by Jim Nesbitt
The welts were the same color as the puckered scars that ran between his shoulder blades and the flesh that covered the spot where one of his kidneys used to be -- reminders of Reynosa.
The Ross snatch should have worked. He had two insiders -- the woman and the security chief for the rancho. She was supposed to hold Ross until his boys broke through. With Ross in hand, he could take it all -- the chop shops, the illegals, the drugs -- and have a machine that ran from Mexico to the Oklahoma line.
With Ross in hand, he could cut a deal with the younger honchos, guys who would do business with him, guys he would have been in business with four or five years ago if the oldster hadn’t held him back, then sniffed out his scheme and tried to kill him.
After cutting a deal with the young machos, he could have killed Ross slow, cut him up piece by piece. Or let the old woman’s followers have the pimp buzzard for those special rites. No college drifter this time.
A patrón. A man of power. Strong, strong stuff. And hand-delivered by him, T-Roy. Another tie between a man who didn’t believe and those who believed too much in something too twisted even for him.
But the blonde woman was gone and Ross was dead. So was the security chief, chopped down in the crossfire. He thought about the woman, Carla Sue. Tiny, but bold, she came to Ross with her dead uncle’s ice lab and his mountain hideaways tied up in a neat package, cutting a quick cash deal and cozying up to the old pimp in a way that had him pawing the ground like a young bull.
This was just before he and Ross had their little disagreement. They had planned the uncle’s death. T-Roy made the offer to the girl’s cousin himself. After the split, she contacted T-Roy and kept him advised of Ross’s moves. For a hefty fee. Delivered to an account in Belize. Her role in the strike cost extra. Lots of extra.
Her Cutlass was spotted as it blew out of the ranch. The boys said a big, bald-headed dude was at her side. Maybe holding a gun to her head. Maybe not. Hard to tell. New player. No one knew about him.
Without Ross in hand, there was no chance for a quick coup and a cover-up of the carnage at the ranch. His boys had to beat feet, leaving more than a few of their own behind, but also leaving a smoking hulk of a house and a gaping hole in the once-muscular Ross organization.
Big damn deal. All he had done was stir up a hornet’s nest. Ross’s boys would want revenge. They didn’t burn with hatred for him like Ross did -- nothing matched a father’s rage at a son’s betrayal. But his strike had given them plenty of reason to come gunning for him, those who were left. Damn few, but dangerous.
And the firefight brought the FBI, DEA and ATF into the mix. Big headlines, too. DRUG WAR IN GRAYSON COUNTY! BRAZEN ATTACK -- ROCKETS AND MACHINE GUNS! IS NO ONE SAFE? He didn’t even want to think how those headlines would play down Cali way. Those boys were pissed at him already.
He could hear the one he called El Lagarto, a thin, bald, hawk-beaked man with glittery eyes, a rasping voice and the slow, but jerky moves of a lizard in the sun.
“Señor Bonafacio, we value your friendship and your continued participation in our business ventures. But we must maintain the security of our pipeline to El Norte and must make sure all of our partners are happy and a part of the program. We cannot afford someone pursuing their own agenda. It endangers us, it endangers the others. Surely you see the wisdom in this?”
He could see El Lagarto tapping the ash off a thin puro with a russet-colored wrapper, his tongue flicking out rapidly to meet it as he brought it to his mouth, his eyes closing quickly as he puffed. This was the only time that one relaxed. And T-Roy was sure the man was anything but relaxed right now.
At least he’d had the sense not to use boys from his inner circle or the old woman’s. Some ex-contra toughs made up most of the strike team, leavened by some of his lower-level muscle. Choppers leased through three front organizations and returned intact. A pickup in two King Airs pulled off without a hitch.
The dead man was a contra honcho, skilled but very unpopular. No loss to his men -- they liked T-Roy’s supply of money, drugs, pussy and action. More of it. More reliable than Uncle Sam, too.
Mano walked through the door, his homey since Dallas, the man who kept that shotgun jockey from finishing him off in Reynosa. He whispered in T-Roy’s ear, draping a veiny, muscular arm across skinny shoulders.
“It’s Astrid. Somebody iced her at the safe house.”
“Who?”
“Workin’ on it, man. Our guy says the cops found her with four slugs in the chest. Close range. A .45. Dead two, maybe three days. Tops. I’ll have the who in a couple hours.”
T-Roy felt like someone had driven an ice pick between his eyes. The room wobbled. He held onto Mano as the bigger man eased him into a chair. A bottle of mescal floated in front of his face. He grabbed it, tilting the bottle back until the kerosine-flavored liquor burned the back of his throat, choking the liquid down until he needed to take a breath.
He sent Astrid to Houston on a rush job -- resupply for some Houston dealers who’d just knocked off a brace of Jamaican competitors and were enjoying a sudden spike in demand.
Ten keys. Brought in by four Guatamalan mules. Astrid was the collector. Spread the cash across four bank accounts, three front companies and two lawyers. Then go shopping and catch some sun. See you in a week.
Wild Astrid. She’d walked up to him in a Matamoros cantina, planted one leg on the chair next to his, hiked her skirt up to her hip, grabbed his hand and guided it to his pistol. With the gun out of his waistband and still in his hand, she placed the barrel between the lips of her pussy.
“How do you know I won’t pull the trigger?”
She laughed, then leaned forward, her hot breath brushing his ear.
“Because you want to put your cock there, vato. The best you’ve ever had. And feel this tongue?”
It snaked into his ear.
“Think of how it will feel on la gloria.”
She was right -- bar none. She liked it fast and rough. Threesomes and foursomes. Whips on her flesh. And his. She also had an eye for business angles and was fast enough with a pistol to handle cash runs across the border. He let her work her way from his bed into his operation.
The boys didn’t like it. Mano in particular. She made Mano a part of their next four-way, first wearing out T-Roy and a young whore named Gabrielle, then fucking Mano to a frazzle, bruising his rib cage along the way.
A storm of sex. And set on being his right hand in business. She was on her way when he sent her to Houston. Now she was gone.
“Get hold of those Houston pukes. Somebody got to them and I want to know who.”
“Already linin’ that up.”
“And get the Badhair. I want him on this.”
“You sure?”
“Just what in the fuck do you think, Mano? Get it done. Get a name. Give it to the Badhair. I want him to make somebody very, very dead. And I want that somebody’s head sittin’ right fuckin’ here on this desk.”
“We got other problems.”
T-Roy’s face twisted in pain and rage. He cocked the Python and fired a round into the ceiling.
“There’s nothin’ else. Got me? Nothin’.”
The room was silent except for the swishing sound of El Gordo’s mop.
Chapter 13
“Pull in there.”
“Where?”
“Right the hell where I’m pointin’, slick.”
“You don’t have to use that tone.”
“What are you, the ghost of ex-wives past?”
Carla Sue ignored the shot.
“That house?”
Her voice was pissy and sharp.
“Yellow one. Panel truck out front. Concrete deer in the yard.”
Burch’s voice was low and raspy, down an octave from the sharpness of a few seconds ago.
“Where you goin’
?”
“See a slow man about a fast dog. You got somethin’ for all this hardware?”
She pulled a black duffle bag from the backseat.
“Load it up. And gather up any other gear you need. You got any money?”
“How much?”
“Old boy in there is kinda partial to Ben Franklin’s portrait. Eight K will do. Ten’d be better -- buy us some silence.”
She fished a dozen packets of hundred-dollar bills from the duffle and slapped them into his chest. Each packet held a grand and had the smell of new money.
“Wait here. Any trouble, get gone.”
He eased out of the car, favoring the bad leg. She saw him wince and make a clicking sound with his tongue. He tucked the Bulldog down the front of his pants, butt toward his left hip. He flipped his jacket over the gun and limped toward the front door.
It took forever and was painful to watch. A dog started barking from the backyard. A floodlight flipped on before he reached the small concrete slab that served as a front porch.
“Kill that damn light, Hooter, it’s makin’ me blind.”
“’Sposed to. Who the hell are you?”
“If you can’t see who it is, you dumb country cocksucker, then what good’s that light?”
“Worth it to piss off a sorry-ass cop.”
“Ex-cop. You gonna let me in or not?”
“Only thing keepin’ you out is that limp. One of them wives whack you on the knee? Late on that alimony again, I expect.”
Burch hobbled to the screen door. Hooter Goodson held it open with his left hand. He knew Hooter held a double-barreled sawed-off in his right, hidden by shadow.
“Need a car, son. Fast, but not flashy. Cash deal. And you get that Cutlass out front. Was a cherry till some ol’ boys used it for target practice tonight. Chop it. Ditch it. And fast. Somebody will be lookin’ for it.”
“Won’t be nice folk, will it?”
“Naw, son. Not like me ay-tall. You got you somethin’ a man would call a drink?”
Hooter walked back toward the kitchen. Burch sat in the dark at the dining room table, stretching his bum leg in front of him, leaning back in the chair. Hooter plunked down a bottle of Evan Williams and handed him two empty highball glasses.
“Pour.”
Hooter was a second cousin on his daddy’s side, a Friar Tuck beard fringing a moon face, balding and blessed with big forearms and a beer belly. Twenty-three years ago, they played ball together in Coppell, the right side of the line for the ‘65 Rattlers, AAA regional champs, winners of the state championship. By a touchdown. Texas gridiron immortals.
Burch became a cop after two years in Germany as a tank mechanic. Hooter stole cars, ran a chop shop and did light time in Huntsville for grand theft auto. Hooter also introduced him to his third ex-wife, Juanita, the bass-fishing queen and Hemingway freak. Burch liked him anyway.
His cousin lived on the bad side of Weatherford these days, on a broken block of asbestos-sided bungalows decorated with rusty awnings, cheesy lawn ornaments and battered automobiles. A mean dog in every back yard. A shotgun next to every bed. At every kitchen window, a wife in curlers and Daisy Dukes or sweats, squinting through cigarette smoke.
“You in bad trouble, cuz?”
“Could be. You don’t want to know.”
“Think I got what you need. An old Monaco. Looks like a rust bucket, but it’s got a worked 383, new trans, good retreads, AM-FM, air ...”
“Can the sales pitch. This is me you’re talkin’ to. Price?”
“For the car and losin’ the Cutlass? Ten.”
“C’mon, Hooter, you’ll make that much choppin’ the Cutlass. Six.”
“Cuz, you ain’t in no position to dicker. Eight.”
“Seven if you gin up a .45. Lost mine.”
“C’mon cuz, throw in that extra stack of Franklins.”
Burch fanned five more bills in his hand. His cousin nodded and said one word: “Done.” They smiled at each other, took dainty sips of whiskey and listened to night sounds -- a dog barking, the whine of tires up on the main highway, the whirring of locusts. Hooter spoke first, pushing up from the table.
“You’ll need a holster. Don’t got no shoulder rigs. Bianchi or Leatherman?”
“Bianchi will do. Left handed.”
“Silvertips or jacketed? Got Corbon Flyin’ Ashtrays. Got hardball, too.”
“Damn, son. You speakin’ the language of my tribe. Four boxes of Flyin’ Ashtrays and four of hardball. Better make that six of each. And a mess of 9 mm, full jacket.”
“You declared war?”
“Peace through firepower, son.”
A dry chuckle. The cousins knocked back their bourbons. Burch flicked his thumb across seventy-five Franklins, pocketing the two remaining bundles and the five bills of the broken packet. They shook hands.
“Oh, yeah. Need some clothes -- jeans, shirt, some skivvies. These are kinda tattered.”
“Kinda smell like piss.”
“That too.”
Chapter 14
There was a simple reason they called him Cider. At a Halloween party when he was a rookie, he drank a punch made of cider, vodka and cinnamon schnapps until he puked in the backseat of his partner’s yellow Nova.
It was also the reason he only drank beer now and rarely had more than two. His real name was Willis Quanah Jones. Nobody seemed to remember. Not even his girlfriend.
“Hey, Medicine Man -- line two. Somebody wants a rainmaker.”
“Bite my ass, beaner.”
“Serve it up with some verde sauce and a Carta Blanca.”
“Comer mierda, cabron!”
Jones punched up the call, raising the middle finger of his right hand toward the ceiling as he did so, drawing a cackle and a cough.
“Jones.”
“Yah-ta-hey.”
Woman’s laughter, long and rich. Sarah Lasterman, assistant ME, big and black, hair in cornrows, thick glasses and a More cigarillo stitched to her lower lip. He could see the gurneys and stiffs, smell the formaldehyde.
“Cut the redman shit -- Cortez put you up to this, Sarah?”
“Since when do I need some stupid Mex to tell me how to yank your breed chain, baby?”
“Whatchugot?”
“What-I-got is one dead as hell bonita puta Mexican national that you’ll never get in the sack. Dead about forty-eight hours before she was found, not much more. Four slugs from a .45 -- four jacketed hollow points. Heavy slugs, close up. Ohh, wee, somebody wanted her very dead.”
“What else?”
“Type O. Traces of cocaine and alcohol.”
“Bourbon?”
“You know we can’t tell that. Barely get these lame fuckers to give us what they do. Don’t go askin’ what brand of liquor she drank before she got dead. Who is she, baby?”
“Astrid Quinones.”
“Fits the look -- stunnin’ but cheap, baby. Copy on the way. Later.”
Her blood type matched what was found on the carpet. The scrap of paper with the scrawled initials and Dallas phone number matched the handwriting in her checkbook, one of five found in her purse, bearing the account numbers and names of four different companies that could be traced to three low-rent local lawyers and not much further.
Papers on the townhouse ran to one of the lawyers and one of the companies. The metal briefcase was empty and had her prints all over it. The scales spelled a coke deal. But no coke. And no money, either. What was she -- solo flyer or subordinate? A fax to DEA and the federales in Mexico City might give him some answers. He wouldn’t hold his breath.
Jones shuffled through another set of papers. The phone number was for the office of a Dallas pee-eye, an ex-homicider named Burch, Edward Earl, DOB 12/05/48, Height: 6’1”, Weight: 240 pounds. Hair: dark brown and thinning.
Eyes: brown and not too bright. Prints and jacket to follow. And a copy of his pistol permit -- a Colt 1911 in .45 ACP.
Another bingo from the airlines -- Southwest sold a ticket to an E. Burch the day before Quinones was snuffed. Cash. No return. He stared at the faxed photo of Burch. My, my, it’s gettin’ warm in here, Jones thought. Bet we get a match on those prints from the juice glasses too.
A call to DPD gave him a brief sketch: homicide, vice then homicide -- an odd bounce. Partner killed chasing a scumbag named Bonafacio. Loner who drank heavy and wasn’t a team player. Solid arrest record with some high-profile cases. Three suspensions for getting crosswise with the brass. Beefs about excessive force, most of them bullshit. And one that wasn’t. Forced resignation for beating the shit out of a pimp. Four kills, all clean.
Cider popped open a desk drawer and fished out a napkin, a styrofoam coffee cup and a pouch of Levi Garrett chaw. He stuffed the napkin in the cup and placed a big, stringy ball of tobacco in his mouth. Most cops dipped Cope or Skoal. Walt Garrison said just a pinch between cheek and gum. But hell, Walt was just a football player and a cowpuncher, not a cop and an Indian mystic.
Chawin’ and chewin’. Working the tobacco in his jaw while working out the rough math of the facts on his desk.
Wouldn’t be the first time an ex-cop took to the other side of the street. Particularly if he got screwed over by the force -- heavy undertone of that from the Dallas cop who gave him the backgrounder. Said Burch did some work for the white-powder bar in Dallas and Houston and seemed to be an ace in a growing Texas niche market -- finding wayward S&L clients with non-performing loans.
“Cider, ID on one.”
“Jones.”
“Got those prints from Dallas. They’re a match.”
“You sure?”
“Clean overlay. Thumb and three fingers, right hand, on one juice glass. Thumb and forefinger on the shot. How much more do you want?”
“This guy was a cop, man. I want to be sure before I put his name on the wire.”
“Well, you can be sure ‘cause I’m sure.”