by Jim Nesbitt
“Pinkie and thumb, mister. I’m too old to take chances and trust strangers.”
“I’m hurt, my friend. We have much in common. We have Lefty Moore. We should drink to his health and this deal we are about to close. Then we can work out the details about hateful things like money and time and place.”
“What are we drinking, mister?”
“A modest little brandy they make on my side of the border.”
Old Pedro lost none of his bite on this side of the border. And he gained no smoothness or aged charm.
Chapter 32
On the last street corner in America, the mercury-vapor lamps that arced over the bridge to Juarez and the Customs checkpoint you had to pass before you could walk free and clear into Gringoland cast a harsh yellow light on the figures moving through the early morning cold.
It was just past two but already they gathered on the corner of Sixth and El Paso, their features sharpened or shadowed by the light, huddling in small groups on the sidewalk or ducking into La Perla, an all-night coffee stand, for a small cup of caffeined warmth and some gossip washed in harsh, flourescent light.
They waited for a slow-rolling pickup and a finger pointing at them from an open window, picking them for a dawn-to-dusk day in the chile fields three hours north in New Mexico. They waited for a long ride in an old school bus and another round of stoop labor and rip-off wages that wouldn’t end until ten that night.
Burch sat in an after-hours cantina two blocks north of the bridge and the waiting farm laborers. A table in back. A lukewarm bottle of Tecate and a shot of Sauza Especial for show. The Colt wedged above his butt for business.
The money Carla Sue clipped from Ross was almost gone. They needed more from her stash but couldn’t get to it. Moore was playing stakehorse for them, but Moore was far away and probably being watched and Silva Huerta was a man who dealt only in cash, even when doing business with friends of old associates.
That’s why he was sitting in a cantina on El Paso Street, waiting on a man named Angel Morales, another Moore contact, and a packet of money that would wind up in Huerta’s pocket. The next best thing when Western Union wouldn’t do.
He wasn’t the only Anglo in the joint, but he was the only one staying put. Pool sharks, poker sharps and swing-shift zombies ducked in and out, downing quick shots or short drafts, then heading for home or the next game. The Mex regulars paid them little attention and pointedly ignored him.
A thin, sharp-featured man with a pencil moustache, a wavy pompadour and a shiny grey suit flecked with white and black strands of fabric walked in with a woman hugging his arm. The man gave short nods to the regulars, who were drinking in the woman’s curves with exaggerated appreciation.
She had exaggerated curves. Hips that flared fully over well-muscled dancer’s legs. Ass cheeks and breasts that pushed the limits of her white spandex dress as much as the stretchy fabric was supposed to pull against those body parts. Gold chains that dipped between cleavage deepened by the press of spandex.
Her skin was the color of whiskey held up against the soft light of an old saloon with worn brass rails and a mahogony bar. Her face was heart-shaped and dominated by slanting cheekbones that hid her black eyes when she smiled.
Wild curls framed her face and cascaded below the shoulder blades of her exposed back. The curls were black now -- natural or bottled, Burch couldn’t tell. They used to be blonde -- definitely from a bottle, the same bottle used by all the girls who worked at Jimmy Carl Danmayer’s joint on Harry Hines back in the D.
Jimmy C’s Fabulous Ferris Wheel Club, where the fabulous Shasta did her featured number in a shower stall wheeled down the main ramp and the customers who paid a premium for their table dances were offered cozier comforts in the back rooms.
Burch was working vice back then and the woman on the dandy’s arm was calling herself Amber Motion. She worked the side ramps, the tables and the back rooms, a teen runaway from the San Antonio barrio who wanted to dance on Broadway but ended up on a more sordid boulevard of lights.
He tried to nail Jimmy C for employing underaged talent, but her ID was perfect and she always looked him straight in the eye when she repeated the alias Jimmy C gave her -- Niki Delgado. Amber Motion when she hit the stage.
Burch pegged her as 16, maybe 17, back then. Her act was pure sex and energy, awkwardly punctuated with a few ballet and jazz steps that only confused the lust-stricken clientele. No polish. But all Amber needed to do was walk the ramp and roll her hips and breasts and 45-year-old married men reached for their wallets.
Fifteen years later that was still all she needed to do. She surveyed the room with a practiced eye, letting her gaze linger on this man or that, giving these random choices the false hope that they could take the dandy’s place.
Burch pulled down the brim of his Resistol and leaned over his stale drinks, hoping she wouldn’t catch his eye or see his face. He cursed Angel Morales for picking this place to meet. They were at the bar now, backs to the `tender, drinks in hand, Amber leaning into the dandy’s chest and thigh, absently brushing his chest with the back of her knuckles as she took a pull of Carta Blanca and scoped the room.
He saw her rap the dandy’s chest and whisper, leaning her body into his, then nodding toward the table where the bar’s only Anglo ex-cop sat. He watched her walk his way, drawing the eye of every man in the room. She stopped at the edge of his table and leaned across, flipping up the brim of his hat to give him a better look at the deeply-split flesh spilling from the top of her dress.
“I told Miguel it was you. I always remember a cop’s face. What the hell are you doing in my town? You’re a Dallas boy, right?”
“Used to be. How you doin’, Amber? Sit down. Give the boys a chance to cool their action. Wave your friend over, too. I’m buyin’.”
“Amber. Goddam, I haven’t used that name since the Bee Gees were hip. My God, I remember you now -- the big vice cop who was always trying to find out my real name and just how underage I really was.”
“Jimmy C’s place. Harry Hines.”
“A broken street lamp and a blow job on every corner, right vato?”
“The same.”
She smiled and took another pull from her beer.
“If I sit down, Miguel will think he has to cut you.”
She grabbed a chair and straddled it backwards, arms dangling over the ladder back, eyes hidden by a grin that caused her cheekbones to rise. She took another pull of beer then slapped the tabletop and laughed.
“I remember you now. We used to call you Professor Noble Bear because of your glasses and the way you used to shamble along. You never hit us up for a freebie. Hell, as I remember it, you never even tried to cop a feel.”
“Not for lack of want to.”
She drew her head back and arched a Maybellined eyebrow.
“Ohhh? Not so noble now?”
“Not a cop. And you’re not a teenager no more.”
“But you’re still a bear. You growl like one. You got big shoulders like one. Bet you still walk like one. But I bet you’re a nice bear to a mama bear. Am I right?”
She reached across the table to scratch his chest with long, red nails. He brushed her hand away and watched Miguel walk their way, his face a kiln-fired mask over a moustache and a grin.
“Has tenido tu ultima bebida y tu ultima mirada, señor. Creo que es hora de irte a otro bar donde estaras mas en casa -- un bar para maricones.”
Last drink and last peek -- a warning, then an insult -- go drink someplace more homey, like a fag bar. Delivered with flashing eyes and the intent to lock him up in a staredown. No sale. Burch watched Miguel’s hands. His Colt was already drawn, hammer back, held in his off-hand, his right, the one farthest away from Amber.
“Tell boyfriend to cool his jets. Tell him I meant no offense. Tell him his next drink is on me.”
“I don’t think Miguel wants to drink with you, Papa Bear. I think he wants to cut your cock off and stuff it down your throat.”
“Tell him I wouldn’t take kindly to that.”
She laughed and spun toward the dandy.
“Sientate e saluda a mi primer y mejor amante. Es el que me enseno como. Hacerle el amor a un hombre. Puedes aprender algo de un hombre como este.”
She laughed and ran her fingers along Burch’s right arm.
“I just told him you took my cherry and were still more of a man than he is. Told him he could learn a thing or two from a macho like you.”
“I heard.”
“Oh, so Noble Bear knows Spanish now. You didn’t in the old days, back when you wanted to take my cherry but were too noble to do so.”
“Your cherry was long gone by the time I first slapped eyes on you.”
She laughed and slapped his arm.
“The bear still growls. Ohh, I like that.”
She turned to Miguel.
“Para de estar parado con esa mirada estupida. Acuchilale o sientate y bebe con nosotros.”
Some choice -- have a drink with your woman’s old lover or stick his ass into the next world. A switchblade flashed in Miguel’s hand as he lunged across the table, slashing at Burch’s face. Burch caught the dandy in the midsection with an open left hand, grabbing the front of his suit and adding to his forward momentum with a short tug and a quick pivot out of his chair.
Miguel crashed into the wall. His knife skittered across the floor. Burch slammed a knee across Miguel’s chest and stuck the Colt in his face. His hat was askew, its brim badly gashed.
“Tell boyfriend I don’t have to kill him, but I will.”
Amber still straddled her chair, looking at Burch with an arched eyebrow. She took a final pull of beer and swung the empty bottle in a lazy arc.
“I don’t think he’s your biggest problem, Papa Bear.”
Burch looked back and saw five vatos stepping his way, bottles and bats in hand. He stood up, yanked Miguel to his feet and flashed the Colt.
“Tell the boys Miguel and I are taking a short walk. Tell them he’ll come back from that walk in one piece as long as I stay in one piece.”
She turned to the circle of regulars: “No creo que va a matar a Miguel o ningun otro. No tiene cojones. Si no son mujeres lo pueden tomar facilmente.”
Great – got no balls for killing, an easy mark unless the vatos were a bunch of women. A voice from the regulars: “Tomale tu misma. En tu boca, en tu culo, en tu nariz. Tiene tu amante.”
Burch almost laughed -- take him yourself bitch, in your mouth, up your ass, up your nose; it’s your boyfriend he’s got. At least one of these slicks wasn’t behind the tequila curve.
He waved the Colt: “¡Muchachos! Les he fastidiado. Lo siento. Mi nuevo amigo y yo vamos a dar un paseo. Lo dejere sano y contento.”
An apology -- would it stick? A promise not to kill – would they believe it? A quick exit -- would he make it? Burch muscled Miguel toward the rear exit -- a firedoor propped open with a rusty length of pipe. He kicked open the door and shoved Miguel outside, leveling the Colt back on the regulars as he stepped across the threshold and slammed the door shut.
Miguel swung a punch and missed. Burch slammed his head into the door frame of a black Silverado with smoked glass and West Coast side mirrors, then wrestled him back toward the white pickup, angling away from the rear exit, eyeing it for the first sign of regulars wanting to do the Anglo stomp.
Burch shoved Miguel into the side of his pickup, watching him sprawl headfirst into the door. He fished for his keys and shot a quick glance toward the rear exit again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a short figure step from the shadows. He leveled the Colt at the man.
“Step on out where I can see you.”
“I’m not a threat, mister, just a friend. Besides, if I’d a wanted to take you, I’d have done it a long time ago.”
The man spoke in the flat sing-song of a Chicano ranch hand. The broad brim of his hat shadowed all but his mouth and jaw.
“Morales?”
“Sí.”
“The money?”
“Twenty grand. Already in the glove box.”
“The truck was locked.”
“Sí. So was the glove box. No problema.”
“Thanks, pard. Keep an eye on this guy till I get the truck fired up.”
“No thanks, my friend. I have to live around here.”
“A wise man. Give our friend my thanks.”
“I will. He’d want me to tell you this -- for a guy on the run, you sure have a bad habit of attracting attention. Get where you’re going now because you sure got the notice of some people who will make it hot for you in this town. On both sides of the law.”
“You picked the place, pard. I just made the mistake of agreeing to meet you there.”
“I’ll tell you this from me -- you’re the type who’d draw flies underwater. Adios, bud. Hope you live long enough to pay our friend back.”
Burch fired up the truck. The rear exit of the cantina boomed open. Angel Morales disappeared quicker than the smoke from his parting shot.
Chapter 33
His skin was tight and hot around the stitches. His right hand and arm had four I-V needles taped down and poking into his veins. His left arm was strapped to his side, bound by the same bulging mass of gauze, tape and elastic wrapping that immobilized his bullet-shattered shoulder.
He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t drink. He couldn’t scratch his balls. He couldn’t even hold a bedpan and piss into it. If he tried to move, the bones in his shoulder ground together, causing his stomach to lurch and bile to rise in his throat.
All he could do was sit back and watch the TV shows his roomate picked -- replays of The Andy Griffith Show, Green Acres and The Beverly Hillbillies. On morphine, Jethro took on protean, existential overtones that rivaled Sartre and Camus. On morphine, ol’ Andy seemed dark, malevolent and Machiavellian, preying on the simple, gentle souls of Mayberry. On morphine, Eb seemed Christ-like in his innocence.
The phone rang. And rang. And rang. He couldn’t reach it. He yelled for a nurse. He yelled to his roomate. The phone rang. A nurse rushed in and picked it up. She held the receiver to his face.
“Cider?”
His answer sounded like a cross between a croak and a bleat. His mouth was dry. His tongue felt like sandpaper.
“Cider? Is this Detective Jones? Have I got the room of Houston Detective Cider Jones?”
He looked at the nurse with pleading eyes. She pulled the receiver to her ear.
“This is Officer Jones’ room. He’s unable to talk. This is his nurse, Miss Adenauer. Can I take a message?”
She listened. She nodded. He tried to watch her face, but it hurt his shoulder to turn his head toward her. She nodded again.
“I’ll tell him. Thank you for calling. Yes, he’s doing well for a man with a smashed shoulder. Will he what?”
She laughed and cupped the receiver.
“He wants to know if you’ll ever wrestle steers again.”
His eyes were flat. She shrugged.
“He’s not in the mood for jokes. Thanks for calling. I’ll tell him.”
She hung up and shook a finger at him.
“Humor is a great healer, Officer Jones. Even bad humor.”
“I’ll try to remember.”
A definite croak now, not a bleat.
“What was the call?”
“What?”
“The call.”
“Oh. That was your lieutenant. He said to tell you they know where that criminal Burch is at. He said to tell you El Paso and the Rangers were on the way to nab him. He said you’d be glad to hear that. Is he the man who shot you?”
“No. They don’t have him yet?”
“Who?”
“Burch.”
“Oh. Apparently not, but he seemed to think it was a sure thing.”
“Lady, there ain’t been a sure thing since this whole clusterfuck started.”
She flushed and put a hand over her mouth. He started to laugh, but the grating bones in his shoulder made him gag instead. His humor wasn’t the healing kind.
Chapter 34
The Duchess hit an updraft that slammed Burch deep into his seat and made him taste bile in the back of his throat. Lightning cut a white hole in the darkness. Rain hammered the plane’s thin aluminum skin.
They were at fifteen thousand feet, well above the jagged desert peaks of northern Mexico but well below the tops of the late-night thunderstorms that roamed the border sky, remnants of a Pacific storm that was riding the jet stream from Baja California up into Texasland.
Slick McCoy, Huerta’s pox-ridden and opium-addicted pilot, slalomed the storm clouds, humming a toneless tune as he consulted the Stormscope to pick out the mildest rides the wild black sky had to offer.
Burch could hear Slick’s humming through the lime-green Dave Clark headsets worn by each of the four people in the Duchess. Silva Huerta turned back to look at Burch and Carla Sue, bending his boom mike closer to his mouth to speak to them over the intercom. The words crackling into Burch’s ear were disconnected from the movement of Huerta’s mouth, adding to the jarring, disjointed feeling created by the movement of storm and plane.
“It’s good you called me as soon as you did, my friend. It is a bad night for flying but a good night to get you away from your hiding place. Friends tell me the Los Rinches hit the ranch about an hour after you and your lady friend left.”
“So this is where luck takes us.”
“Don’t start that death and faith crap again, Big `Un.”
Burch snapped his head around. He forgot she was there.
“It’s truth and you know it. I ought to be able to tell it. I’ve paid enough money to say what I want in this damn plane.”
Huerta knitted his brow as he listened to this, then grinned, his teeth and most of his face green in the glow of the instrument lights.