by CB McKenzie
I think I met this Res cop fella Carlos Monjano already, Rodeo said. Big guy, bad attitude?
That’s him. Caps played football on the practice squad at ASU but one of his bitches got a little bit pregnant and then she “fell down” some stairs at the Sun Devils’ stadium and miscarried then Caps he came back here and joined the Tribe cops. Tomas drank his beer again. My friend from AA, Gilbert says all Caps usually does is hangs out at Circle K all day jacking off in the bathroom and eating free burritos.
You know anything about the kid that got killed in the hit-and-run? Rodeo asked. The little guera girl, Farrah?
Yeah. I do know something.
Tomas raised his bushy eyebrows. Rodeo reached for his wallet and pulled out a ten, folded it into Tomas’s shirt pocket.
I heard that little guera girl she might have been this tribal cop’s, this Caps Monjano’s real kid, said Tomas. But you didn’t hear it from me. I think she was some beauty queen or something.
She was in “Little Miss” pageants, Rodeo said. They dyed her hair yellow and put contact lenses in her eyes to make them blue.
Yeah, that’s her, Tomas said. Caps used to carry her around the ’hood when she was dressed up like that. He always said he was the godfather or something supposedly. Tomas tilted his head in a skeptical way. But like I said, Caps Monjano was this little blond girlchild’s actual baby daddy is what I heard.
Not Alonzo?
Not Alonzo Rocha, said Tomas. I don’t think Alonzo has got it up in ten years. So you know Caps Monjano was that little beauty queen’s real baby daddy. And if you ever saw the kid she did looked just like Caps in the face. Tomas shook his head. Them Monjanos is assholes. Caps and his cousin Alonzo and his cousin Xavier they used to beat shit out of everybody when we were at Tucson High. And as bad as Caps Monjano is Xavier Monjano is the actual major criminal asshole in that familia.
Where is this Xavier Monjano?
He ran most of the weed and speed in Bisbee and around there for long time, but then he got ratted out and was supposed to be in Florence on a twenty-to-life but he ran off to Mexico before they could get him.
Was Caps in the drug trade with Xavier?
I could ask Henry, he’d know. But I don’t think Caps has the stones to hang with Xavier. Xavier Monjano is hang you up in the shower and carve you with a chainsaw himself bad. Caps is only push your pregnant girlfriend down the stairs or shoot somebody in a drive-by bad.
Is Caps Monjano on the take?
I think I been talking too much for ten dollars. And I’m thirsty. Tomas tossed his empty on the yard and with his good hand tapped his shirt pocket into which Rodeo slipped another ten.
I think I heard Henry say that Caps the Monjano cop and Xavier the Monjano drug dealer they have probably got some working relationships if you know what I mean. They have lots of very cartel relatives in Chihuahua with real gangster reputations, I do know that, Tomas said. And I actually wouldn’t want to fuck with Caps Monjano or Xavier or any of them Monjano tribe. The Rochas is just losers, but the Monjanos is killers. If that’s what you were thinking of doing create a change of plans.
I’m looking into the death of some distant relative of this Caps Monjano, probably a cousin like everybody is around here, Rodeo said. I wasn’t planning on messing with anybody serious on this one. I got no interest in Xavier if anybody asks.
What relative of Caps? There’s lots of dead Monjanos. Not nearly enough yet though.
This kid is a Rocha not a Monjano. Samuel Rocha. He’s Alonzo Rocha’s son. The older brother of the little guera beauty queen.
Samuel Rocha is the one that got shot in the drive-by and died up under Starr Pass Road bridge? asked Tomas.
Yeah.
I know this kid too, said Tomas. Yeah, Samuel Rocha. Called himself Smoke which is a stupid name for a dope dealer if I ever heard one. Tomas shook his head again. And you know that kid was Alonzo’s real son because he was just as stupid and ugly as Alonzo. Tomas laughed. Them Rochas are all that kind of stupid loser. Men who fall off bridges.
You know anything about Samuel’s death, Tomas?
I heard he got shot in a drive-by and originally fell out in the sand where somebody should have seen him pretty quick. But somebody—probably the shooter—dragged that kid under a rock or under some bushes or something to hide him and then left the stupid kid to bleed out. Which is a very bad way to go, especially in this summer heat. Tomas smiled, showing off an assortment of mismanaged teeth. But it is a dry heat.
Who said the kid was dragged under cover out of sight? asked Rodeo.
Tomas shrugged. Just something I heard from a bum.
Any of your regular bums around?
I hadn’t seen them bums around here lately, said Tomas. The City came in last week or so ago and moved all those mattresses and shit from behind Jerry’s Lee Ho Market and I don’t know where that bunch of bums went after that. Maybe the shelter over near the VA or maybe over to Parade Liquor where they got some places back near the river that are hard to get to and nobody bothers them. Go look around there if you’re looking for some bums these days.
Rodeo nodded. So you think that Rocha kid’s death was a drive-by, Tomas?
What else? Like diabetes ain’t enough for us to worry about now this bunch of gangbanger cholo wannabes is shooting kids in the street and running over little girls, so what else could have killed that Rocha kid but pachuco gang violence?
Was Samuel Rocha ganged up?
I got nothing to do with nobody from the Life anymore now that Henry is out of the trade, I think permanently this time. I hope he is at least because all this fucking drug business is ruining my fair city. Hard to be a Denizen of Tuxson Arizona no more. If a good Mexican like me farts he gets a strike against him and if he farts while he’s high he could get the death penalty in Arizona.
Don’t drink and drive, Tomas.
It’s political, Tomas said. You know how they hate us Mexicans in Arizona. Even the Mexicans hate the Mexicans in Arizona. Good thing we’re also Indian, brother, because even a half-breed Indian is better than a poor Mexican these days in Arizona. Tomas sounded fractious now that his beer buzz needed refreshing. At least us Indians are Native Americans and got papers so the assholes can’t deport us. We should deport all you Anglos and the Tucson Police putas should be first in that line.
Tomas ran out of steam. The street was quiet and still in the afternoon heat as only a fully inhabited street in Tucson could be. Even the noise of the nearby interstate seemed but a distant sleeping beast. Though no workers were on site at that moment, there was obvious construction ongoing across the street where the old grocery store was being strategically dismantled.
What’s up with Jerry’s Lee Ho Market? Rodeo asked.
Turning it into a ecology clinic or some crazy Anglo shit like that. Saving the whales in Tuxson. They don’t tell us or ask us Mexicans nothing of course, just come in and cheat us out of our places for centavos then put some paint on these old shithouses and sell them for a million dollars to a bunch of Anglo assholes.
A mid-1970’s Toyota Land Cruiser with faded original green paint was parked in front of one of the apartments across the avenue. The vintage SUV bore the copper AZ license plates issued to Historic Vehicles over twenty-five years old, an automotive milestone which, considering the pollution generated by the rattletraps and their paltry gas mileage, should not probably have been rewarded.
Somebody living at Eryn Hage’s now? Rodeo asked.
Some professor type is in her end apartment, said Tomas. He’s a archaeology guy at the U he says. Name of Tinley Burke which is a stupid name for a college professor if I ever heard one, Tomas said. He’s related somehow to that Right Wing asshole Randy Miller, the one who wants to be in Congress or President or something. The Professor don’t talk too much. He has some noisy pussy over there sometimes but mostly he keeps to hisself.
Rodeo moved back to his truck, scratched his dog’s ears and pushed him back onto the s
eat.
Since you’re such a big pussy, I’m glad you’re gone out of this ’hood, brother, said Tomas. But I miss having you as a ride. Nobody sober around here since you left to take me to the liquor store.
Maybe you ought to quit drinking so much, brother.
Maybe you ought to just suck my dick like you know you want to, brother.
Rodeo reached into the cab and retrieved the second six-pack of Milwaukee’s Best and placed it in the tepid water in the cooler on back of the garden tractor.
You’re still one step ahead of everybody aren’t you? Tomas asked.
Or one step behind, said Rodeo. He turned to his truck and spoke over his shoulder. Tell your mother I asked after her, Tomas.
Mama Dota already knows everything you said. And probably knows everything you’re thinking too. Tomas winked. But you know she’s happy you came by to ask after her, Rodeo. For some reason Mama always liked you. I don’t know why since you’re such a big pussy.
Rodeo moved around the truck and got in.
You know Sirena’s been back around. Tomas raised his voice as Rodeo started the cranky engine of his Ford. I seen her in some big ass negro truck cruising the neighborhood blasting that bullshit classy music she likes. What should I tell her from you after she quits fucking my brains out?
Tell her she needs to improve her tastes.
* * *
Rodeo rolled slowly to Cushing Street then drove east two blocks where he parked under shade near the Tucson Police Department building then went to Old Pueblo Credit Union where he rained his change into the coin counter. He took the slip to the window and deposited half of the fee Katherine Rocha had paid him into his near-empty account. He then crossed Sixth Street and stepped up to the walk-up window at Midtown Liquors drive-through liquor store where there was a short line of men on foot, all in fragments of GI gear with commemorative patches from theaters of war including several intergalactic. All the men were heavily tattooed and none over forty years old.
The men sized up Rodeo quickly and turned back to the walk-up window where a thirty-pack of Keystone Light appeared. The trio hurried toward wherever they drank with the suitcase full of beer cans between them like luggage. A thin white face appeared on the clerk’s side of the walk-up window.
Long time no see, the face in the window said. A Green and a Blue?
You got a good memory, Rodeo said.
Nothing else to do around here but remember is it, the clerk said.
The Foster’s oil cans appeared on the counter in less than a minute and Rodeo laid out the cash for the two beers and added an extra dollar as a tip.
Where’s your old truck at? the clerk asked.
In shade.
How’s your old dog?
He’s pretty good considering how bad he is, said Rodeo.
Where’s your old girlfriend at?
That, I don’t know.
I miss seeing that girl around, the clerk said. You don’t get to see women like that too often without paying for the pleasure. She still dancing at Richard Dick’s clubs?
I don’t know what she’s doing these days.
How you ever get used to being around some woman that looks like that woman looks like I don’t know.
Men get used to the way their women look, said Rodeo.
* * *
Rodeo walked a block west and knocked on the door of a beautifully remodeled adobe the color of lemon pulp trimmed in the color of lime rind.
Come!
Jarred Willis, Esq. was sitting behind his mahogany desk moving papers around under a gold Phantas ink pen. Two fresh Cuban Diplomáticos were clipped and laid out in a Waterford ashtray on the desk. The lawyer’s Brooks Brothers suit was custom made for his paunch. His face looked freshly baked from Miraval Spa.
Sit, the lawyer said.
Rodeo settled into a distressed leather armchair that was soft as veal, unpacked the Foster’s and put the Green in front of Jarred Willis and the Blue between his own knees.
What’s the occasion, Chief? asked the lawyer.
Just visiting, said Rodeo.
That’s horseshit. You always want something. Something for free usually.
The men popped their beers and drank off an inch or three.
Why you all dressed up, Jarred? What’s with the twenty-dollar cigars?
The gentleman coming in after you is as rich as the Pope’s pimp, so poor you just shut up about my three-thousand-dollar suit.
You are a piece of work, Jarred.
Seriously, Chief, just look at you on that side of the big desk like something the cat dragged in and then look at me on this side of the big desk like one million dollars in cash money. We went to Tucson High together, Tonto.
I get your point, Jarred. There’s no justice in the world.
You just here to annoy me or you got some business in town?
A little, said Rodeo. A Mrs. Katherine Rocha hired me to look into her grandson’s death by misadventure.
Don’t know the case, said Jarred Willis. The lawyer studied Rodeo, his brow wrinkled in exaggerated concentration. Oh. I get it, Willis said. You want the neighborhood rundown? Always the seeker of information. Willis pounded the remainder of his bitter, aimed the can at a wastebasket across the room and tossed it surely in. Well, Sirena got out of rehab and was downtown lately, shacked up with somebody in the neighborhood. She’s serving at BoonDocks on the weekends, said the lawyer. And she might be shagging your old football buddy Tank Hage. At least Tank’s shagging somebody at the club and he and Annabeth are splitting. I heard that from a divorce lawyer friend of mine. And from my real estate buddy I learned that Sirena’s former employer Richard “Nine Inch” Dick has bought up most of that block of Convent he lives on for reasons unknown. The lawyer took a breath. And now you are up to speed, Chief.
Thanks for the update, Mr. Cronkite, said Rodeo.
Speaking of local affairs, how’s all that shit going down at Los Jarros with the murder at your place? asked the lawyer.
I made my statement, said Rodeo. I didn’t have much to say but that I found the dead man and so that’s what I said and nobody’s bothered me about it yet. Special Investigations Unit was down there.
Apache Ray called in Special Investigations? asked the lawyer.
Or SIU called themselves in, said Rodeo.
You think a few Undocumenteds dead in the desert amounts to anything serious, Chief? The lawyer asked this question as if he were really interested.
That would depend on who is killing them and why, wouldn’t it? Rodeo asked.
Do you think something major is going on out there in your hole in the world like Federation Cartel or major smuggling of UAs? You think that’s why State is getting involved and taking over from County?
It’s not my business, Jarred.
The lawyer nodded. That’s a good attitude, Chief, he said. Maybe you ought to keep that attitude and just stay low on this one. Maybe you should even think about extending your vacation this year.
There was a brisk knock on the office door, and Willis Jarred, Esquire smoothed his pale hair, stood, walked around his huge desk and ushered Rodeo out a side door. Rodeo lingered a moment but could hear nothing through the bulletproof steel, so he strode across the street to the Tucson Police Department.
* * *
Rodeo passed through the metal detectors, got his big belt buckle and jeans frisked then signed in to see Clint Overman and sat down. The detective came out to the waiting area ten minutes later and waved Rodeo through to his small, over-tidy office.
What’s up? The big lawman eased himself into his captain’s chair behind a metal desk. On the desk was a “participation” trophy for youth soccer and a framed photograph of the detective’s teenaged son, an only child murdered three years before by the serial killer Charles Constance. The policeman adjusted the trophy so that the player kicked the ball directly at his guest.
Just in the neighborhood, Clint, said Rodeo. Thought I’d suss you out ab
out the thing over at Starr Pass. The Rocha kid that went off the bridge.
Overman leaned forward in his chair and aligned his calendar blotter so the edges were exactly perpendicular to the edges of the desk. He put his hands down on the blotter. On one hand three fingers were severely misshapen and on the other a thumb and the ring finger were altogether missing, the effects of prolonged torture. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot and he smelled slightly of alcohol.
Nothing to suss out, the detective said. The Rocha kid got hit in a drive-by, fell off the bridge, busted himself up pretty badly but managed to crawl under some brush and rock overhang when nobody saw him for days and he died.
Bled out? asked Rodeo.
The kid’s wound was relatively superficial, just a flesh wound to his shoulder. Enough to weaken him but nothing that would have been deadly if he’d been found soon enough. He died of exposure the ME said. Dehydration.
Was he paralyzed? Rodeo asked.
ME says so but that seems unlikely to me since he crawled up under some bushes to get shade. Must have seemed like a good move at the time but he hid himself where he couldn’t be seen and got too weak to call for help.
There’s shade under the bridge, Rodeo said.
Maybe he was trying to get out of the creek bed.
With all those busted bones? asked Rodeo.
You know yourself what people can do when adrenaline kicks in, the policeman said. It’s not always rational. But then when that buzz wears off they can be totally disoriented and disabled completely.
Could somebody have dragged him under the brush?
Could be. No proof of it if they did. Riverbed is totally tracked up, so we didn’t find any drag heel marks as I recall.
No cell phone on the kid? asked Rodeo.
Not that I recall.
And y’all didn’t find a slug? asked Rodeo. The one that hit the kid?
We didn’t find any slug that I recall. The policeman jiggled his head as if something were loose in it. We don’t even know for sure that the kid was shot and TPD doesn’t have the manpower to search a river of sand for a slug that might not even exist.
You think Samuel Rocha just fell off the bridge? asked Rodeo. Was he high?