Days of Atonement

by Walter Jon Williams

  Coover poured him a cup of greasy coffee without being asked. He wished that at least once in his life the man would wait for Loren to tell him he preferred a soft drink.

  Byrne and Sandoval waved and cackled from their table. Loren nodded at them and sat next to Armistead. The mechanic was eating a hot turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes, gravy, and a pyramid of grayish vegetables from out of a can. The turkey looked as if it had come from a can, too.

  “That the special?” Loren asked. “How is it?”

  “ ’Bout what I expected,” said Armistead.

  “I’ll have what he’s having,” Loren said.

  Coover took his order into the kitchen. “Did your nephew get his bear?” Loren asked.

  “Got her three times over,” Armistead said. He was speaking around his lunch. “First shot went through the heart and knocked her down.” He paused, holding up his fork to indicate he wasn’t finished talking, and swallowed. “Danged if the bear didn’t get up and try to get away. So Pooley shot her again, through the heart again, and she went down one more time. And got up again! Pooley had to shoot her a third time before she up and died.”

  “Hit her in the heart each time?”

  “Yep.”

  “Lot of life in that bear.”

  “Yep. Gotta respect that.” He nodded to himself. “That bear had credence.”

  Loren raised his coffee to his lips, looked at it, put it down. “I just hit a deer. Right out in the street.”

  “I saw.” Chewing again. “Good old Henry. Can’t even poach a deer without fucking up.”

  “He’s not a poacher,” Loren mocked. “He’s a traditional hunter.”

  Armistead grunted. “He’s a traditional fuckup.”

  Coover returned with Loren’s plate. Loren picked up his fork and took a bite of food.

  About what he expected.

  Coover put his lean arms on the counter and inclined his body toward Loren. “I heard the mayor’s called a press conference for tomorrow,” he said. “He’s gonna announce the museum of technology that the labs want to build.”

  “Good for him,” said Loren. The mayor’s reward, he figured, for letting Patience loot Jernigan’s office. And the conference was scheduled so as to allow the Weekly to make the museum the page-one story instead of the mine closing.

  He sampled the turkey sandwich. The turkey had that cream-of-wheat texture that came only from cans. Coover had continued his policy of never serving anything that required teeth to eat. Maybe it was a courtesy to his elderly customers.

  “What I hear,” Coover went on, “it’s gonna be in the old depot.”

  Loren nodded. “Good place for it. If that’s true.”

  “The Santa Fe is happy to donate the place. Get rid of a white elephant that way.”

  “At least the museum will be in Atocha,” Loren said, “and not Vista Linda.”

  “If that’s true,” Armistead said through mashed potatoes, “then it’s the first damn thing they’ve done for this town.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Some day they might even call someone from New Mexico to do their towing.”

  A bright current sparked along Loren’s nerves, a certain knowledge that this was significant. He looked at Armistead. “What do you mean?”

  “Was driving past their gate Monday morning on my way to work from Pooley’s,” Armistead said, “and there was a tow truck taking a car out of there. It said right on the damn door that they was out of El Paso.”

  “What kind of car were they towing?” Loren asked. “One of their jeeps?”

  Armistead swallowed, filled his mouth again, and shook his head. “It was under a tarp,” he said, “but it wasn’t one of their Blazers. Silhouette’s too low. Was a small car. Sports car or something.”

  “Like an old yellow ’56 T-bird,” Loren said.

  Armistead stopped chewing and turned to look at him. “Coulda been, yeah,” he said. “You know something about this?”

  Loren groped for a suitable answer and just shook his head. “Just saw one the other day.” He looked at his coffee cup so he wouldn’t have to look at Armistead, then looked at him, anyway. “You remember the name of the towing company?”

  “No. The name didn’t matter to me. The fact that it was from El Paso was the thing that stuck in my craw.”

  Got you, Loren thought. Got you got you got you.

  He bolted his meal and ran.

  Loren called up the El Paso directory on his computer, got a printout of the towing services, and started dialing. He struck pay dirt on the first, AAAAA Towing & Wrecking. Patience had run true to his methodical nature and simply gone down the list alphabetically.

  “Yeah, they called us.” The station owner was a man named Antony Pacheco. He had a heavy Spanish accent.

  “What was the job?”

  “We were supposed to tow a car from their facility down here to El Paso. I was supposed to meet a man at the gate at five in the morning, hitch up the car, drive it on out.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “A vintage Thunderbird. Yellow. Maybe ’56, one of the old two-seaters.”

  Loren felt a quiet warm triumph sing through his body, dance along his nerves, warm his blood. Confirmation, he thought. At last.

  Glory.

  Got you got you got you.

  “Where was it?” he asked.

  “It was just out on the mesa. Not near the buildings or anything. I guess the driver had been joyriding and ran himself into a rock. Had a broken right front axle, a little damage to the bodywork. It was a damn shame what happened to it.”

  Loren was about to ask another question, but that last comment seemed to require clarification. “What do you mean, what happened to it?”

  “What I was hired to do. I had to tow the car to El Paso, crush it for scrap metal, then sell it over the border into Mexico. A damn shame, man. A little work would have fixed it right up.”

  Loren felt his triumphant hum diminish. The evidence was gone, crushed into a metal cube.

  “Okay. This was a yellow two-seater Thunderbird, right?” Making things absolutely clear.

  “Right.”

  “Red pinstripes, red leather upholstery?”

  “Right.”

  “Convertible?”

  “Removable hard top, yeah. With those little portholes.”

  “Did you get the license number? Registration number?”

  “The plates were taken off. I figured everything was official ... I mean, I was dealing with people who acted official.”

  “And who were they?”

  “I don’t remember his name. He paid me with a credit card.”

  “William Patience?”

  “That’s the dude’s name.”

  A possibility occurred to Loren. “Have you crushed it yet?”

  Which was as tactfully as he could phrase it. Pacheco might have decided to repair the car, sell it across the border, and pocket the money.

  “Yeah, it’s gone.”

  “You sure? It might be worth your while if you could produce it.”

  Pacheco’s voice held unmistakable regret. “They sent a guy with me. Followed me the whole way in his Blazer and made sure I dropped the car in the crusher.”

  “Which guy? What was his name?”

  “Cold guy. Really cold. Wouldn’t talk to me. Gave orders, acted like I was gum on his shoe. Name was McLerie.”

  “Listen. Would you give a deposition about all this?”

  “If I gotta.” Anxiety entered Pacheco’s voice. “What’s it all about? That car wasn’t contaminated in some way, was it?”

  “Contaminated?”

  “Like with radiation or something. I wondered if they were trying to cover up a lab accident.”

  “No. The car was evidence in a criminal case.”

  “Aw, shit.”

  “It’s not your fault it’s gone. But if I could get a deposition off you . . .”

  “I’m not gonna have to drive up
to Atocha, am I?”

  “I’ll put you up somewhere. But there’s something you ought to know. Two witnesses have been murdered, and you oughta be careful.”

  There was a long silence. Then, “You shittin’ me, man?”

  “I wish I were.”

  “Oh, God damn. Dammit anyway.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s gonna bother you. They wouldn’t have any reason to anymore.”

  “No way I’m gonna give a deposition, man! Not if it’s gonna get me shot!”

  Loren glanced up to see Cipriano in the door. He waved the deputy in.

  “I’ll subpoena you if I have to,” Loren said. “And if word gets out that I’m trying to talk to you, you’ll get shot, anyway. Giving that deposition is your best protection.”

  “Chinga, man.”

  Cipriano was followed by Luis Figueracion and Manuel Maldonado, the chairman of the city council. Loren leaned back in his chair in surprise, then rose and shook hands with his visitors.

  “Seriously, man,” he said to Pacheco. “I don’t think anyone’s after you right now, but you be careful, okay? You see anyone hanging around, you let me know, right?”

  “I don’t know about this. This really pisses me off, you know? I mean, who are these guys?”

  “I’ll call you about that deposition. Once that’s on file, nobody’ll have any reason to harm you.”

  “Chite.”

  Loren hung up and looked at his guests. Luis had already sat down, and Manuel Maldonado was looking for a chair. He was a stocky, dark man who had fought with the Marines in Vietnam and retained the crop-headed short haircut for the rest of his life, serving the Figueracion family the same single-minded way he’d once served the Corps.

  Loren settled into his chair. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he said.

  Luis leaned toward him. “Loren, we gotta talk.” He glanced over his shoulder at Cipriano. “Close the door, will you?”

  Loren looked at the three and grinned. “You won’t believe what I’ve found out today. You know that pinhead Killeen at the Albuquerque F’bee office? I—”

  “Loren,” said Luis. He had a cigarette in his mouth and was lighting it with a kitchen match he’d struck on his thumbnail.

  “You know that cache of explosives he couldn’t find? I thought the whole thing was bullshit, but—”

  “Loren,” Luis said. “Shut up a minute, will you?”

  Loren looked from one to the other, then nodded. Manuel and Luis were serious, and Cipriano, still standing by the door, looked as if he were suffering from a spastic colon.

  “Okay, Luis. What do you need?”

  “You got an ashtray?”

  Loren opened a desk drawer, took out his ashtray, pushed it across the desk to Luis. Luis took it and propped it on one knee.

  “Here’s the thing, Loren. Trujillo’s gonna put you on administrative leave, and we’re going to let him.”

  Loren stared at him. He could feel heat flickering behind his eyeballs.

  “With pay,” Luis went on, “so don’t worry about that.”

  “Hey,” Loren said.

  “Just till all these allegations get cleared up. That’s all.”

  “Hey.” Loren banged a big fist on his desk. “What the fuck kind of crap are you handing me?”

  Luis glared at him through his thick spectacles. “Watch that temper of yours, Loren.” His voice was sharp. “I don’t know how many times I told you.”

  Loren bit down on his rage, forced himself to sit still. He could feel sweat popping out on his scalp. “Okay, Luis,” he said. “Talk to me.”

  “We’ve had too much hassle about the police department,” Luis said. “All these stories about you hitting people, about you yelling at the guy from the FBI, not giving cooperation when you need to.”

  “Who exactly is it that I haven’t been cooperating with, Luis?”

  “Things are a little too out of control. We gotta cool the town down for a while.”

  “Not cooperating with who, Luis?” Insistently.

  “Arresting those ATL guys for carrying guns.” Luis waved a finger at him. “It’s their job to carry guns.”

  “Patience is trying to impede my investigation. He’s hiding evidence, and he’s ordered his company thugs to follow me around town. I thought I’d jerk their chain a little, show them they weren’t invulnerable.”

  “Impede your investigation? Your investigation of what? Of who?” Aggravation grated in Luis’s voice. He shrugged. “Some stranger gets killed, you want to make a federal case.”

  Superheated steam seemed to pour through Loren’s frame. He felt it light a blaze in his bones. “If there’s a gang of killers wandering around in my neighborhood,” he said, “I got a right to be concerned.”

  “And those kids you beat up,” Luis went on. “A.J. and the Bonniwell boy. That looks bad.”

  “A.J. was reaching for a gun! He coulda killed me!”

  “A broken jaw. A broken nose.” Stolidly. “And their fathers vote. You don’t go beating up the children of voters. There must have been some other way to handle it.”

  “Shooting them dead, maybe.”

  “One other thing. Did you really give some of them thieves’ money to Joaquín Fernandez?”

  Loren blinked. “Yeah. To get his door fixed.”

  “That’s tampering with evidence. That’s what the D.A. tells me.”

  “I broke down the man’s door. I figured I’d help him get it fixed.”

  Luis sighed. “Well. We can hide that one, I figure.”

  “Jobs,” said Maldonado. It was the first word he’d spoken.

  “Yeah,” said Luis. He pushed hair back from his forehead.

  “It’s about jobs,” Maldonado said.

  “The thing is,” Luis said, “this technology museum is gonna employ eight people. Full-time. Others part-time. And ATL has promised that local contractors are gonna be in charge of the remodeling project.”

  Loren looked from one to the other. “Luis, I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “That’s money for the community, Loren.”

  “And all you have to do is get the cops to stop investigating a murder, right?”

  “What I’m trying to do is to get the chief of police to stop making waves in the community.”

  Loren looked at him. “You’re protecting murderers, Luis.”

  Luis’s eyes were stone. “I don’t know that,” he said. “I don’t think you do, either. What I’m doing is trying to keep this community alive after a disaster.”

  “Three people have died, Luis. Murdered.”

  Luis shrugged. “Who knew any of them? But eight people with jobs—” He waved his cigarette. “People with jobs pay their bills. And maybe the stores they owe don’t go under. A community this small— one bankruptcy is disaster. We’re gonna have more bankruptcies than that. Maybe we can save something if we play our cards right.” He leaned toward Loren, his lined face appearing through a shroud of tobacco smoke. “We can use this, Loren. We can make these outsiders share. It means more than eight jobs in the long run.”

  Loren stared at Luis, his incredulous mind flashing on Luis’s scenario. Luis was going to use the murders to put pressure on ATL to spend money in his community.

  A part of his mind was compelled to wonder if Luis could get away with it.

  “Listen,” Loren said, “if you’re going to cut deals with criminals, the drug dealers will pay you better.”

  “Shut up, Loren,” said Manuel Maldonado. “We don’t have to listen to this kind of bullshit insinuation.”

  Luis didn’t seem concerned. He waved his cigarette loftily. “Everybody deals, Loren. Everybody. And Figueracion delivers.”

  “You’re crazy. These people are like rabid dogs. You can’t deal with them like this.”

  “I talk to the chairman,” singsong, “I talk to the project head. Figueracion talks to everybody. They were gonna put their museum on their own land. Figueracion points out
that they’ll have security hassles, people wandering around where they shouldn’t be . . .”

  “Luis. Listen to me here. Don’t go off into fantasyland here.”

  “Atocha’s got buildings to spare. But there’s this hassle. Your police chief, I’m told, he’s arresting our people. And they’re only doing their jobs.” Luis pointed a tobacco-stained finger at Loren. “He’s a loose cannon, they’re telling me. And my own people are telling me the same thing. Beating up kids!”

  “What was I supposed to do? Let A.J. Dunlop shoot me?”

  Luis’s voice was still dreamy. “So maybe the best thing is for the police chief to take a little vacation. Get away from it all, a hunting trip maybe, shoot some duck, shoot some elk. Get things in perspective.” He smiled. “Nobody gets hurt. Deliveries get made. Jobs get created. People go to work, pay their bills. The town survives.”

  Loren couldn’t sit still any longer. He stood up and waved his arms. “Nobody gets hurt?” he roared. “Three people got killed!”

  Luis’s look was benign. “Nobody we know, Loren. Nobody who votes. People die all the damn time.”

  Loren glared at him. “Not in my front hall, they don’t!”

  Luis waved his hand gracefully. “Strangers die. It’s like it happened in Africa or someplace. Is Africa our fault?”

  Bile rose hot in Loren’s throat and he couldn’t speak. He turned, kicked his chair out of his way, stomped to the window. Outside, the windblown sand was eroding the deco fronts of the buildings. The Rexall pharmacy sign swung on its cables. Loren’s hands twisted in front of him as if they were holding Luis Figueracion’s spine. He jammed them in his pockets, took a breath, fought for control.

  “What if I find some evidence?” he said.

  “Loren,” said Luis, “I don’t want any goddamn evidence. I want you to take it easy, go out someplace and shoot an elk, okay?”

  “You’re asking me to ignore what I know,” Loren said.

  “You know that Connie Duvauchelle runs a whorehouse, right? When was the last time you busted her?”