price, he would be willing to pay it. And knowing that, he also knew that he was no longer a free man.
As the van cleared the heart of the city and moved out into the outskirts, more like a cluster of separate small towns than the suburban sprawl of a big city, he watched the moon, now a day or two past full, gliding just above the mountains. It seemed to stare at him, not with malice, not even with interest, but with a sort of benign indifference. It was the eye of a creature that saw him and didn't care whether he was there or not. It was like being invisible.
The village of Los Gatos lay a few miles to the south. With the radio thumping away, the heavy bass echoing from the rear speakers, Sanchez covered the distance without realizing it. Keeping time on the wheel, his foot to the floor, the black van almost an extension of him, he cruised easily and effortlessly, pulling off the road into a sandy lot beside an off-brand gas station to wait.
The others were there almost immediately, pounding on the driver's window and waking him out of his reverie. He opened the door and hopped down, moving gracefully despite his bulk. He unlocked the rear of the van, and the three men quickly loaded four five-gallon cans of gasoline, then climbed in. Sanchez closed the rear door and got back behind the wheel. He didn't know the men in the back and didn't want to know them. They were a dime a dozen, and fifty bucks would buy them for the night. That's all Sanchez needed. They even supplied their own gasoline.
He eased back onto the highway, falling in behind a blonde in a red convertible. Ten minutes later the blonde and her car had dwindled to a pair of taillights, and they, too, vanished a few moments later. Under the moon the desert was pale silver, everything but the saguaros taking on the subdued color of the moon. The saguaros themselves stood black and silent like shadows made flesh.
The desert suddenly disappeared, the endless sand now replaced by row upon row of orange trees. Sanchez slowed down, looking for some telltale sign among the trees. He noticed a hundred tiny replicas of the moon, sparkling in the pools of water at the bottom of the irrigation ditches, miniature versions winking back from other, smaller skies. Waywayanda Farm was now the only place on earth.
An orange smear flashed by and Sanchez hit the brakes. The van lurched a little as it backed up, and he watched for the orange light off to the right. It was small, and winked on and off, but there was no doubt in his mind he'd found what he was looking for. He jumped the vehicle ahead a few yards, pulling off the road into a weedy patch between two orange trees.
The first lesson had been wasted on all but a few men. Now it was time to speak more softly, and deliver an indisputable lecture. He climbed down from the van and walked to the rear. When he unlocked the door, his three acolytes tumbled out, lugging the heavy gasoline cans with them. Sanchez hauled the fourth can out and set it down, then gathered the men around him.
Hurriedly, in a whisper, he explained what he wanted them to do, then gave each a loaded shotgun. The guns, he stressed, were to be used only in self-defense. All that was necessary was to make certain their message was understood. The three men, little more than shadows under the thick foliage of the trees, nodded vigorously and walked back the few yards to the end of the aisle where he had seen the orange light.
Sanchez led the way among the trees, watching the light wink on and off, and finally realized it winked because someone was passing back and forth in front of it. When they got within thirty yards, he whispered to them to put the cans down and follow his lead.
The outlines of nearly two dozen tents were clearly discernible among the trees, their grommets reflecting the firelight in a hundred small flashes. There would be somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty men in the camp, maybe more. Sanchez listened to the music of an acoustic guitar for a moment, trying to place the tune. When he couldn't, he shrugged his shoulders and stepped out. Moving quickly, he approached the camp fire at a near trot. He was almost upon the camp before someone noticed him, and the music suddenly stopped.
"Señor…? Buenas noches." Sanchez returned the greeting, then motioned this three henchmen to stand beside him.
"You men are no longer wanted here," Sanchez told them. "Mr. Tyack wants you to leave."
"But he…"
"No argument. Just hit the road."
"Who are you? You don't work for Mr. Tyack. Why doesn't he tell us himself if he wants us to leave? Most of the crop is still unharvested. We have just started." The man who argued was older than most of the others, and was obviously someone they respected. Sanchez felt rather than saw the pickers closing ranks in a tight semicircle behind their spokesman.
Before Sanchez could respond, a blast rent the air and the old man went spinning off to one side and fell on his back. It was several seconds before the reason for it registered on Sanchez, and then his brain almost immediately went numb. One of his fifty-dollar gunners had fired his shotgun.
No one moved.
Another blast from one of the shotguns, this one angled over the heads of the pickers, suddenly sent them running in every direction. The night exploded with blast after blast from three shotguns, and the air stank of cordite. When the
firing stopped, all the workers had vanished.
The three hired guns rushed into the trees and were back a moment later with the cans of gasoline. They unscrewed the caps on two of the cans and walked among the tents, splashing the volatile liquid on canvas after canvas. The second pair of cans was opened and soon the smell of cordite was gone, replaced by that of the fuel. The four empty cans were tossed onto the fire, where their fumes ignited with dull booms as they spurted tongues of flame.
"Can we take anything?" one of the goons asked, tugging on his sleeve.
"No, you asshole, you don't want the police to be able to connect you to this."
The man shrugged, then grabbed a burning brand and casually walked among the tents, swinging the branch from side to side. Each tent went up with a soft whoosh. When all the tents were ablaze, Sanchez backed away, his own eyes locked on the staring face of the old man and the roaring flames dancing in the cold, dead eyes.
He led the way back to the van and hustled the three men into the rear. They stacked their shotguns on the floor, and he closed the door after them. Climbing into the driver's seat, Sanchez slipped his own shotgun onto the passenger seat beside him. As he cranked up the engine, he spotted the moon, a little higher in the sky now, and swung around and headed away from Tucson, out into the desert.
He wondered if the men in the back remembered his was now the only loaded gun. It was funny in a way. But he didn't feel like smiling.
Not even when he stopped the van and reached for the shotgun.
15
The headquarters of the Bisbee County Sheriff was a madhouse. Mack Bolan wormed through a crowd around the water cooler, and asked the way to the sheriff's office. A deputy pointed down a dim hall and told him to look for the last door on the left. Bolan slipped through the last pair of deputies and into the corridor. The hallway smelled of new paint, but the institutional cream and white might as well have been a decade old. There were no dirty handprints or graffiti on the walls, but the colors were timeless.
The last door on the left was open, and a burly man in a gray uniform and Sam Browne belt sat behind a desk barely able to conceal the generous mound of his stomach. He looked up as Bolan rapped on the doorframe, eyebrows knit in a quizzical arch. His leathery cheeks had that welter of fine wrinkles usually found on skin that has seen more than its share of sunlight, and his corona of fine white hair fanned out in every direction.
"Can I help you, sir?" the sheriff asked.
The warrior stepped through the door and extended a hand across the battle-scarred desk. "Randy Carlton called you about me, I believe."
The sheriffs face creased in a genuine smile. "Oh, yeah, Belasko, isn't it? Randy said you'd be dropping by." He grabbed Bolan's hand and shook it firmly. "Ray Conlan's the name. What can I do for you?"
Bolan looked around, found a chair and indicated it with a nod of his head.
"Oh, hell, yes, sit down. Damn, I nearly forgot my manners. The old lady would kick me in the shins for that. I got some scars…"
Bolan closed the door, sitting down while the glass panel still rattled. "Did Randy tell you anything?"
"Just that you had a few things you wanted to talk about, sort of hush-hush, I gather. That right?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I'll tell you, I don't know what I can do for you, but I'd do just about anything to help that boy out. I swear to God, I never saw anybody take his job so serious, not since I was his age, anyway. I like him, and I'd sure as hell like to get hold of the son of a bitch who tried to shoot him. That what this is about?"
"Partly." Bolan had taken an instant liking to the gruff old man. He was one of a dying breed, and he seemed to know it. Rather than wearing it like a badge of honor, ossifying in his sense of himself, he seemed rather to have no ego at all. He was his job, and vice versa. That was a precious kind of lawman, precious like platinum was precious, and for the same reason — both were extremely rare.
"Hell, I ought to shut my face and let you tell me what you want. Belasko, you go ahead and ask me whatever you want to know. I'll tell you what I can. If I talk too much, just tell me to get on with it. No offense will be taken, I can guarantee." He smiled again, even more easily.
"What have you been able to learn about the two men who tried to kill Ronny Sipe?"
"Not much. We haven't got a ripple on their prints. They had no identification on them, and the weapons were sanitized. Blind alleys everywhere we turn. You want my opinion, though, they were Mexican nationals. Unlikely we'll get any help from the federales, but we're trying."
Bolan mulled over what he knew and what he suspected, not sure yet that he wanted to paint a full picture for the sheriff, no matter how cooperative he seemed to be. "I imagine it was the same with the gunners who killed Will Ralston?"
"You imagine right. Same mold, I'll bet you. They seem to have a factory down there in Me-he-co, can turn those bastards out on an assembly line, just like old Fords. These guys were a little cleaner than most, though. I don't know if that means they drank from the same well, or not. I'd bet on it, but not the farm."
"I suppose you came up just as empty on the hit man from the hospital?" Bolan knew without waiting for the answer that he was right. Conlan knew he knew, and didn't bother to respond.
The sheriff tilted back in his chair, folded his hands across his belly and propped his high-heeled boots on a corner of the desk, ignoring the pile of papers perched precariously on the edge. "Let me sketch something out for you. I don't know how much Ronny had a chance to tell you, but him and me had a couple of long heart-to-hearts over a pot of coffee. Funny thing, Belasko, but when you get old and feel like you're coming to the end of it, you can't sleep much. Just like when you're young, and the world's your oyster. Seems to me like there ain't much difference between lookin' for the pearl and knowin' for sure there ain't one. You know what I mean?"
"I think so," Bolan said.
"Well, Ronny and me, we was both ends of that pipe, and there was something got its claws into both of us. Neither one of us knew what to make of it, but we sure as hell chewed the leather up pretty fine."
The sheriff leaned forward to press a button on his phone, then picked up the receiver. He covered the mouthpiece with a thick palm for a moment. "You want a coffee?" When Bolan nodded, he added, "How you like it?"
Uncovering the phone, he said, "Two coffees, black, Milton, and knock before you bring them in, all right? Thank you, son."
He placed the phone back in its cradle, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I think what we got here is two archaeologists working the same dig. I got some pieces of pottery and so did Ronny. We was both trying to rebuild the pot, without knowing whether we had the whole thing, or bits and pieces of two or three, or maybe even more. Then, when we got to talking about it, things started to fall into place. I think now, and incidentally, Ronny did, too, what we got is one big mother of a pot. I don't think we got all the pieces yet, but what we do have sure as hell fits."
Bolan waited patiently while the old man hummed to himself, turning over his next statement a few times before resuming. "Now the funny thing is, when you're an archaeologist, you got one blind spot."
"What's that?"
"I'll tell you, it's…" He stopped when a sharp rap on the door signaled the arrival of the coffee. "Come on in, Milt."
The door opened, and a young deputy shouldered his way in, a cup of coffee in each hand. "Milt, this here is Mr. Belasko." The young man nodded as he placed the coffee on the desk, pushing one toward Conlan and leaving the other within reach of Bolan's chair. "Milt is my nephew, but don't let that fool you. He's gonna be a good lawman, soon's he gets a couple of years under his belt." He smiled at the young deputy, then dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "That's all for now, son."
When the door closed behind the deputy, Conlan picked up where he had left off. "Like I was sayin', the thing is, when you're an archaeologist, most of the time you find what you're lookin' for. You're lookin' for old po
ts, that's what you dig up. it never occurs to you to wonder just how old it is, because you already think you know."
"Then you think maybe there's something going on that hasn't been seen before?"
"There you go, son. That's exactly what I think. I didn't pick it up right away. Even an old-timer can be made a fool of hisself, he tries hard enough. But that's what I think now."
"Why?"
Conlan slapped the desk. "Precisely! That's the question, ain't it? And the answer comes from in here." He thumped his chest with a blunt finger. "It's somethin' I feel, not somethin' I can prove. But it's so, all the same."
"Where does Waywayanda Farm fit into the picture?"
"You know about that already?"
Bolan sat forward in his chair. "Know about what?"
"Waywayanda."
"All I know is that name was on a slip of paper. It was in the pocket of the sole survivor of the boxcar."
"Now, Ronny never told me that."
"Well, what are you talking about, then?"
"I'm talking about the death of one Roberto Miercoles at Waywayanda a day or two ago, for no apparent reason, at the hands of a person or persons unknown. I am also talking about the murder last night of an old feller at the same place, and the attack on a camp full of harmless fruit pickers. Burned to the ground, every last tent. Just the one dead, though, thank the Lord."
Bolan leaned forward to take a sip of the coffee, still steaming on the edge of the desk. "And have you managed to put the pieces all together yet?"
"Nope! That's a tall order, and I ain't even sure we got all the pieces yet. But I can tell you one thing. You find who killed Will Ralston and Ronny Sipe, and you damn sure will be a whole lot closer than you are now. One thing you got to understand about this neck of the woods, Mike. Down here, labor is cheap, but it ain't cheap enough, not for most of these big-ass farms we got nowadays. The boys that run them places are interested in only two things… gettin' as much fruit as they can, and payin' as little as possible to them as picks it. See, you can't use machines to pick oranges, lemons and grapefruits. You got to use people, but people cost money, what with unions and all. Now, you find somebody who don't care about that stuff, and he works cheaper. But you can always go another step, see? If you can find somebody who don't even belong here, who can't go to the law if you push him too hard, and who don't call the NLRB if he gets his hand caught in a conveyor belt, then you really got somethin'. What these here growers would like most is trained monkeys. Most of 'em don't see no difference between monkeys and Mexicans anyhow, and that's a fact."
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