“Muy bien,” Espanto whispers, and hurries off.
Galán takes Jessie with him.
54 — RUDY AND RAYO
One of the guys stops and turns and we drop to the mud on our bellies just as he opens fire, muzzle flashing. Then he’s off again, following the other guy, and we’re up and running too. With those bulky bags hanging on them, they’re large shapeless forms and we can’t tell which one’s got Jessie and we can’t risk shooting her. They disappear into what Rayo says is a bunch of garbage hills. In the pit’s glow they look a little like black buttes with ember-covered crests.
We enter the hills of garbage and stop to look around, listen hard. Through the low patter of the rain, we hear a clatter of cans and head in that direction. We sprint from one mound to the next, pausing to keep a fix on the sounds of their movement, then hustling on, following their winding route. Then we come around a mound and see the fire pit right in front of us, the rim maybe forty feet away. It’s a clearing of sorts, maybe a turnaround point for the garbage trucks, flanked by two mounds to either side.
It’s unlikely but not out of the question that they’d lie low in the warmth of the rim until daylight. Best to check out the rim sides of both mounds. If they’re there, though, they’ll be facing the gap between the two mounds, ready for whoever might come to the rim for a look. I put my mouth to Rayo’s ear and tell her I’m going to circle around the dark side of the mound on the right and check out the rim. She’s to stay right where she is and watch both mounds.
“Got it,” she whispers.
55 — ESPANTO
It’s not much of a rim. Maybe six feet wide, slight downward slope covered with gravel. Some garbage trucker risked his ass to dump a load this close. Same goes for the mound opposite. Maybe a bet between drivers, a pissing contest. He keeps the bags on his shoulders, imagining the horror of setting even one of them down and then accidentally bumping it and sending it sliding into the pit. He’s crouched low, facing the opposing mound across the gap. His line of sight extends only a few feet past the inward side of the opposite slope, but that’s enough to see anybody who turns in there. Excellent crossfire setup. Smart man, Galán.
56 — RUDY
It’s awful dark on this side of the mound, and slow going over uncertain ground. The putrid breeze coming off the pit is a mix of warm and cold. I truly doubt there’s anyone on the rim and feel like a dope for having chosen to waste time checking it out. These guys are running, not looking for a fight. If they would just let Jessie go, the whole thing would be done with. Which the assholes would’ve found out if they hadn’t been so quick to start shooting.
I’m holding the Beretta muzzle up by my shoulder as I come around the mound and step out onto the rim and I don’t see the guy until he’s coming up from his crouch and whirling around toward me. If it weren’t for the heavy bags hanging on him he might’ve had me, but the bags slow him enough for me to pop him three times, center mass, staggering him rearward, and he squeezes off a wild one as he steps back off the rim and drops out of sight.
I get on hands and knees and carefully ease up to the edge of the rim and look down at the smoking red-black talus twenty feet below. No sign of him or either bag.
There’s a sound to my left and I jerk back and whip the Beretta up . . . and there’s Rayo, pistol pointed at me.
We both lower our guns and grin big.
57 — JESSIE AND GALÁN
Rather than position himself at the mound opposite Espanto’s, Galán goes past it and then passes two others before crossing a fire-lit patch of ground and posting himself in the deep shadows just beyond it. This is a better spot to lay for them. If they go to the rim, Espanto will still have the edge on them. If they come this way, they will be open targets when they step into that lighted ground. If they go some other way? Fine. He’ll stay here until the trucks come in the morning. Before then, Espanto will come looking and find him. And the girl will be in the pit.
He unshoulders one bag with a grunt, then tucks the pistol into his pants and switches his grip on her cuffs to his free hand and lets the other bag slide off his shoulder.
She flinches at the pistol reports—four of them, fairly close by, though she isn’t sure of the direction they came from. Galán pulls his gun and grabs her to him, holding her face to his chest and rasping to her to stay quiet.
The last gunshot was from a Glock, he’s sure of that, and it may have been Espanto’s, though half the world now carries a Glock.
She smells his sweat and feels his heart beating under her cheek. Her cuffed hands, pressed to the side pocket of his jacket, touch on an object it holds. She knows what it is. Recalls the one Espanto used on Belmonte at the Alpha house.
Hey you! Listen! . . . Your partner’s dead!
Rudy! she thinks. Galán’s hold tightens, nearly smothering her. She eases her hands into the jacket pocket.
You hear me? . . . Let’s make a deal!
Galán believes that Espanto is dead, but he knows the sort of deal they have in mind. Give us the money and the girl and we’ll give you a bullet in the head. No, thanks, fuckhead, not today.
If I see you, Galán yells, if I hear you coming . . . I kill her!
He hears a faint snick, and before he can react she twists sideways and drives the blade into his stomach with both hands. In instinctive reaction, he clubs at her with the pistol, but holding her pressed to him as he is, the blow is clumsy and only partially catches her ear. Shoot her! he thinks. But she lets go of the knife and grabs the pistol barrel, pushing the muzzle away from her. They slip and fall in the mud, fighting for possession of the gun, she with both hands, he with one, his other arm still holding her to him. They writhe and gasp like possessed lovers and she feels the gun slipping from her grip and clamps her teeth onto his hand, biting hard on the bones of it, tasting muddy blood. He snarls and the gun slips free of them both. His bitten hand searches for it as his other holds tight to her sweatshirt, but she’s able to heave herself up over him and drive her forehead hard into his mouth—then pull free and roll away, and she’s on her feet and running.
Breathless with pain, he sits up, sees her fading into the deeper darkness, his hand finding the gun, but now she’s gone. The switchblade is buried in him to the haft. He takes hold of it with his left hand and yanks it out, breath hissing, eyes flooding.
She’s calling for someone.
You’re all right, he tells himself, wiping his eyes. It’s not bad, it’s not bad. Doesn’t feel like there’s much blood. Get it cleaned, sewn up, cauterized, whatever, you’ll be fine. It’s only pain. Now think, man. Think.
Phone. His phone’s in the Cherokee. But even if he had it, who could he call? Who’s left? There even any reception out here? Fuck it. You don’t need help. Never have. You can handle this. He spits a mouthful of blood. Runs his tongue over his mashed lips.
Should have killed the bitch as soon as we were clear of the house.
Now other voices. Briefly, then silent. The gringos.
She knows he has the money. She’ll tell them.
Bracing himself with the hand holding the pistol, his other hand at his wound, he manages to get to his knees in the mud, then stand, and tucks the gun into the side of his waistband. He drags the bags over to the near mound and kneels at its base and digs into the garbage with his hands, digs into the rot and stink and filth of it, digs until there’s room for one bag, then for two. Then covers them over with the excavated garbage.
Wheezing with the effort, choking on the horrid stench, he throws up, nearly fainting at the twisting agony in his stomach.
He wipes at his eyes again, at the snot streaming from his nose. There, he thinks. That’s better. You’re all right.
He listens for sounds of their approach but hears nothing other than his own pained breath. He stands up and stumbles over to the adjoining mound and sits down, facing dire
ctly at where he put the money. It’s right there, he tells himself. That’s all you have to remember.
Sweet Mother Mary, just look at this suit.
There’s a darkness on his shirt and the front of his pants where the blood has spread. He takes off his jacket and balls it up and presses it tight to his stomach with one hand and holds the Glock in the other. They show themselves, you kill them. If they don’t . . . fuck them. Just sit here till the garbage trucks or the flatbeds come in the morning. Won’t be long. You pull the bags out and give a driver money and ride into town with him, then give him more money and direct him to Mago’s. Mago will fix you up. Done it before. . . .
58 — RUDY
If I see you, the guy hollers, if I hear you coming . . . I kill her!
“That motherfucker!” Rayo hisses. “I swear to God, Rudy, I swear to God. . . .”
“Hush,” I say. “Listen.”
We’re standing in the little clearing in front of the pit rim. It’s hard to place where the guy’s voice came from. Rayo’s waiting for me to say what we’re going to do, and I don’t know. We stand still, listening hard. Waiting . . . waiting.
“Charlie! . . . Charlie!”
We turn toward Jessie’s call and Rayo’s about to yell something but I say low voiced, “Don’t answer! He might be with her.”
We listen and listen.
“Charlie!”
She runs out from behind a mound less than fifteen feet away, just her, and Rayo calls, “JJ! Over here, baby!” At the same time I yell, “Jessie, this way!”
She stops and stares at us as we come running.
And then we’ve got her, and I cut off the cuffs.
The cloud cover has broken somewhat, and although there’s still sporadic sprinkle, bits of moonlight are coming through. Jessie’s limping, rubbing her chafed wrists, Rayo holding her close. I’m bringing up the rear, continually checking behind us. Jess said she left the Galán guy with a switchblade in his gut, so there’s not much chance he’s going to come up and nail us from behind. I keep a close eye anyway. If you’re not sure they’re down for good, you assume they’re not. Basic rule.
We spy Charlie up ahead, sitting in the road. He sees us, too, and gets up slowly, dropping the hand from his side and tucking his pistol in his pants.
Jessie slips out from under Rayo’s arm and hobble-runs to him. I flinch when she throws herself on him and he swings her around. He sets her down with a slight cringe and she realizes he’s hurt. She puts his arm around her shoulder as if she might support him, insisting he lean on her, and he’s grimacing and laughing.
We move off into the shadows and Charlie tries Chino’s phone and it’s as dead as mine, but Rayo’s still has a charge and he gets reception. He calls Rigo and tells him where we are and says yeah, we’re all okay except he got nicked in the side and Jess is pretty beat-up and her feet need attention. He listens for a time before saying, “Yeah, I think so, too. That’s how we’ll do it. . . . All right, we’ll be waiting.”
Charlie tells us somebody in the hold house neighborhood called the police and they found Belmonte’s body there, and his wife and the Sosas have told them all about the kidnapping. Tumaro and his guys are coming for us and will take us to a private medical center where he and Jessie can get patched up. Rigo thinks it’s better to let the cops know Jessie’s alive rather than let them think she’s dead and later find out she’s not. Charlie agrees. She’ll have to talk to them, though. Routine stuff, but some Wolfe lawyers are going to talk to her first. Also, Mateo is no longer critical.
Charlie then calls Harry Mack. “Hello sir, it’s Charlie. . . . Yes sir, we have her. She’s all right. . . . No, sir, no, we’re all okay.” He listens, clears his throat, and says, “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.” He listens some more. “Yessir, I understand. . . . Yes sir.” He hands the phone back to Rayo but doesn’t say anything about the call.
We go back down to where the two vehicles are and wait in the Jeep, Rayo and I in the front seat, Jessie with Charlie in the back. While we wait, she tells us the whole thing.
Almost the whole thing. She purposely leaves something out. Over the years I’ve interrogated a lot of people and listened to a lot of explanations and versions of one thing or another, and I’ve gotten pretty good at sensing when something’s being deliberately omitted. Maybe Charlie and Rayo picked up on it too. Whatever she’s skipping, though, it’s not something that would endanger any of us for not knowing it, or she would not have left it out.
“He’s still got the money,” Jessie adds. “Half of it, anyway.”
For a minute nobody says anything. Then Charlie finally says, “The money’s not our business. They didn’t take it off anybody in our house. We got what we came for.”
Nobody argues the point. Jessie falls asleep against his chest and doesn’t wake till Tumaro and his Jaguaro crew show up in the two Acadias, plus a tow truck to take the Jeep back.
Tumaro asks if any of us is in shape to drive one of the Acadias, then tosses me the keys and says to follow the other one, and he and the other Jaguaros get in it. Having caught a whiff of us, they’d rather ride back in a crowded vehicle than in one with any of us in it.
59 — GALÁN
He does not immediately know what revives him or how long he’s been out. It’s very cold. The rain has stopped. The clouds have broken and there’s a bright oval moon. Under the abiding stink of the pit, he can smell the sop of his own blood. His tongue tastes of copper. His swollen mouth is gummy.
There it is . . . the sound that roused him from his pain-hazed sleep.
Growling.
From near the mound to his right. He can’t see the dogs but knows they’re there. The pistol! Where’s the pistol?
At his side where he dropped it.
All right, you sons of bitches . . .
He points the gun into the black shadows where the loudest growls are and squeezes the trigger—and the pistol, its barrel packed with mud in his struggle with the girl, blows apart and removes his thumb.
He screams and curses. Howls his agonized rage at the moon.
The dogs flee.
Then a short time later come back.
More of them this time. The growling is louder and seems to come from all sides.
The first of them materialize from the shadows like nightmare apparitions. Snarling. Craze eyed. Insane with hunger. Drawn by his blood on the fetid air.
And then they’re on him in a biting, tearing frenzy.
60 — RUDY
We follow Tumaro to a medical center in which the Mexican Wolfes are chief shareholders. Everyone recoils at our reek, and once Charlie and Jessie are put on gurneys and rolled away to be treated, Rayo and I give the staff a break by going outside to wait on a bench. The Jaguaros are out here too, but stay upwind of us. The sky is mostly clear now, with a gibbous moon to the west. It’s cold out here but feels good.
A pair of criminal lawyers in the employ of Juan Jaguaro himself had been waiting when we arrived. They had a short private session with Jessie before she was rolled off for treatment, then they called the police. Rigo has already spoken to the head administrator, who in turn has instructed the staff in what and what not to say to the cops if they’re questioned. Shortly, a trio of homicide detectives shows up and they and the lawyers repair to a private room to wait for Jessie.
For a while Rayo and I just sit there on the bench, not saying anything. It’s been a hell of a day but it’s been easy working with her. Yet for some reason I can’t figure, and even though I’m older than she is and, if I say so myself, I’ve had a way with the ladies since I was a kid, I don’t know what to say to her.
Which is when she tells me she’d like to go back to Texas with us to spend some time with Jessie. “I know she’ll have the best of care,” she says, “but it’ll be a while before she can walk without pain. Plus
, she might have a time of it for a while dealing with, you know, what’s happened to Luz and the others. She might like it if I was around to lend a hand or, I don’t know, just to talk to. What do you think? Should I ask her?”
“Oh hell yeah, you should ask her,” I say. “I think it would make her really happy. She’d love to have you there while she heals up, she really would, really good of you. It’s a great idea.” It’s a struggle to quit babbling.
She’s smiling the greatest smile I’ve ever had smiled at me. “I’m glad you think so,” she says.
Charlie had been afraid the bullet hit a kidney, but he proves lucky. Like Lila the barmaid says, he’s not called Charlie Fortune for nothing. He walks out of the place on his own, stitched and bandaged, all cleaned up and in sweat pants and sweater. Rayo goes to him and hugs him gently and asks if he’s in pain and he says not now, after the injection they gave him. Catching my “do not disturb” look, he excuses himself to go talk to the Jaguaros, and she comes back to the bench.
Jessie’s no less lucky—a black-and-blue ear, a few stitches in her feet, a bunch of bruises and cuts but no real gashes. We’re notified when she’s brought out of the treatment room in a wheelchair and we go inside to see her. She’s been cleaned up and makes a big show of holding her nose and waving us away. An attendant then wheels her to the room where the police are waiting and we go outside again.
As we later find out, she gave them a simplified version of events, omitting details that might naturally be missing in an account of a terrified and confused kidnap victim—which, as she has emphasized to us more than once, she damn well was. Mainly she wanted them to know what happened to the other five members of the wedding party. The cops had heard of the meth lab explosion—a not altogether uncommon occurrence in the slums—but would never have tied it to the missing kidnap victims if not for Jessie’s information. One of them immediately relayed it to headquarters.
The House of Wolfe Page 26