by Sarah Black
There was quite a bit more, too, an entire theoretical model, but Colton had been distracted by watching Diego's hands, flying around like little birds as he made his point. Colton thought Diego was more like a panther than a man, one of those sleek and deadly black panthers from the jungles down south.
"Are you listening to me, Colton?"
He focused again on Diego's face. “Yeah."
"So what about you? What label do you embrace, my sexy friend?"
"I don't embrace dick,” he said, reaching for Diego's slender body with rough hands. “That thing you said? Me, too. Fuckin’ A."
And Diego had rolled his eyes and let Colton pull him over and drape him across his big body. His eyes were gentle, though, when he looked down into Colton's face. “Why don't you say what you really want to say?"
"Yeah, okay. I want you to sleep with me, nobody else. And I'm only gonna sleep with you. We'll see how it goes."
"Yes, we'll see how it goes,” Diego agreed, and that was a done deal.
* * * *
The women must have been cooking all that hot afternoon, because when Colton woke, the table was being set, piles of homemade tortillas, roast chickens, a big bowl of fresh pico de gallo, the bright green tang of the cilantro and lime juice tickling Colton's nose when he held the bowl up to take a smell. The pot of pinto beans was simmering on the stove, with a big pot of rice, and there were twelve chairs set at the table.
Colton studied the chairs, and the women studied him in that way women do, brief glances from under dark lashes while they did their work. He was in the way, though, so he walked over to Manuel's casita. The old man was up from his nap, sitting in a straight back chair with his little plastic fan blowing on him. The bottle of tequila was on the dresser, and Colton rinsed out their glasses in the bathroom sink.
"We got twelve chairs at the dinner table,” Colton announced.
Manuel grinned at him. “Last count, how many people you have living out here, Patron?"
"Four. It's okay, I guess.” Manuel wasn't moving. He'd put socks on, but Colton guessed his back was stiff from napping on a too soft mattress. “We'll tell her you need a board or something if the bed's too soft."
Manuel waved this away. “I'm just getting too fucking old."
Colton put the glasses down, knelt at his feet, and helped him tug the boots on. They were old, but the leather was like butter. Manuel must buff them every day, keep them clean and soft with the saddle soap. That was the old way. One pair of boots that fit good, and you took care of them and they lasted as long as your feet. His granddad took care of his boots this way. They wandered outside, sat in the shade next to a couple of citrus trees.
"Looks like you got you a couple of limes, maybe a grapefruit,” Manuel said, studying the leaves. There was a drip irrigation system running from the little building where the washing machine lived. “Gray water recycling,” Manuel said. “I guess with twelve living here, you got you enough washing going on to grow some limes! Where've the women got the garden?"
"Around back of the stables."
They took their glasses, walked back there, and Colton could see that the garden was rich black dirt, in raised beds to protect it from the sere wind. The boys, free from their chicken-chasing duties, were hauling big flowerpots of water into the garden gate. They stopped when they saw him and Manuel, but the men ignored the boys, and after a minute they continued to the far fence, and watered the row of scraggly sunflowers growing there.
"You and Diego don't need to worry about not having kids, I guess. There's always plenty of little Mexican kids running around."
Colton slugged back the rest of his tequila.
They cut through the stables. It was dark and cool and clean, with a big pile of sweet-smelling composted manure in the corner, probably destined for the garden. The stalls were fronted by wooden Dutch doors, their paint faded now. Each was a different primary color, sunshine yellow, cobalt blue, forest green, poppy red. He'd painted these doors when he was fourteen or fifteen, he couldn't remember.
"We don't have any horses,” he said, as if this fact had only now sunk into his head, standing in the empty stables.
"Horses are expensive these days. Most people don't have the right land for hay, and it's expensive to buy. Then you got saddles, tack, all that."
"Yeah, I know. It just seems funny.” The boys peeked around the stable door, quiet as mice, to see what the men were doing.
"Everywhere you go, Colton, you're gonna have a bunch of little boys following you around, watching you. You make sure you keep your gun in the holster, boy."
The remembrance fell back on him with more weight that he could imagine—his uncle, the blood in the loft, Diego screaming. “I won't shoot him out here,” he promised. “I don't want his blood on my land."
* * * *
The blond kid with one eye was a meth addict. Manuel was already shaking his head, watching him. The kid reeled back out of the sunlight, slapping a hand over his one good eye. His pallid skin was scored with scratches. The meth addicts, they felt like they had bugs crawling under their skin. It felt good when they scratched until they tore through the skin, let the bugs out. Colton felt his heart sink a bit. This kid was a weak reed to base a case on.
Sanchez showed up and Colton introduced Chan and Sanchez to Captain Manuel Del Rio, retired.
"Boss, I think I got a line on another one. But the deposition we took from Pinky over there,” he gestured with his chin, “the assistant DA isn't paying much attention. We need Dr. Del Rio's statement, and we need a third. I think three statements from three credible witnesses that the sheriff of Pima County is gouging the eyes out of Mexicans, then we can get him relieved."
Colton looked at them both. “I've got Diego's statement. You don't seem very surprised, either of you. Why is that?"
Chan shrugged. “Why don't we try to get him extradited to Mexico? If the Mexicans prefer charges against him, they could take him into custody to stand trial in Sonora. Go to prison down there."
"Any of the incidents take place in Sonora?"
Sanchez shrugged. “Not that we've found so far. But the vics, they were Mexican citizens."
Colton rubbed at his neck. He felt weak again, headachy, like he was coming down with something. Probably the nonexistent shocks in Manuel's old truck. “Let me call Esmeralda, ask her what she wants to do."
"I'll keep the boy here until Esmeralda can come take a deposition,” Manuel said. “If I have to sit on his sorry ass. That way we have a set of Mexican documents. Just in case the Americans lose the paperwork.” Pinky must have heard this, because he turned and gave Manuel a slitty-eyed look. “You two can go back to town with this hardheaded boy. He'll need somebody to watch his back."
Chan nodded. “Colton, the kid, Pinky. He told us it was a ‘Pima County tattoo.’ That's what they call it when the sheriff of Pima County takes your eye. They got a nickname for it, there must be plenty of other victims. We find a few more, go to that assistant DA, get your uncle removed pending an investigation. Slow but steady, Colton. That's the right way to get this job done. Don't lose your cool. I don't think he knows what we're doing, not yet."
"I left a note on your desk, boss. A list of supplies for the ranch. Barbed wire, new chain for the chain saw, bucket of paint, like that. Make him think you were coming down here for awhile. I turned in that sick leave paper, too, the one from the hospital. You got another month sick leave. Actually, boss, you look like you could use it."
Colton shrugged. “Just concussion or something. I'm all right.” He waved the kid over. “You want to tell me what happened?"
"Not till I see some cash, man."
Chan slapped him gently upside the head. “You in some big rush to kill yourself, idiot?"
Colton reached for his wallet, pulled out a hundred bucks, handed it to Manuel. “Captain Del Rio will hold it for you till you give that deposition, okay?"
Pinky hissed a little between his teeth.
"Kid, you want to eat with us, you got to act right. We got little kids and women living here."
"I'm not hungry. Look, I don't really remember a lot of it. I was stoned, I just remember getting busted, the bright lights in my fucking eyes, then he just dug it out, man, didn't say anything, had that big fucking hand around my throat.” They were all silent, staring out across the land, or down into the dust.
"Hey, cop.” Pinky's voice was softer. “I know your aunt."
Colton looked up. “You mean my uncle. Yeah, you said."
His grin got wider. “No, I mean your aunt. She's worn a path across the border, man. She comes down and gets her medications. That's what old white women call their dope. Medications. Like they aren't fucking addicts, just like the rest of us."
* * * *
Maria Goretti had accumulated one ancient old woman and four young women, a teenaged boy who wanted to be a vaquero, three little boys who were all named Juan, and a new baby improbably named Tyra Shakira Garcia. These were the people who came and went through dinner, plus a couple of Humane Borders workers who were just visiting for the day to fill up the water tanks and had been invited to supper. The kids seemed to be eating in the kitchen. Colton couldn't keep track. His head was killing him and he felt like someone had whacked him in the back of the head with a big stick. Again.
Aunt Margaret? That was so fucking ridiculous. Aunt Margaret wore little cardigan sweaters. Maybe she was a little shaky in her nerves, scatterbrained, but the world of illegal drugs, that wasn't her world. It had nothing to do with her. She did take a lot of medications, and a small voice in the back of his head reminded him that he had introduced her to a doctor. To Diego.
After dinner he headed back into town with Sanchez and Chan.
"The unit's okay,” Sanchez said. “One of the uniforms, that tall redheaded kid—he's fallen like a stone for his partner. He's walking around like a fucking zombie."
"Lydia?” Lydia was the most kick-ass uniform in the squad. It was a mistake to put Lydia with a male partner, ever. She would do some true-blue hero shit, take down a dirtbag, and next thing you knew she's got somebody making moon eyes and looking for ways to impress her. “What's that kid's name? Timmy?"
"Jimmy. She calls him Jimmy Neutron, after some cartoon character her kid watches. But she said don't move him. She's got to get him toughened up a little bit, get some street grime rubbed on his shiny new cop face."
"Some dumb fucker is going to try and take Lydia down, get him in trouble.” It was an old trick on a new cop, do something shitty to the female partner, let the rookie get carried away defending her and you have the first demerit on the permanent record for punching some scumbag in the face.
"I'll be looking forward to how that plays out,” Colton said absently, staring out the window as they left the ranch behind. He was used to the tug, a cold ball of sorrow in his stomach whenever he had to leave. He'd felt it the first time when his uncle and Aunt Margaret had come to get him after his granddad died, made him come away with them. He'd always blamed his uncle for how utterly shitty he'd felt. That day he'd taken up his granddad's attitude toward the man, and now, he realized with a jolt, he wouldn't have to feel guilty about hating the sorry son of a bitch any more.
"Sanchez, why do you want me to stay home on sick leave?"
Sanchez and Chan looked at each other. Chan scratched his chin. “Colton, you can't act for shit. You got a million feelings, and any fucking body can read them in your face. I don't think you can look at that son of a bitch without pulling your pistol out and blowing his head off. So I think you better stay home and do the paperwork, go talk to that assistant DA, the pretty one with the blue eyes, and try to convince her to convince a judge to put him in jail without bail."
"Yeah, right, like that's gonna happen in this lifetime. There's probably a ton of paperwork. The budgets are due, and quarterly evals on the rookies. I'll work from Diego's loft."
"Colton, I think you better come up with a backup plan, too. If he tries to get rid of you."
"Get rid of me? He already broke my fucking neck."
"That didn't hurt your credibility, though. You still got a badge. You still got people who'll listen when you talk. He thinks you know anything, if he thinks you've talked to the good doctor, he'll set you up like he set up Dr. Del Rio, with a bag of glass and a dead fancy boy chained to a post. Then you won't be able to do anything but run. Not back to the ranch, either, Colton. That's the first place he'd look."
"All right, I get it.” Maybe a counterplan was a good idea. But it was too hard to think right now, when the inside of his head had turned into a bass drum, a rhythmic thrum of misery pounding against his eye. He pressed in hard over the point where the headache was centered, over the left eye. He could feel how soft and tender the eyeball was under his fingers. It wouldn't take any pressure at all to pop it out, squeeze it until it was mush. A sudden wave of nausea, and he had to choke down the acid burning in the back of his throat. “Drop me off at the loft, okay?"
Sanchez was looking at him from the front seat. “Sure, boss. I'll bring you some work by in the morning."
Colton nodded, then closed his eyes against the sudden wave of pain this brought on. Jesus, it scared him. All he'd done was nod his head. What if these headaches didn't go away, or even got worse? He'd be fucking disabled. He could barely see. He couldn't drive like this, couldn't work.
At the loft Colton stumbled out of the backseat without a word, made it onto the elevator and up to Diego's door and then finally he was inside, safe, in the cool darkness, home. Their home. The headache receded a step, and he went into the kitchen and folded some ice cubes into a paper towel. With this makeshift ice pack pressed to his eye, he turned on his laptop and found an e-mail from DrDangerous77.
How's your head? Come chat with me.
My head is fucking miserable, Dr. D. I nearly puked in the elevator. He stopped and deleted this last bit. I need you to come rub my neck.
Yeah, I could do that without too much trouble.
And where is my lover tonight? Lonely for me, I hope. And alone.
No, Colton. I've got some Big Dog's prick in my mouth, and I'm typing blind. Where are you?
Our place. I got it all cleaned up so you can come home. Hey, if I get to vote, I like the eye patch. Makes you look hot. You know I love pirates.
Go to your email, Colton. I'll send you a picture.
A few minutes later, Colton opened the attachment, felt his heart squeeze into a painful knot. It was a quick sketch in black magic marker, like a caricature. Diego as Pirate Lord, and whoever drew him with his eye patch and his hair flying across his face and his lips parted, ready to be kissed, was so fucking in love with him that Colton felt like ripping the computer apart with his bare hands.
His hands were shaking on the keyboard when he went back to the chat room. Who the fuck drew this picture? You're only supposed to look at me like that. Am I going to have to come down there and beat the shit out of some artist? Who is he? An old boyfriend, right?
No reply for a moment, and Colton was afraid that Diego had somehow read his mind, knew he was picturing pulling out his revolver and shooting that fucker in the head and leaving his body in the desert for the coyotes to eat.
Colton, try not to be such a fool. An old lover, yes. My first lover, in fact, but he understands about you. About me and you.
Oh, he does? That makes one of them. Colton stared at the screen in disbelief. Could Diego really be that fucking stupid? Diego, listen. What could he say? No matter what he said, he'd end up sounding like a ... Baby, I'll follow you into the fires of hell. I know how that sounds, but I'll bring us both back, too. I promise. I promise. Trust me, Diego. I'll do anything to make this right. To get our life back. Trust me. I'll figure it all out. And wait for me.
You're fearless, Colton. That scares me sometimes, because I think you look at me and see a coward. But I actually think I'm normal, and you're the one with super-powers. Don't be jea
lous. It's only flirting. It makes me feel better.
Right. Of course Diego wasn't that stupid.
* * * *
Colton woke up with the echo of the headache behind his eye, like a threat. He'd dreamed about Diego last night, memory flooding back in the night like waters rising behind a dam. Man, he was tired.
He'd woken up this morning with salty water on his face. He couldn't seem to control anything these days, not his dreams, not his head, not his lover. How long had it been since Diego had split? He was just getting worse.
Questions without answers spilled through his mind until he detoured from the shower and tipped the bottle of tequila up to his mouth. Just a bite, a mouthful, to ease the noise in his head. Coffee was probably a better idea, but no one was fucking here to see it, so who cared? He didn't want to think anymore. He was too tired to make sense of anything, and all he really wanted to do was feel, to let his mind sink into remembering. One more, maybe, one more dream, and he'd put it away again and get back to work.
A rich, golden burn in his throat, and Colton stepped into the shower, let the tepid water slide over his skin.
Diego loved to fuck around in the shower. What was it with that guy and water and soap? A year together, and Colton had started to forget how to wash his own balls. Diego just couldn't keep his hands to himself, and Colton loved to look down at his ivory skin, see Diego's dark hands moving over him, see the lean body pressed up against his own, water sluicing over their skin.
I grew up in the desert. Diego's voice was liquid honey in his memory. That's why I love the shower, Colton. His cock lurched at the memory, began to fill. He reached down and wrapped his fingers around his cock, stroked his foreskin back. He was always wet, with a thick, sticky fluid under the skin that Diego said was the beautiful reason men weren't supposed to be circumcised.