by Paul Levine
Still, Payne was on his way to kill a man. To snuff out a life with what the law calls "premeditation and malice aforethought."
A nice phrase. "Malice aforethought." He'd surely aforethoughted a truckload of malice in the last year.
An hour after sundown, Payne drove past fields of cotton and alfalfa, swarms of gnats committing suicide on his windshield. There had once been a large lake in these parts, fed by the Tule River, but it had long ago been drained by Ezekiel Rutledge's ambition to go from merely rich to incredibly wealthy. Nothing changes. The rich get richer, Payne thought, and the poor still live in Weedpatch Barracks.
He skirted the town of Corcoran with its massive state prison, home to Charles Manson, among several thousand other miscreants. Powerful lights curdled the night sky into a sickly shade of green. Payne couldn't fight off the notion that someone who committed a murder in these parts might himself spend the rest of his days inside those walls.
He fiddled with the radio dial. The strongest signal was an oldies rock station, and he picked up Link Wray's "Rumble" with its slow, tantalizing guitar licks. Another few miles and Payne found the side road Rutledge had described. A dusty, one-lane, unpaved path through tomato and onion fields. Darkened shacks, propped on cinder blocks, abandoned and forlorn. The road grew bumpier and narrower, the fields smaller and less tended. The Sierra Nevadas were silhouetted to the east, the Diablo Range to the west, the stars a countless sprinkling of sugar on a black velvet cake. He spotted the Big Dipper, traced a path upward from the two stars that formed the cup's far end. Found Polaris, the North Star, glowing more fiercely than it ever did in the city.
He looked back to the road just in time to avoid a waddling possum, then swerved again, barely missing a rough-barked sycamore encroaching on the narrow road. Then he saw it. A small aluminum trailer, one end protruding from a thicket of scrub oak trees.
Payne pulled off the road and killed the engine. From somewhere in the darkened fields, birds cried like frightened children, and insects played a hundred different symphonies. Sounds came from inside the trailer, too. Voices with a metallic edge. Judging from the cathode glow on the porthole window, a television set.
Payne got out of the Mustang, Adam's Louisville Slugger in hand. Metal alloy. Only eighteen ounces. It made a metallic clonk hitting a baseball. Payne wondered for the thousandth time just what sound would it make crushing a skull.
He took a few swings, as if in the on-deck circle. Two-handed, level and strong. A line drive swing. Then, one-handed. A fine whoosh through the warm night air.
Payne crept toward the half-hidden trailer. An Airstream about twenty feet long, a silver sausage. Propane tank leaning against the hitch. Metal poles cockeyed in the ground, propping up a torn, green-striped awning. A muddy Chevy half-ton pickup sat alongside. Someone had taken the trouble to back it into the trees. Faster exit, maybe?
Ten feet from the door, Payne could clearly hear the television. Music and the high-pitched voices of a cartoon. The smell of cooked pork drifted from the trailer's open windows.
Payne thought about Rutledge and his smug assumptions.
"Hell, if someone killed Javier I'd gut the bastard like a hog."
"And you think I'm like you?"
"More than you know."
Payne figured that, under the right circumstances, everyone is capable of killing. No great revelation there. Just the searing awareness that homicide is grafted onto our genes.
Payne's murderous intent came with a promise attached. He had looked Rutledge squarely in his flinty eyes and given an oath along with a bloody handshake. In return for the whereabouts of Manuel Garcia, he would give up the search for Marisol. He would kill tonight and go home tomorrow.
But I lied.
Not for one moment, not for the infinitesimal blink of a faraway star, would he let Tino down. It was easy to choose which promise to break.
To hell with you, Rutledge.
Approaching the trailer, Payne tripped. He caught his balance and realized he'd just trampled Our Lady of Guadalupe, or at least a knee-high statue of her, jammed into the dust just outside the front door. Her eyes were lowered in prayer. Pink blossoms grew at her feet, and her dainty shoulders were covered with a turquoise shroud.
The Virgin won't protect you, Garcia. She's got a higher calling than hit-and-run drivers.
Now, standing on the doorstep of the old trailer, Payne felt exhilarated, a weight lifting from his body like a Zeppelin untethered from its port. Gripping the baseball bat in one hand, he drew his foot back and smashed in the flimsy screen door.
"I'm here, Garcia! Goddammit, I'm here at last!"
SEVENTY-ONE
I lost the bet, Javier Cardenas thought.
He couldn't believe it. Here was Payne, sneaking up to the trailer like some Special Forces wannabe.
Bastard's gonna kill the guy, and it's gonna cost me a Black Ice bow.
Not that Cardenas had paid for the sleek hunting bow, which must have cost six hundred bucks new. He'd seized it as evidence from a hunter who lacked a license. He also confiscated the guy's arrows, broad heads, tree stands, camo gear, and tent. If the hunter'd had an English bulldog, Cardenas would have taken that, too.
Now he sat in his cruiser, under a white alder tree, engine idling, A/C on, iPod plugged in, listening to Salma Hayek whisper "Quedate Aqui" from the Desperado soundtrack. The cruiser was parked on a small rise near Manuel Garcia's rusted-out trailer. Cardenas had been waiting two hours, convinced Payne wouldn't show up and he'd win Sim's Mossberg shotgun, the combo over-under model with 12- and 20-gauge barrels. That was the bet, the Black Ice bow for the Mossberg shotgun. It seemed like such a sure thing.
"Payne's not a killer, Sim."
"You think you're that good a judge of character?"
"It's what I do."
"And here's what I'm gonna do, Javie. I'm gonna shoot a wild boar with that bow and arrow. The one that used to be yours!"
They had bantered a few minutes. Planning a trip to Hog Haven up in Geyersville. Been going there since Javier was ten years old. Hunting those huge smelly boars with the wide snouts, sharp tusks, and grouchy dispositions.
"Don't shoot till he's ten yards away. Then make it a kill shot."
Simeon had barked those instructions when Cardenas was a boy and repeated them to this day. Instilled confidence and courage.
Back then, Cardenas knew that if he missed a shot, Uncle Sim would be there to rescue him. These days, Cardenas was not so sure. The certainties of childhood had been replaced by the complexities of the adult world.
He endlessly replayed the phone call with Charles Whitehurst. Like polishing a jagged piece of quartz, he kept finding new angles. On the surface, the lawyer appeared concerned for Simeon's welfare. But underneath, Whitehurst feared losing his biggest client. If the government took over the business, he could say adios to all those legal fees.
So Whitehurst's advice-convince Simeon to plead out-was never sincere. Then what was the real purpose of the call? What message was the lawyer sending? It could only be one thing.
That everyone would be better off with Simeon out of the picture.
To drive home the point, Whitehurst had told Cardenas about Simeon's will, to hell with attorney-client privilege. And what about that bone-chilling statement?
"The sad fact is, the only way for your uncle Sim to achieve his fondest wish is for him to die."
How the lawyer must have rehearsed that line, pruning the words of any manifest intent.
Earlier today, when Simeon had called, Cardenas did not mention the conversation with Whitehurst. He hoped Simeon would bring up the indictment, ask for advice, but of course, that did not happen.
Cardenas was lost in a fog of conflicting emotions. Simeon was a surrogate father, no other way to put it.
Now Cardenas watched Payne kick open the trailer's screen door.
Heard shouts.
Wondered if Garcia had a gun.
Thinking it was j
ust as likely that Garcia would kill Payne as the other way around. He wouldn't arrest Garcia for murder. The man would be defending his family and his home against a violent invasion by a man sworn to kill him. But if Payne killed Garcia, different story. Cardenas would arrest Payne for premeditated murder.
Either way, Payne was gone, and Sim would be happy. For now.
Poor Jimmy Payne. Heads, you lose your freedom. Tails, you lose your head.
Keeping his eyes on the trailer, Javier Cardenas checked the clip on his 9mm Beretta and waited to see who walked out the door.
SEVENTY-TWO
As he burst through the fallen door, Payne scanned the dimly lit trailer, his heightened senses taking in a stained leopard carpet, the glow of a small television screen, and a short, chunky woman washing dishes at a small sink.
The woman dropped a plate and screamed. A piercing sound, made sharper by the aluminum walls. Something stirred behind her, a lump rising from a quilt on a gaucho bed.
The form of a man. Boxer shorts, bare feet, and a dirty wife-beater tee.
Manuel Garcia.
Shorter than Payne thought. Square head. Round body. A fifty-five gallon drum with arms and thick-fingered hands.
"Hey, asshole!" Payne wailed. "Remember me?" He stepped toward the bed and cocked the bat, yelling a phrase he'd practiced just for this occasion."?Te acuerdas de mi, pendejo?"
Garcia grunted and dug a small revolver from under a pillow. Turned toward Payne, fumbling with the gun. Fredo in The Godfather, hapless under pressure.
Payne's backswing clipped the curved wall. Shit. His timing fouled up, he swung and missed Garcia.
The woman still screaming.
The gun shaking in Garcia's hand. A shot. A cherry bomb exploding in a tin can, the bullet punched a hole in the metal roof.
Payne swung again. Garcia danced a step backward and the bat caught him just above the knee. Garcia howled and fell, the gun flying into the tangle of quilts.
"?No tenemos dinero!" the woman wailed.
"Don't want your money!" Payne hoisted Garcia back onto the bed, pressed the bat crosswise under his chin, bore down with two hands. "Tell her why I'm here, you piece of shit!"
Garcia choked and sputtered. Confused and terrified.
"You don't remember? You forget that easy!" Payne was enraged, seeing the man up close. The leathery face, the smell of tobacco and sweat. Everything came back.
Payne jammed up against the car door, his leg broken, forehead gashed, eyes filling with blood.
"My son. Can you see him? Is he okay?"
The man leaning through the open window. The frozen look of cold, stark fear.
Garcia's plaintive cry. "El chico. El chico.?Dios me perdone!"
Forcing the bat into Garcia's Adam's apple, Payne heard a wet, burbling sound. He could break the cartilage so easily, could crush his trachea, watch him die.
"You don't remember me? You don't remember my boy? Ten years old! You worthless piece of garbage!"
Garcia's eyes registered. His fear taking on meaning.
"That's right! I'm not here to rob you. I'm here to kill you."
Garcia stammered something. Payne eased the pressure just a bit.
"Sorry. Sorry, I never meant to…"
"Fuck that. You killed my son. You killed me."
Behind him, the woman had dropped to her knees. Crossed herself, ticked off prayers in Spanish at high speed.
Payne grabbed Garcia by the front of his T-shirt. Yanked him to his feet. Drew back the bat, measured the distance to the man's temple, anticipated the delicious crack of metal on bone.
A child coughed.
From the darkness at the rear of the trailer, a girl of about four walked toward them, cradling a tattered stuffed animal in her arms. Bugs Bunny maybe, but with an ear missing. She coughed again, a parched hack.
"Daddy? Why did you fire the gun?" Her voice small and scratchy.
"Lourdes," the woman wailed."?Metete en la cama!" Ordering her daughter back to bed.
The girl focused on Payne. "Is that man hurting Daddy?" she asked her mother.
"Not here," Garcia begged. "Please. Not here."
Payne let the bat fall to his side. "Fine. Outside. In the trees."
Payne grabbed the handgun from the bed, a. 22 revolver, stuck it in his pants, and dragged Garcia out the door. The man didn't head for the trees and he didn't try to run. He just dropped to his knees in front of the Lady of Guadalupe statue, and began mumbling, "Padre nuestro, que estas en los cielos…"
Payne scanned the dirt road. No cars. If Garcia screamed-and Payne doubted he would-there would be no one to hear.
"Santificado sea tu Nombre…"
"Why'd you come back?" Payne snarled.
Garcia stopped praying. Sucking in air, he said, "Your police contacted police in Oaxaca. Instead of sending me back, the judicales took my money. When I had nothing more to give, they threatened my family. They would have…"
He didn't have to finish. It was safer for Manuel Garcia to sneak into the country where he was wanted for homicide than to stay home. He talked softly in accented but decent English. He knew people working in the cotton fields near Tulare, and he knew how to drive a tractor, so he came across with his family and got a job.
"What's wrong with your daughter?"
"Asthma." He looked skyward. "The dust and pesticides. Very bad after spraying."
Payne felt something drain out of him. "That job of yours. You get medical insurance?"
Still on his knees, Garcia shook his head.
"Asthma's not hard to treat. Medication. Inhalers."
Garcia looked up at him, puzzled.
"What I'm saying, you gotta get your daughter to a doctor."
Garcia stared at the ground. "I still owe the coyote three thousand dollars for the crossing."
Payne took out his wallet. Four hundred-dollar bills, three twenties, a couple tens, a few ones. He thrust the money to Garcia, their hands briefly touching.
Then Payne dropped Garcia's gun on the ground, slung the bat onto his shoulder, and headed back to his car.
SEVENTY-THREE
Javier Cardenas watched the surreal scene alongside the trailer.
Way to go, Jimmy Payne. You plan to kill a man, and instead you pay him.
Cardenas pictured the Mossberg shotgun he'd just won. Could feel the smooth walnut stock, could see the polished silver receiver with the gold inlay.
He would wait until morning to tell Simeon to deliver the gun. It would take a few hours more to determine if Jimmy Payne kept his promise to get the hell out of town.
Cardenas waited until Payne drove off, leaving Garcia kneeling in front of the trailer, staring after him. Probably wondering what the hell just happened.
Cardenas thought he knew.
Some men can kill. Some can't. Simple as that.
Cardenas had seen it in Payne's eyes. Not a softness exactly. But a weakness by another name.
Humanity.
Payne cared for his fellow man. Especially for those in worse shape than himself. How else to explain taking to the road in pursuit of the Mexican boy's mother? Payne could have been killed in Hellhole Canyon. Still, he drove on to Rutledge, a place even more dangerous.
Hey, Uncle Sim. You whiffed. You spent more time with Payne than I did, but you completely misjudged him.
Simeon was getting old. Losing his edge, getting careless. That's what Whitehurst had meant with his little parable about rats who can't vomit. No wonder Simeon got himself indicted. The investigation posed major problems for Cardenas, too. The records and bank accounts of Rutledge Ranch and Farms, Inc., were fair game for a U.S. Attorney. Cardenas knew his name would crop up in places where no police chief's ought to be.
If Simeon takes a fall, he'll take me with him.
For years, Cardenas had known about the stash houses, the human trafficking, the thousands of undocumented workers who'd come through Kings County, thanks to Rutledge livery. Cardenas also knew abo
ut the Hot Springs Gentleman's Club, a place that had been off-limits to him as a young man.
"You stay away from that pussy ranch, Javie. It ain't for you."
There were other evils Simeon never talked about and Cardenas chose to ignore. He knew that Simeon could be kind and generous one day and ornery and violent the next. When the old man talked about burying bodies along levees and orchards, it was neither a boast nor a threat. It was reality.
So, get the hell out of town, Jimmy Payne, or Simeon will add your carcass to the compost heap.
Murder seemed so much easier to get away with than the vices that left paper trails. Another thought came to Cardenas as he eased his cruiser out of its hiding spot and onto the dirt road. The government might offer a deal to a police chief with an excellent memory for times, places, and amounts of money. Maybe he could get immunity for flipping.
No, I couldn't do that. I could no more testify against Tio Sim than I could turn the shotgun on him.
Cardenas clicked his iPod back on, found the Desperado soundtrack again, and slowly drove away, listening to Tito amp; Tarantula wailing "Strange Face of Love."
SEVENTY-FOUR
Just after eight A.M. on a day that simmered with a dry, baking heat, Simeon Rutledge swung his right arm over his head, and with a smooth motion snapped the bullwhip. The cr-ack sounded eerily like a gunshot.
Another forward toss, the circus throw of a lion tamer.
Cr-ack.
Standing in his corral with the sun rising over his cornfields, Rutledge kept his arm moving. Three different throws, without stopping. The backward, the overhead, the circus throw.
Cr-ack. Cr-ack. Cr-ack.
The popper at the end of the whip snapping so fast it created a miniature sonic boom.
The solid feel of the whip in his hand calmed him. He breathed in the scent of the soil and the crops, even the sweetness of the manure. This was his land, and he belonged to it, as much as it belonged to him.
The initials "EJR" were engraved into the worn leather handle of the whip, which had been custom-made for Ezekiel Rutledge in the 1920s. In a Tulare bar, Ezekiel had taken out a man's eye, and good thing, as the man was drawing a Colt. 45 at the time. Ezekiel wasn't above snapping the whip at a worker who was "lazing off." Seldom hit one, though. He saved the lashes for the union organizers. "Those goddamn Jews and commies from the city."