Triggerfish

by Dieter Kalteis

  Never much for the powder, Ismael went back down the ladder for more after he ate. One time with the death squad he chewed the leaves, somebody saying it would keep him sharp, make him less hungry. Pura mierda. He never found it so. Now he did it just to pass the time. Get him crazy enough to kill Diego without waiting for word from Topo. Call it taking initiative. Say Diego went loco and came at him, nothing else he could do.

  Lugging dead Carlos, he climbed up the rungs, talking to him, saying it the way he heard it in some film: “Ease good cheet.” Repeating the line. “Eats good sheet.” Rolling the English, getting his tongue around it. “Good chit. Good shit.” His tongue felt numb. The bitter taste of the cocaína. The cotton mouth starting. He laid the body down on the hull, arranged some of the cedar branches to hide him.

  Leaning back into the boughs, Ismael felt the heat of the sun, talking to the dead man, drawing him an image of the naked man and woman on the boat, Triggerfish painted down its hull, two white bodies interrupted in the throes of passion. Laughing at that, saying how Diego decreed the pair had to die. The man making decisions.

  Ended up Amado was dead, Ramon was dead, and the naked guy was still alive. The girl, too. And according to Diego, the one called Eddie ran off with fifty pounds. Ismael couldn’t stop laughing.

  “Diego is a man in deep shit,” Ismael said in Spanish, his eyes watering, explaining Lieutenant Topo would not be laughing, Diego getting no sympathy from the cartel boss. Ismael sure to be captain on the next run, throwing a salute at Carlos.

  Funny, yes, but Ismael was the one sitting on nearly six hundred pounds of the cocaína. If the naked man tipped the authorities, and they came searching, Ismael was fucked. Sitting with his bullpup and a box of grenades, taking all the risks while Diego and Reyes ate hot food and drank whiskey, maybe screwing the terrorista woman.

  He eyed a ferry crossing to the south, big and white and the size of a hotel, going from Langdale to Horseshoe Bay. Far enough out, its wake didn’t reach to the sub. A water taxi cruised the eastern part of the bay soon after, its hull low in the water, its engine chugging through the morning stillness. Never slowed, never came close.

  An eagle floated on currents high above the land, its white head, wings barely moving. High on the powder, Ismael watched the big bird tip its wings on air currents. Seagulls squawking after the big bird, one getting too close, snatched by the razor talons, an easy meal, the eagle flapping off, holding the seabird like it was nothing. An otter splashed in the kelp bed fifty meters off, the brown fronds lying like lifeless snakes on the surface.

  It was the drone of an engine that got him looking through the coke fog, Ismael spotting the Sea-Doo coming into the bay, running along its eastern shore, two figures onboard. Circling the bottom of the island to the western side of the bay, the craft eased to the far side of the kelp bed. The bullpup ready in his hands.

  The Sea-Doo approached to within fifty meters, slowed, the two onboard were talking, looked like they stopped to drink water, the one in front passing a bottle back.

  Their voices rolled over the water, Ismael not making out the words, both men clad in springsuits, their engine idling. They talked and drank, glanced over at the debris and the old pier. Any closer, it would be an easy shot for the bullpup.

  Finger on the trigger, Ismael waited.

  Throttling up, the rider veered the machine, slicing the water, heading back to the south, its wake swaying the bull kelp.

  Ismael with the bad feeling, setting the bullpup down, watching until the Sea-Doo was nearly out of sight. Climbing the metal rungs, he fetched the sat phone again, came up top and made the call, telling Diego about being spotted, saying Diego better hurry up, telling him to think of what Topo would do. Hanging up. Saying to Carlos it wouldn’t be long now.

  . . . DOOS AND DON’TS

  Slowing the Sea-Doo, the waves light at the top end of Hutt Island, Jimmy checked his fuel, turning to Beck. “You see it?”

  Beck nodded.

  Jimmy lifted his goggles, saying, “Should’ve gone in for a closer look.”

  “And get picked off before we’re halfway around the kelp.” Beck scooped water into his own goggles.

  “Sure you don’t want to call in the marines?”

  Not going to happen: Beck wanted payback. Plus, he imagined how the call would go, saying he spotted a narco sub hiding in a kelp bed. The kind of thing an asshole like Hanson lived for, seeing Beck lose it to booze. Even Danny Green would have his doubts, along with the rest of the department.

  “Say we go back when it’s dark.” Beck betting the sub would still be there tonight; the crew wouldn’t chance moving it during the day.

  . . . OJO POR OJO

  Amado never made it back, the cabrónes from the tugboat didn’t tell it straight. Smashing their hands on the bar didn’t bring the truth. Following Ramon out to his car, Diego asked one more time, then used the knife. Felt good doing it. Guy had it coming, embarrassed him in front of his crew.

  Not so lucky with the one called Eddie. They searched the roads and the woods, Rudi Busch bringing the hunting dog, searching till daybreak, but Eddie Soto was gone.

  It left no choice. They had run the cocaína across the border, needed to get the rest off the sub, put the woman on board and disappear, Diego taking his chances, knowing Topo Quintero would blame him if they left the guns behind. Maybe a dead Ismael could take the blame, the other Honduran would say nothing with him gone.

  Rudi Busch and Regular Joe had packed up the old truck with eighteen bales and driven off through forest back roads, leaving a dozen out back in the bunker. The younger Busch waiting by the phone for word on the guns, an ice pack clutched to his head where Eddie had clocked him.

  Taking the sat phone from the lined box, Diego tried thinking through the booze, considered making another call to Topo, tell him everything was going to plan, say he put Ismael in charge of signaling the craft with the guns, getting them on board, Diego bringing the woman to the sub. Tell Topo they would be underway this very day. He drained his glass, reaching for the bottle, hands wet with sweat.

  . . . BLOWING TO BREWSTER

  “Fuck me.” His head thumped the roof lining again. Felt like taking body blows, Regular Joe feeling it in the kidneys. Bouncing around the passenger seat, the old Blazer humping through another pothole, an old tractor trail in worse shape than Rudi allowed it would be. Detouring around the last deadfall left them both muddy and wet, the Warn winch practically draining the spare battery. The trail snaking across the border, the national forest on the U.S. side, skirting the Conconully. An hour behind schedule.

  “Fuckin’ shit trail,” Regular Joe said, squashing his hat down on his head, smashing his fist on a crane fly on the dash.

  “Not hitting them on purpose,” Rudi said, fighting the wheel.

  The Blazer’s body was beat to shit, a modified ’92 K5, its rocker panels patched with sealer. Joe put the lift kit under it last spring, dual shocks, extra springs and a skid plate, the light-rack up top, tube-steel bumper with the winch on the front. The bales were stuffed in and strapped down in back, the passenger seat pushed forward, Joe squeezed into the seat.

  The Detroit diesel under the hood had slogged the miles of back road, the engine running hot, the gauge needle deep in the red. Rain-filled potholes were the worst Rudi had seen in years, clay packing the treads, the Baja Claws spinning and flinging slop a hundred feet behind the truck, stones slamming the undercarriage. The creek had been a trickle last time he rolled through, now swollen and muddy.

  “Better tell Smiling Jack we ran into some shit luck,” Rudi said.

  Joe got out, slipping in the mud, cursing, looking for a spot to ford. The VP didn’t want to hear about more shit luck.

  Rudi got out and opened the back, checking the straps holding the bales, didn’t like leaving the Mexican back at the lodge with Axel, crazy fucker playing man in cha
rge, drinking too much, wound up too tight.

  Staring at the torrent, Joe threw up his arms, cursing at the trees.

  The meeting place was a line shack the club had used before, still several miles to the south. A board-and-batten box with a step up to the door, a tiny window and a vent through the tin roof, an old, rotting shitter out back. An overnight spot park rangers once used, forgotten long ago.

  Stepping along the bank, slipping and ducking under branches, Joe made his way upstream, looking for the shallowest spot. Thorns raked him.

  Rudi stuck in the battery, powered up the sat phone, got the signal, calling the chapter VP, explaining about the washed-out road.

  “Trying to call you assholes for the last hour,” Smiling Jack said, asking where the fuck Joe was.

  “Joe’s up the creek,” Rudi said, couldn’t get another word in, catching a load of shit from Jack. Heard how Tony Boy Bell, the Rocker supposed to be making the meet, got his dumb ass busted an hour back, Smiling Jack telling how the dumb fuck brought his dumb-fuck old lady on the back of his bike, Pam’s mouth getting them in deep. Bitch dumber than Tony. Bad enough they had a delay on the three hundred guns. Now this.

  Nothing for Rudi to do but let the VP rant till he ran out of steam.

  Tony Boy got his ass pulled over at some routine roadside safety check on U.S. 2, a half hour out of Spokane, en route to picking up the prospects making up his crew. “His boys waiting at the cut off for Steamboat Park,” Smiling Jack said. “Dumb-fucking-bitch Pam refuses to step off the bike, the cop giving her a warning.”

  The safety checks had started up after a bounty hunter named Schmidt was found shot to death next to his ride out on the Stevens Pass highway. Rudi remembered reading about it. Only happened about a week back. No leads in the case. Governor’s office demanding action — shit like that scared off tourists — and it wasn’t happening in his state park. The kind of speech that got votes.

  “Bitch tells the trooper to go cavity-search himself,” Smiling Jack said.

  Holding the phone away, Rudi was looking along the bank, couldn’t see Regular Joe now.

  “Fucking trooper goes for his piece, and dumb-fuck Tony throttles off, his Fat Boy slinging gravel.”

  Rudi recalled Tony’s sled: black and modified, doing an impressive zero to sixty, hitting a quarter mile in about twelve seconds. Pretty sure his old lady was the one with bad teeth, came into the lodge one night, big mouth on her, trying to get it on with Axel.

  “Pam hangs on, whooping, thinking it’s funny,” Smiling Jack was saying, “Dumb fuck tears along U.S. 2, heading right for Steamboat Park, three hang-arounds left holding their dicks by the ride they just jacked.”

  Still holding the phone away, Rudi caught sight of Joe coming back, slipping in the torrent, clawing his way up the bank.

  “Trooper gets on his mike and puts out the word,” Smiling Jack was saying. “Calls his own number and gives chase, bull-bars on his pursuit car.”

  Rudi held the phone close now, saying yeah, thinking this shit just didn’t happen back in Travis Rainey’s day.

  “Goddamned backups screamed up Tony’s ass,” Jack went on, “swarm of lights and sirens and the dumb fuck keeps running. Pam chucks a bottle at them. Made ten miles before State Patrol and deputies got their roadblock up, units stretched across the two-lane. Spike strips laid out. Fuckers behind their sunglasses, fingers on triggers, waiting on their sergeant with a bullhorn.

  Joe was back, shaking off water, Smiling Jack saying Tony swerved onto the county road and hit the spike strip.

  Rudi saying, “Jesus.”

  “Hit it doing forty. Dumb fucks pitched a hundred feet. Bitch wasn’t laughing when she bounced, tell you that much.” Smiling Jack saying the probable-cause search turned up an unregistered handgun, open bottle of SoCo, a pill bottle of Oxy in Pam’s handbag, fucking fat sarge reading them their rights. Cuffed them to the gurneys, ambulance hauling them away. Tow truck driver clearing the wrecked Harley, handling it like airport luggage. Dumped it on the gravel a couple of times.

  “They hurt bad?”

  “Want bad? Wait’ll I get hold of them,” Smiling Jack said, asking if Joe had come back.

  “Can’t see him,” Rudi said, finger to his lips, Joe standing in front of him, dripping water.

  “I’m changing the drop spot again,” Jack said, told Rudi to get their asses to the fish hatchery over by the Indian Dan Rec Area, the ranger on duty paid to look the other way. “Know where it is?”

  “Yeah, I know it,” Rudi said.

  Tony Boy’s smarter brother was making the pickup. Then Smiling Jack hung up. End of conversation.

  . . . CINNAMON GIRL

  Arms folded, Diego sat at the bar, hoping he made the right call, getting the sub out of there soon as it got dark, with or without the guns. Coming from the kitchen, Axel repeated what Rudi just told him on the phone, the truck getting stuck in a stream, Rudi and Joe winching her out, the drop-off changed. He put on some tunes, Diego saying it sounded like suffering — maldito country and western — a gringo called the Killer crying about his life making a damned good country song. Made no sense. He tossed back the whiskey and poured more.

  Twenty-seven million in coke and a biker’s woman spits at the cops. “Stupid gilipollas in leather,” Diego said, against using the bikers from the start. Told Topo they should’ve used their own people.

  Now he was making the call, blame the delay on Ismael, waiting for Topo to pick up the line, Diego starting to speak, Topo saying he already heard it from the Honduran, advising Diego to treat this woman right and keep her safe. Not happy about the delay, Diego telling him the guns were en route, the bikers bringing them to the sub.

  “Do not fail again.” Then Topo hung up.

  Ismael had called Topo first, laying the shit on Diego. Diego would kill the Honduran, then when he got back he’d find Topo’s house, bring along some gasoline. Kill his family, too. Make it look like a rival cartel was moving in, sending a message.

  Snapping at Axel, he ordered him to go tell the woman to get ready, told him to bring her food, the last decent meal she’d have in many days, showing with his fingers how thick he wanted her meat. He poured more in his glass, the Killer singing about wine spo-dee-o-dee.

  “You want to take it easy,” Axel said, the Mexican half in the bag, the man in charge looking like he was ready to tip off his stool.

  Downing it, feeling the burn, Diego smacked the glass down.

  Axel shrugged and went about fixing Ashika a sandwich, bread soft and fresh, slices of turkey, slathered in mayo and grainy mustard, a slice of tomato, an iceberg leaf on top. Sniffing the mayo jar, he spun it around, checking the “best before” date. Guessing it wouldn’t kill her.

  Three hours together in the car, then Axel tapped on her door middle of the night, telling her he couldn’t get her off his mind. Second time he brought her towels, now a sandwich.

  Ashika had shut the door behind him that first night, left the lights off and turned it into something, the woman urgent about it. Still thinking about her when he stepped out to the bunker, her smell lingering on his clothes, thinking he might go back for more. That asshole Eddie blindsided him, making off with one of the bales, nobody saying anything, but he could see it in their eyes, they blamed him. The old man hadn’t said two words to him since it happened. Didn’t give a shit if his head was okay.

  Adding a Strub’s to the plate now, he picked it up, the Mexican snapping his fingers, wanting to inspect the lunch.

  “You serious?” Axel said.

  Diego lifted the edge of the bread. Burping, he waved for him to go, told him to turn that shit off.

  Snagging a Coke from the ice box, Axel ass-bumped through the door marked Authorized Personnel Only, left the music playing.

  Reyes was next to inspect the sandwich, the guy playing sentry at her door, the
empty whiskey bottle by the wall, Axel pulling the plate away, saying it had been done. Tapping on the door, he waited, telling himself two years of putting up with these guys with the hollow eyes and he’d be set. Have about a million in the bank by then. Never have to do it again.

  The door opened, Ashika standing there, Reyes looking on.

  “Hope you like turkey with mayo,” he said, holding the plate out.

  “You make it?” Ashika asked, looking good in the cinnamon hair and tight jeans.

  He said yeah, and she nicked her head, meaning for him to come in. Shutting the door on Reyes, she put her back to it.

  Axel saying, “That guy could use a personality.”

  “How’s the head?”

  “I’ll live.”

  She sat on the bed, the plate in her lap. She bit into the sandwich, nothing delicate about it. Talking around a mouthful, “So someone needs a lift, they send you. Needs towels or a sandwich, you do what you’re told.” She pulled the zip-top, said his sandwich was good.

  “Thanks.”

  “In my country, a man wouldn’t do this.” Playing with him, taking another bite.

  “Think I’m all the man you can handle.”

  Got her smiling. “Maybe true. Back home, a man tells the woman, and she just does it. That or she gets hit.”

  “Can’t picture you getting hit.”

  She smiled, biting into the Strub’s.

  “Anybody ever do it, hit you?”

  “Husband. But only one time.”

  “You got a husband?”

  “Had a husband.”