Wyrd Gere

by Steve Curry

  I saw Perro fairly squirm in his seat before he made a patting gesture with his hand and then looked over with barely any trace of his customary smirk. “Hey there Mateo.”

  He looked back at me with one eye fairly twitching. “Gringo you talk pretty to Senor Mateo. He is a very important man where it counts. Just play nice and answer his questions.”

  I took a longer glance at Doomguy. He was wearing black combat fatigue pants, the kind I myself used sometimes and had been wearing in my role as a paramedic. Above that though was a very nice polo under a lightweight sports coat. He wasn’t even trying to hide the holsters. He had one on his hip and a strap that obviously belonged to a shoulder holster.

  I was betting on some kind of magnum at his hip and maybe one of those mini uzis or a Skorpion in the shoulder holster. When he leaned over to give me the icy glare at eyeball to eyeball range his jacket parted and I grinned. I was right, it was a Skorpion. A really wicked looking gun but useless at anything over a few meters and underpowered with the .32 caliber round. By comparison, the high dollar colt Anaconda on his hip was brutal. It would stop a rhinoceros, and the guy behind the rhino, and the car the guy was sitting in.

  I switched my view from the hardware to his cold stare. “Yea I’m not great at pretty. Kind of blunt and unrefined. You need something, Matty?”

  I heard my “ally” suck in a breath and override my previous statement with his own nervous energy. “Hey hey, now Gringo. Senor Mateo is one muy malo hombre. You don’t start acting right and I’ll let him eat you for breakfast.”

  I turned just enough to keep the cartel guy in my peripheral vision. Taking another drawn-out slurp of the coffee I spoke to Pedro. “You think your friend would mind if I eat something myself first? I’m about starved and it’s been a bad couple of days.”

  The oily little weasel who’d gotten me into this mess just stared for a minute then a frown furrowed his brow. He tilted his head back to Mateo so I looked over. Pedro was doing the patting thing in the middle of the table again. Despite his attempts, it looked like ole Mateo and Mouse weren’t going to get along. He had a flush starting along his jawline and I saw a blood vessel pulsing almost hypnotically in the side of his neck.

  “Coyote, you need to come to pay respect to El Patron Achille.” He followed that with a staccato burst of Spanish. In a rapid-fire exchange, I could only keep up with tones and emotions. The errand boy of “El Patron” was insistent and more than a little condescending. Pedro seemed intent on placating and being absolutely spineless. I had figured he wasn’t much of a fighter but this little show made me want to curl my lip and kick his cowardly face in myself.

  It appeared to be exactly what was expected from the drug dealing contingent though. They were all cracking broad smiles and sneering at his display. Since I was with him that meant they were sneering at me too. In other circumstances, I’d probably have ignored it. But there was that whole bad mood and angry at the world theme I had going.

  When I stood up senor Mateo had little choice but to back up a step. I guess he could have just knocked me back to my seat. Then again sometimes I take a lot of knocking.

  I was restrained from any kind of violence when the smuggler grabbed my forearm and used it to immobilize any violent intentions I might harbor. He disguised the movement by acting as if he used my help getting out of the relatively tight booth. Once he was up though he didn’t let go so much as he ignored his grip on my sleeve and practically apologized to the big doofus with his ever so manly gun. “Por favor jefe, the gringo he is not really responsible. His girl left him. Left him for an older man. We all know how something like that feels don’t we?”

  His words went a whole lot further to lock me in place than his physical hold could have. What the hell did he know and how did he know it? And was he right? Did she run off with Uncle Bill and his gleaming grin? A minute later I realized he was just improvising. He just happened to have hit a little close to home. If I found out any differently then there would be Hel to pay. For now, though I’d go with the simplest explanation. That moment of frozen introspection though was enough to break the tension between me and the gunman for the local establishment.

  He and Pedro had said a few more things that I only partially caught due to linguistic issues and my half-hearted attention. But I noticed that Pedro squared his shoulders like someone facing a firing squad before he turned away in preparation for approaching the crime boss. I couldn’t help myself. I had to give the pathetic little figure at least a little support. “If my compadre here needs to go pay respects I’ll tag along and nod whenever he tells me to.”

  Maybe Pedro wasn’t as grateful as I’d like, but he did get up and walk with only half his normal swagger to the cartel section. He didn’t even have to clear his throat or stumble over the words when he addressed the boss man. He did, however, dip his head low enough that for a minute I thought the sniveling weasel was going full renaissance bow for a minute.“Patron.”

  What followed was a slower but heavily accented Spanish that allowed me to understand just a few words here and there. There wasn’t enough for me to make sense of what either of them had to say though. Finally, though Pedro backed up several steps before turning away and hurrying past our table. He dropped a few bills by the coffee cups and yelled something about keeping the change.

  I started to object about my highly anticipated meal but he just grabbed my arm and pulled along like a skinny tugboat towing a much thicker cargo vessel. Outside he shoved me at an old international jeep with windows dirty enough to be economy window tinting. “Your new toys are in the back. Take a look and I’ll get you something to go.”

  He didn’t give me time to respond or ask any questions. He just trotted back into the building. With time on my hands and a more than average level of interest in the “toys” he was providing, I delved into the back of the jeep to investigate. Old Pedro Perro and I had widely different views about hardware.

  I pulled out a revolver that would have made old Mateo in the diner swell with pride. It was thick, massive even. The barrel was probably six inches, and it was obviously larger caliber. I looked at the barrel and saw .454 printed in an italicized script along its side. So one of the largest and most powerful handgun rounds you can find. Ok, it would do for stopping the SUV’s if they pursued. Reloading time was hell though. A second glance identified it as the beefed-up South American version of my own little .410/.45 revolver.

  Unfortunately, the revolver was the grand prize within that gear. There was some oversized hunting knife made of Pakistani steel stuffed in a cheap imitation leather sheath. It was guaranteed to break if it hit anything tougher than tender roast beef.

  There was a pump-action shotgun that had obvious soldering iron marks near the pump. I worked the pump back and forth a few times using the button under the action that allowed just such misuse. The pump of course stuck and had to be wiggled just right to feed another shell.

  And finally, for armaments, there was a vintage-looking lever-action “repeating rifle” with the octagon barrel. It was chambered for .45 so I guess I’d be slinging large chunks of lead at anyone who annoyed me. At least if it was one of the vintage guns the thing was known for the kind of accuracy you rarely see today. A good bolt action or semi-auto would make me regret missing any first shots though.

  Okay maybe there was one more weapon in the bag but I hardly considered it such. It was a copper looking predecessor to the tactical tomahawk I’d used in certain overseas locations doing things that it’s best not to talk about. This one looked as old or older than the lever-action. It had a number of beads worked into some sort of wrap around mid handle. There were fetishes and beads and even a feather or two dangling here and there. So yea, I didn’t really consider it an armament.

  Still...I tucked it behind my back with the handle diagonally through a belt loop. It hung horizontally above my butt like an old seax except the blade was down instead of up. Sure it wasn’t a weapon of choice but
the thing just had a reassuring feel to it and kept those memories I had just uncovered from going back to sleep. I guess I can be a little weird and superstitious but hey...nigh immortal chosen warrior here. We’re allowed.

  While I was getting comfortable with the least impressive looking bit of some truly uninspired weapons, my guide made it back to the vehicle. He tossed two bags into the back seat and then swore steadily and with rising impatience at the jeep ignition until the thing finally started. We didn’t quite spin the tires or sling gravel but I think that had more to do with the rusted block of an engine than it did Perro’s restraint on the gas pedal.

  All he finally said as we exited the parking lot was, “After you eat you can get out of those hand me down clothes. I couldn’t get your other stuff back because it was held for evidence but I got your duffel full of clothes.”

  Right then he moved down several spots on my personal shit list. I could just imagine the sneak and apparent coward entering the blood-spattered shambles of that Hotel room. Even worse he might have had to go to his contacts in the police. I couldn’t even imagine how much anxiety something like that would have caused him. I found the first few shreds of respect for him.

  “I gave the housekeeper twenty bucks to get me the stuff the cops hadn’t taken in yet. She found your duffel kicked behind the dresser.” Somehow he just couldn’t help bursting my bubbles.

  “Does that mean you got a mechanic to fix my dinner?” I tilted the rumpled brown bag towards him so Perro could see the bag full of oil and dirt grimed cables.

  “No those are SUV distributor caps. Your tacos are in the other bag. Got a six-pack of Amber beer too. Crack me one of those when you get a chance.” He said it like sneaking around Cartel vehicles and disabling them was just no big deal. My head was starting to spin trying to figure out if the guy was a crawling coward or some kind of sneaky hero. I gave up the process and focused on feeding the metabolism that was burning extra hot with all of the necessary recuperation. Of course, as a responsible guest, I opened a beer and handed it to my driver.

  After my first few tacos, Perro looked over with a quirk of that expressive brow. “Hey jeffe, save one or two for your partner eh?”

  A glance into the bag confirmed that I’d eaten almost the entire contents. Almost sheepishly, I handed over the bag with a couple of last tacos inside as well as a single container of hot sauce. “Sorry. They’re pretty damned good by the way.”

  He grunted a nonanswer and fished in the bag with his free hand while he steered with the wrist that ended in a fist wrapped beer. Before he stuffed half a taco into his mouth he spoke once more. “Duffels in the floorboard behind me. Help yourself. It's your stuff after all.”

  “Okay Senor Perro,” My voice was momentarily cut off as I pulled one of my own better fitting and much newer and cleaner shirts over my head. When I craned my head around to get thick arms into tight sleeves I caught sight of his scowl.

  “Mr. Dog does not ring with respect and admiration my pale Yankee amigo.” He deftly maneuvered the vehicle around a prodigious bit of broken asphalt that could only charitably be called a pothole. “And to answer your unspoken question. Yes, they are likely to connect me with their broke down luxury jeeps. Good thing there ain’t no mechanic closer than a few hours away. They won’t be able to chase us. Should be for long enough to escape. I just gotta give them a good long time to forget they’re mad at me. Like maybe until most of those guys are dead. Good thing they live fast and die young eh? For now, though it appears that your business has cost me part of my business. Make sure you express my unhappiness to your shaggy friend when you talk to him.”

  I wasn’t sure either of us was really considering the biker and immortal wolf Freke as a friend. I was willing to bet he had something to hold over Pedro’s head just like he had something on me. Wolves don’t tend to have many friends within their own pack. They usually had even fewer outside of the pack. On the other hand, the smuggler’s comments opened the door for some of my own questions. I thought I’d start fairly easy. “ So is that your real name? Pedro Perro? Sounds like a comic book character.”

  “Says the guy named Moose?” He quirked that eyebrow at me again but at least this time there was a grin at his verbal dig. “Besides, Pedro Perro is alot better than the opposite. I mean Peter Dog? Sounds alot better than Dog Peter don’t it?” He chuckled and took a drink that emptied a good quarter of his beer.

  With a shrug, I moved on to more important topics. “You’re gonna have to tell me what the job is some time, chief. I looked over that gear and unless we’re knocking over a gas station I’m not sure we’re adequately equipped.”

  His further series of chuckles confirmed my suspicion that he knew what kind of junk he’d given me. “No big deal, man. You just gotta go into a cartel compound built around an old bunch of ruins like a mini-pyramid ya know? Avoid or eliminate a bunch of spooky bad-ass hired soldiers, find out what the hell everyone is hiding down there. Oh, and get your biker buddy’s brother out of wherever he disappeared. No problem for a super merc and international man of mystery eh Mr. Moose?”

  Perro survived my initial reaction which was to shoot him full of large and debilitating holes. Ok, it was only a thought which I did not put into action. I did think about it for one brief and gloriously satisfying moment though. “Ok smuggler. Now that I caught my breath, you’re going to have to give me a soupcon more info.”

  “Yea you really lost it there for a minute.” He grinned sideways at me. “Your nostrils started flaring like a bull. This great big purple vein started pulsing all around your head. Oh and you pointed a hand at me and kept squeezing your pointer finger back and forth. I wasn’t sure you were coming back for a minute there.”

  “I’m not sure I’m all the way back yet.” To emphasize the point I carefully opened the cylinder of my shiny new quarter ton revolver and spun the cylinder. I pulled out one of the shotgun shells and considered it then slipped it back in. The beast ended up loaded with three of those small red plastic shells carrying a handful of small ball bearings each. After that went two old .45 long colt shells, and finally a single intimidating fat and ugly .454. That last one was suitable for stopping cars, or water buffalo.

  The familiar actions of weapon maintenance steadied my nerves and voice.“So, what kind of freaking suicide mission did you just describe to me? Don’t leave out any details you know, got it?”

  Good old Pedro didn’t gulp or anything when he saw me loading the handgun. He did however carefully look at each round as it went in. It might have been safer watching the road. On the other hand, in the mood I was in, it might not have been safer after all. He did lose some of his smirk when he finally replied though.

  “Ok jeffe, it’s like this.” He paused to light a cigarette from the butt of his almost defunct smoke. “Your buddy Lobo’s brother down there was doing some work for some pretty bad people. The same kind of people we just ran into and probably pissed off at the truckstop.”

  His grin was apparently almost irrepressible because it snuck back while he remembered disabling the trucks. “Anyway, everything was all hunky-dory until he found out about some of the uh...side business. Apparently, he don’t mind killing or drugs or even some polite blackmail and leg breaking. Really progressive thinker Mr. Gary.”

  I noticed his name for the other wolf. It made me wonder if the wolf was being cute or if Perro knew more than he was telling. Then again I’m pretty sure Pedro Perro always knew more than he told. It also sounded just as arrogant as one of these guys to use his real name with just a little twist on the accent.

  “So here we are with Mr. Gary doing a lot of work for the big Cartel boss. And then things go sideways. Mr. Gary, he finds out about the sex slaving. Turns out he got a soft spot for the ladies. Doesn’t mind em whoring around if they want. Got a problem with them being sold like cattle.” Perro shrugged and a look of distaste replaced the smirk for a minute. “Don’t really like that part myself.”

 
; He let his mind wander for the space of two or three drags of the cigarette then got back to the topic. I decided not to interrupt his thoughts since this was maybe the first time I’d ever seen the little bundle of snark act anything like a real person. “So there we are. Mr. Gary lost his taste for the work. Sitting around stewing about all the little mamacitas getting roped in and turned over to kinky old men without any say in it. And he meets the boss’s little sister. She wasn’t real old. Just out of her teens. But that made her older than some of the girls getting sold. They get in an argument one day at a coffee shop. He’s mad because she’s safe while her brother sells girls almost half her age. She’s mad because he’s yelling at her and she don’t know why. They yell. They calm down. They go to dinner. Next morning he sneaks her back to her room.”

  The grin made it back suddenly. “Best way to get their attention is to piss em off then turn around and make it up to em eh?”

  “Perro my friend. We’ll talk about women and pissing em off shortly. For now, let’s concentrate on your info.” I hadn’t forgotten his little tidbit about me and my girl being at odds. We’d get around to that eventually. I wanted to know how he knew about Maureen and what he knew that I didn’t. That might not get me killed though. Not knowing about what I was heading into probably would get me deader than a Klanner in Harlem.

  He tossed me a weird confused glance then continued. “Ok, so that’s the first bit of trouble. Gary’s being surly and he’s spending time with the boss’s sister. That’s bad. But then he finds out there’s some auction gonna take place. Somehow the boss got hold of some weapon or weapons. I’m a little confused about that part. It’s all hush-hush need to know and die before you tell kind of secret.”

  While he talked Perro finished his beer and fished another one out of the bag without bothering to look. “Well, Gary does some digging. The boss finds out and sends a few of these merc guys after him. He wanted to talk to Gary about snooping in his business. But the mercs never come back. So the boss, he calls in his personal troops.”