El Gavilan

by Craig McDonald

  Another forkful of pie was poised at his mouth. Able smiled and said, “As that repeats, we’ll push them illegals over the northern border into the welcoming arms of our compassionate Canadian brothers. Serves those Canuck bastards right, after that millennium bomber ass-fucking they nearly dealt us with their own lax border security.”

  “S’pose that’s one way of lookin’ at it,” Jim said. He brought a fist up to suppress a belch. “Goddamn coffee,” he said. “My stomach don’t process this shit no more.” He belched again, said, “How in hell are you keeping on top of all this, Able? I can’t even get a rough estimate of my own illegals, let alone collar ’em with the ferocity you are.”

  Able shrugged. “Just good intelligence. He shrugged again. “You know, boys—our bread and butter. Snitches and whatnot.”

  Walt said, “How’s that billing the feds for your jail costs goin’ for you, Able?”

  “I have four lawyers tell me my foundation is firm,” Able said. “But if you two would do the same, and if we were to form a regional coalition, so to speak, we’d be more the force for those federal cocksuckers to reckon with. Maybe get ourselves national profile as hardliners.”

  Walt watched Thalia serving truckers and tourists on the other side of the diner. He stared at her ass again. “Nice notion, Able,” Walt said, distracted. “But we’ve got to make the arrests first in order to bill the feds for our costs. We don’t have the ‘good intelligence’ you seem to.”

  There it was: Able’s opening.

  Sheriff Hawk cleared his throat. He pulled his briefcase from under the table. He plopped it on the empty seat next to himself and flicked the latches. He pulled out two manila file folders thick with photocopies. He checked the contents of the top file then chucked one to Jim. He passed the other folder to Walt.

  “These are photocopies of forged driver’s licenses and Social Security cards,” Able said. “All of these were issued to illegals living in your respective counties. Sorry bastards used their real addresses for obvious reasons. So now you know where to go to arrest ’em, don’t you?”

  Jim whistled. “Where do you come by this stuff, Able?”

  “That’s not talking to the goddamn point,” Able said. He forked in another bite of pie. “Thing is to use what I’ve given you. Make your arrests, then, using the invoice samples I’ve given you there with the rest, you two do just like me. You bill the fucking federal government your costs for jailing your illegals.”

  Jim said, “Again I ask, Able: How’d you come to get these?”

  “Sources,” Able said. “Snitches and the like. Now, anything for me?”

  Walt, sorting sheets of photocopied licenses said, “My personal goddamn priest—his church is on your side of the county line, Able—is gonna start offering Spanish-language Mass Saturday afternoons. Guess my priest did a missionary stint in El Salvador back-when and he speaks good Mex’.” Walt waved a hand, muttered, “I mean fuckin’ Spanish.”

  Able grunted, shaking his head. He looked at his half-eaten slice of pie. “I’ll talk to your misguided padre about that, as he’s in my county. I’ll steer him straight again.” He said, “Jim, you got anything for me?”

  “I’ve got nothin’,” Jim said.

  The other sheriffs left and Able watched them walking out together, the one tall and thin, the other short and fat, like Laurel and Hardy with badges.

  “More coffee, Sheriff?”

  Able smiled at Thalia. “Always. You’re about owed a break, aren’t you, darlin’? Why don’t you sit down and take a load off?”

  Thalia freshened Able’s coffee and said, “Just let me pass the pot off to Betty and tell ’em I’m going on that break.”

  While he waited, Able stirred cream and sugar into his coffee. He looked up and smiled as Thalia slid into the booth across from him.

  Since he’d lost his own daughter, Able had taken to talking to Thalia each morning after breakfast rush—in the half-hour lull before the lunch crowd packed the place. It was all small talk directed toward no unsavory end. Able’s interest in Thalia wasn’t like that, although he was certainly aware of her quiet, understated beauty.

  Able missed being someone’s father. When Thalia’s husband died, widowed Able felt himself strongly drawn to her. He found himself pulled toward her by the loss they had in common. Able believed, or had at least convinced himself, that Thalia looked forward to their morning chats as much as he did.

  Able said, “The weekend looms. Big plans, or a quiet weekend with Evelia?”

  Thalia sipped her coffee, then said, “I wish tonight was a quiet night with Eve. But I’ve begged off on Carmelita for too many nights. So we’re going out for drinks. Hope to still make it an early evening. Nothing too rowdy. Not like last time.”

  Hawk frowned. “What happened last time?”

  Thalia shrugged. “Too many drinks. I hardly ever drink, so two or three is too many. It wasn’t long after the accident—just days, really—and I was lonely. Lost track of myself. Next thing I know, I’m getting a tattoo.”

  He winced. “Ah, Thalia …” Able shook his head. “Can’t fault yourself for that, not going through what you were back then.”

  She held up a hand, looking at her coffee cup to avoid his strange, penetrating eyes. “I know, Able. I know. I beat myself up for it, still. At least it’s on the small of my back, where I don’t have to see it. And I keep it covered so Evelia never sees it. Don’t want her thinking when she’s older I won’t mind if she gets one. ’Cause I would so mind.”

  Able smiled. “How is that little girl of yours?”

  “Good. Doing good in school. She is, I mean. But overall, the school’s test scores are very bad. Too many illegals. I don’t see it getting any better.”

  Able said, “Yep, my grandson got out of public school just in time. Though I’m sure feeling his college tuition payments. Maybe you should look at that—some parochial school for Evelia.”

  “I could never afford it,” Thalia said. “I’m barely making ends meet now.”

  Able thought about that. He said, “Seeing myself a priest soon about another matter. Maybe I’ll talk to him. See if there isn’t some special program or sponsorship kind of thing we can get going to get Evelia into the school tied to his church. Let me look into that.”

  Before she could object, Able said, “Oh, here. Something for you.” He pulled a folder out of his briefcase and rooted through papers. He handed her a certificate. “I’m in a club—just had my tenth oil change and so they kick me back a free oil change and tire rotation. You take it and keep that jalopy of yours running.” He smiled and said, “Don’t even try to refuse. You’ll insult me, and it’s a dangerous thing, bein’ on my bad side.”

  Able pulled out another slip of paper. “And I got an invitation for me and a guest to the new steakhouse opening up over to Market Street. I can’t make it, so you take it. You and your mother can have a free night out. Take Evelia. I don’t think they’ll object. Not like she’ll be at their free hooch.” He forced the invitation on Thalia along with sundry coupons for free colas and burgers from various fast food operations. His badge was forever reaping him freebies.

  Thalia quietly said, “Thank you so much,” still unable to meet his eyes.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. Is there anything I can do for you that counts for something? Anything I can help you with?”

  Thalia hesitated, then said, “No, I don’t think so.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, it’s a breakfast thing they do once a year at school. You know, fathers, grandfathers, or even uncles if they have to dig down that deep, go in and sit with the girls for a breakfast.” Thalia’s surviving brother and sister had drifted away years ago; moved West. Her siblings sent Christmas cards, but usually forgot birthdays. It was just Thalia, her daughter, her mother, and a girl cousin, now.

  “I’ll do it,” Able said quickly. “Give me the time and the place and I’ll play grandpa.” He smiled. “And I’ll go o
ut of uniform.”

  “Thank you so much,” Thalia said, finally meeting his gaze. She smiled. “It’ll mean the world to Evelia—to have a man there for her.” He could tell she meant it.

  “It’s nothing,” Able said. He sipped his coffee again, said, “Anything for me today? Anything I should know?”

  Thalia bit her lip, then said, “I don’t know what you can do about this, or if you’d even want to try. But word is there is a gang of white men, teenage boys, really, who are targeting the illegals on the West Side. Home invasions, purse-snatchings and parking lot robberies. They prey on the illegals because they can’t report the crimes. You know, for fear that you or your people will deport them.”

  Able nodded. “You get any sense of who these white boys are, I do want to know. I’ll see they’re punished, all the way up.”

  “I will.” Thalia paused, then said, “How is your grandson? How is Amos doing?”

  Able shrugged. “Good. He’s doin’ good.”

  Thalia raised her coffee cup, but stopped short of her lips. “Anything exciting in his life?”

  “No, I don’t think so. He’s just studying hard so I don’t kick his ass. Seems to have some new girlfriend he never talks about.” Able shrugged. “Same old, same old.”

  He sensed Thalia wanted to say more. He said, “Somethin’ else you want to tell me?”

  The moment still didn’t seem right. Thalia smiled and shook her head. Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow for certain.

  THEN

  Thalia’s family was two miles out of the Painted Desert when the radiator sprang a catastrophic leak.

  Sofia was furious at her husband for the side trip. The park was supposed to be a scenic attraction, but it terrified their surviving children, stirring memories of their desert crossing.

  Thalia clung sobbing to her mother, her head ducked down so she didn’t have to look at the “scenery” and arresting terrain that overtaxed their beater car.

  Finally, a chicken farmer took pity on them and pulled over.

  The farmer quickly realized communication was out of the question and shouldered Francisco Gómez aside to check under the hood.

  The chicken farmer was fiftyish; skinny and burned brown by the sun. He ambled back to his truck and fetched a crate of eggs. He pointed at himself, then the engine. The farmer cracked an eggshell and emptied its contents into the radiator.

  He waited and then checked to see that the egg had fried itself over the hole, creating a membrane that temporarily closed over the radiator’s puncture. He poured in more water from one of their jugs, then used a rag to replace the radiator’s cap and closed the hood.

  The farmer handed the crate of eleven remaining eggs to Sofia, who curtsied and said “Gracias.” Thalia, a little linguistic sponge, told the farmer, “Thank you.”

  The remaining eggs carried them to Santa Fe, where their car finally overheated and the radiator ruptured, its capacity fatally compromised by the glut of fried eggs inside.

  They broke down in a run-down, Spanish-speaking neighborhood and stayed there two years.

  Her parents were comfortable ensconced in the squalid, Spanish-speaking pocket universe, which kept them poor and slowed their assimilation.

  Nevertheless, Thalia learned creditable English from American cartoons and the children of underprivileged gringos.

  Thalia soon began tutoring her mother in English.

  FIVE

  Tell Lyon sat in the corner booth at the rear of Señor Augustin’s, his back to the wall. His plates had been cleared but the empty glasses from his first two Texas margaritas on the rocks had been left uncollected. Tell was halfway through his third drink.

  “Is everything all right? Would you like something more?”

  Tell checked his watch: eight P.M. He smiled up at the young woman and said, “No, I’ve had enough, thanks. It was wonderful. This place is great.” He looked at the three glasses and realized then that he was still in uniform.

  Jesus, too sloppy. Great way to make an impression first night in town, genius.

  The young woman—twenty-three, twenty-four?—smiled. She stroked black hair behind an ear. She was very pretty; personable. She had dark hair and eyes—very much to Tell’s ideal. She said, “You have to be our new police chief. Saw an article about your hiring in the Recorder.”

  He put out a hand and nodded. “Tell Lyon.”

  Her hand was warm in his and she squeezed back firmly. “Patricia Maldonado. My parents are Kathleen and Augustin, the owners.” The appraising look she gave him delighted Tell.

  “Your family’s restaurant is truly excellent,” Tell said.

  “And you’d be a great judge,” Patricia said. “The newspaper article said you were a Border Patrol commander before coming here to be our chief.” She spoke with a just detectable Spanish accent. “This is about as real as Mexican food gets in these parts.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Tell said.

  “Celebrating the new job?” Her dark eyes checked his hands—his naked fingers.

  “Sure,” he said. “Sorry about the uniform. Makes some people uncomfortable. It’s just that it’s my first full night in town and I stayed late at headquarters. Had to eat before I called it a night and didn’t want to lose more time changing. Everyone said this is the place to come for great Mexican food, and they were right. I’ll make it plainclothes from here on out, I swear.”

  Patricia smiled. “Either way. We’ll just be happy to have you here and often.” She hesitated, then said, “Father would like to comp your meal.”

  That was another downside of wearing the uniform in commerce situations. Tell didn’t use to be so careless. He said, “No. I appreciate it very much, Patricia, but no thank you. Please bring me the check.”

  “It’s a one-time thing. A welcome-to-town thing, Chief Lyon,” Patricia said.

  “I’m off duty, and it’s Tell. And, please, Patricia, I really need to pay.”

  She smiled. “Suit yourself. I’ll have your server bring it.” She hesitated again. He was aware of her checking his left hand once more. “Do you have any friends in town, Tell?”

  “Just you,” Tell said, not sure why he was flirting with her like this.

  Turning, she bumped into someone. She said, “Shawn!” The youngish, sandy-haired stranger moved to kiss Patricia and she turned her head so he caught her cheek. Tell smiled, guessing she was embarrassed by her boyfriend’s public display of affection. And “boyfriend” he surely was. Shawn slipped his arm around Patricia, his left hand settling familiarly on her shapely hip.

  Disappointed, Tell thought to himself, Just a callow young dude marking territory. The stranger seemed boyish. Patricia seemed an old soul. Tell scented an uneasy match.

  “Shawn, this is Chief Tell Lyon,” Patricia said. “Chief, this is Shawn O’Hara. Shawn is editor of the New Austin Recorder, the weekly newspaper here in town.”

  “Right, your favorite newspaper,” Tell said to Patricia.

  Shawn scowled. “You two know one another?”

  “For all of a minute,” Tell said. “Met Patricia just before I met you.”

  Shawn offered a hand. “Didn’t realize you were in town yet, Chief.”

  “Got in last night,” Tell said, shaking Shawn’s hand. “Today was the first day on the job, and a long one.” Not much of a handshake there, Tell thought. He let go of Shawn’s hand and said, “Editor, huh?”

  “Yeah, but also reporter,” Shawn said. “Photographer … Hell, layout artist. That’s the way with weeklies. It’s a small operation. Could you make some time for me tomorrow, Chief? Like to interview you now that you’re on the job.”

  “Sure, if I can’t talk you out of that, Shawn. I’m no publicity seeker.”

  “New chief of police, well, people are going to want to know more about you.”

  Tell said, “Any preview questions you can share with me so I can mull answers overnight?”

  “Only one: The big issue in New Aus
tin and greater Horton County these days is immigration, immigration and immigration. So you being an ex-Border Patrol agent makes it more interesting for my readers, right?”

  Tell said, “Suppose it could look like that.”

  Patricia patted Tell’s shoulder; Shawn frowned. She said, “Uh oh, here comes trouble.”

  Tell saw a husky, gray-haired man in gray slacks and a sports jacket headed their way. Patricia whispered to Tell, “That’s Horton County Sheriff Able Hawk.”

  Hawk slapped Shawn’s back and said, “My favorite New Austin reporter. How you doin’, kiddo?”

  Shawn introduced Patricia as his “girlfriend” and Tell saw her flinch at the term. The editor was about to introduce Tell when Hawk stepped around Shawn and extended a big hand. Tell slid out of his booth and took Able’s hand. “I know this one,” Able said, grinning. “Or I know about this one. I’ve been reading up on you since Shawn’s article about your hiring, Chief Lyon.”

  “Call me Tell,” Lyon said.

  “Only if you call me Able.”

  “My pleasure to meet you, Sheriff,” Tell said. Tell was amused—Able was squeezing hard, trying to outgrip him. Tell squeezed back just enough to keep it even. They broke off the childish handshake. Tell sat back down, then resisted squirming as a half-smiling Able Hawk eyed those three large margarita glasses, his light gray eyes then shifting focus to Tell’s uniform. Goddamn it.

  A busboy was a booth back, cleaning up the table behind Tell’s. The chief sensed Patricia sensing his own discomfort. She picked up his two empty glasses and passed them to the busboy. She said, “Raoul, uno Texas margarita on the rocks, por favor.” Then she squeezed into the booth next to Tell and started sipping from his half-finished third margarita.

  Tell resisted scooting over to make more room and thus undercutting Patricia’s welcome subterfuge. But he watched Shawn O’Hara’s cheeks redden.