by Guy Johnson
It was nearly midnight when they drove into the city of Durango. They spent the night at a taberna in which King had purchased a half share. The other owner, Pablo Guzman, was a longtime friend of both King and Rico Ramirez. He was a chubby, jovial, brown-skinned man with a shaved head and heavy black eyebrows and an even thicker black mustache. He greeted his guests with smiles and laughter and led them to their rooms. After they had washed the travel dust from their faces, he took them down to a large kitchen, where bowls of steaming rabbit stew awaited them.
Jackson was exhausted from the drive; he ate the spicy stew and then went to his room. He fell into a deep sleep and dreamed about Maria. Mostly he dreamed about their long drive northward. There was a tension between them that confused him. It was not an uncomfortable tension, but for some reason he thought and rethought everything that he wanted to say and then when he attempted to say it, he became tongue-tied. She did not seem to be affected by the same affliction, but she did not talk much. She spent a lot of time watching him, staring at his face.
Since Carlos did not stop for meal breaks, they ate as they drove. At one point along a two-lane stretch of highway, as the two vehicles were passing slower farm vehicles and heavily laden trucks, Maria had brought out lunch, which consisted of meat and beans loosely wrapped in tortillas. Jackson could not handle the food and drive at the same time, so she had fed him. She moved so close to him that her breast grazed his arm and he could smell the soap she had used.
Her touch had given him an erection, which was further titillated when she picked the crumbs out of his lap. After they finished eating, she did not move away but stayed next to him. By the time they drove into Durango, she was asleep against his shoulder. When he woke her to go into the taberna, the sleepy smile she gave him warmed his heart.
The next morning the clean, cool, dry breeze of the high desert greeted them as Jackson drove Alma and Maria to the marketplace on the edge of Durango. In the distance, the Sierra Madre Occidental raised their brown and gray peaks skyward. The city of Durango sprawled across the foothills of the Sierras like a drunken man lying on a low sofa. Below the city the Mezquital River wound its way placidly to the Sea of Cortez. From the outdoor market which was between the river and the lowest area of town, the rest of Durango could be seen rising gently above it, rows upon rows of white buildings interspersed with the beige, brown, and clay of adobe structures. At the edge of the market the bells in the spire of an old church tolled out the hour, joining the churches farther up the hill, calling the faithful to prayer.
Alma, Maria, and Jackson walked down the main aisle of the market. There were rows of brightly covered wooden stalls where vendors displayed their neatly stacked wares and produce. It was a typical farmers’ market to be found on the edge of comparable cities in countries throughout the world. Most of the produce was grown locally by the extended families of the people working the stalls. Even though it was Sunday morning, the market was rippling with vitality and color. There were hundreds of passionate exchanges and conversations being conducted in Spanish as buyers and sellers argued over prices and quality, and somewhere in the distance came the braying of a burro. Jackson passed booths festooned with wreaths of green and red peppers. Other booths had bright yellow bananas, green tomatillos, and red tomatoes. Maria and Alma occupied themselves haggling with the vendors over prices while Jackson performed the manual labor of carrying the large woven basket into which the purchased goods were placed. Since his assigned task required little thought, Jackson allowed himself to be distracted by the color and sights around him.
If Jackson had been more alert he might have seen Juan Tejate standing between two booths staring at him. Juan had grown no taller since he had last met Jackson, but he had filled out into a solid, muscular man. Juan pulled his stiletto from his boot and tested the nine-inch blade for sharpness by sawing through a leather scrap. His black eyes gleamed as he watched Jackson moving through the market assisting the two women. Juan had not forgotten the beating that he had received at Jackson’s hands. He had spent many days and nights dreaming about his revenge. Now, after three years, the opportunity was in his hands. Only this time, it would end in death for El Negro’s grandson. Juan held the knife so that the blade was up his sleeve then stepped out into the crowd.
Wednesday, July 14, 1982
The old panel van rolled silently to the curb a quarter of a block from the corner of McAllister and Octavia streets and turned off its lights. It was parked in the shadows down the block from the corner streetlamp. Three men dressed in black got out of the back of the van and melted away into the night. Jackson rested his arms on the steering wheel, took a deep breath. He felt uncomfortable and restricted in his bulletproof vest. He tried to adjust it unsuccessfully, but it was beneath his shirt and wouldn’t budge. After a few futile efforts he gave up and looked at Carlos in the passenger’s seat. Carlos acknowledged Jackson’s look with a nod then took a silencer out of his pocket and screwed it onto his machine pistol. He gestured that Jackson do the same. Jackson took his .45 Colt from its holster, secured the silencer, then pulled back the slide, chambering a bullet. He holstered the gun, patted the hilt of the knife in his back sheath, and took another deep breath to steady himself. He was nervous and edgy, and no matter how many deep breaths he took to calm himself, he couldn’t seem to reduce the pounding speed of his heart. He picked up a long, black sports bag containing a pair of dark goggles, a flashlight, a compact twelve-gauge shotgun, and a cane machete, and got out of the driver’s side of the van. Carlos got out of the other side with his own sports bag and checked to ensure that all the van’s doors were locked. He and Jackson then synchronized their watches before heading off into the darkness. They turned into a street in which there were a couple of garages, a number of different repair shops, a cabinet shop, and a lighting store. All of the businesses were closed and the street was surprisingly dark. There were only two streetlights at either end of the block.
They were headed for a converted two-story garage in the middle of the block that John Tree used as the headquarters for his heroin and cocaine distribution. The first three men out of the van were responsible for securing the building’s roof and perimeter. Carlos carried his machine pistol, dark goggles, a couple of flash grenades, and a cloth-wrapped packet containing various instruments of persuasion in his sports bag. He signaled a halt and stared at the roof of the old garage, waiting for an all clear. They waited several minutes and then saw two bright flashes from the top of the building. Carlos led the way at a run to the front door of the building. Underneath an old painted sign that read USED FURNITURE there was a heavy wooden door that was partially ajar. Carlos slipped inside. Jackson followed him into the darkness then scuttled out of the doorway and squatted down against the wall. He wanted to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the interior of the building’s gloom and shadows. The only illumination came from windows high on the walls that caught the weak, ambient gleam of distant streetlights. Carlos closed and locked the front door and joined him against the wall. As Jackson’s eyes adjusted, he saw that they were in a large hall filled with dining table and chair sets, couches, end tables, and lamps. On his left, above a small office, there were stairs leading to an upper level. There was movement in the darkness and his heart jumped in his chest. He almost pulled his gun, then he saw that it was one of Carlos’s men, Tavio Lopez, dragging a body into the little office. Tavio came out of the office and waved the all clear. Carlos led the way up the darkened stairway.
Jackson was trying to be alert and attentive to his surroundings, but the truth was that he could barely hear anything over the pounding of his heart. They reached the top of the stairs. A hallway illuminated only by the thin slits of light which glowed underneath a couple of closed doors. They headed to the first door. Jackson’s gun was now in his hand and his trigger finger had a terrible twitch. He was concerned that if he kept his gun in his hand he was going to inadvertently shoot himself in the foot. He was concentrat
ing on controlling himself when a door swung open on his right and light flooded the hall. A tall, dark-skinned man in a dashiki walked through the doorway and Jackson fired on reflex. The gun puffed and jerked in his hand, but there was no sound. He put three bullets in the man’s torso before he knew what he was doing, and the bullets hitting the man’s body made more noise than the silencer, thudding, splattering sounds that seemed to ring in his ears. The man staggered backward through the door and fell against a chair then landed on the floor with a crash.
“What the fuck is goin’ on out there? Can’t you assholes keep it quiet?” The growling voice originated from a room farther down the darkened corridor.
Carlos rolled into the room with his gun at the ready, but the room was empty. Jackson stood in the hallway, panting and nervous. He stared down at the man he had shot and it was not a pretty sight. There were big, red holes in the man’s chest and there was blood puddling slowly beside his body. A smell of bile filled his nose. It was sickening, yet Jackson could not tear his eyes away from watching the man’s last twitches and movements before the life left his body. Killing the man did not make him feel powerful; instead it nauseated him because he realized that he himself could be killed just as easily; he too could be killed by a stranger who merely reacted out of fear. Carlos tapped him on the shoulder and gestured to a door farther down the hall. Jackson followed Carlos and focused his thoughts on Elizabeth because he knew that he would kill a roomful of men to get her back.
Tavio went into the room where the man had fallen and closed the door, leaving Jackson and Carlos in darkness as they continued down the hall. The doorway whence the growling voice had originated was cracked open. Looking through the crack, Jackson saw four men sitting at a long collapsible table. A fifth chair had a jacket upon it, but it was unoccupied. Two of the men had their backs to the door, while two were facing it. Carlos pushed open the door and Jackson followed him into the room. It was a big bright room, lit by overhead banks of fluorescent lights. All along the walls were stacks of folding tables and chairs. This room with its smooth hardwood floor had served as Tree’s prep and bag room, and when in operation it had been a busy place with more than forty employees. It was where pills and tablets were pressed and counted, where freebase rock cocaine was cooked, and the heroin was cut. However, since Tree had shut down his action, the room was not in use.
The conversation between the four men at the table stopped and the two men who were facing away from the door turned and looked over their shoulders. Jackson was ready for any sudden action. His trigger finger was twitching again. He was determined not to die at the hands of these fools; he would kill them all first. An overweight, heavyset man with a disfiguring scar across his face pushed back from the table and growled, “What the hell you motherfuckers want? You here to jack me up for some dope?”
Jackson was not in the mood to answer questions. He demanded, “Where does Deleon DuMont live? Where can we find him?”
Jackson recognized the bald-headed man to the left of the big man with the scar as the attorney who had represented Delbert at Johnson, Wyland & Johnson the week before, but he couldn’t remember his name. The attorney nudged the man with the scar and said, “That’s him, Tree! That’s Tremain!”
Tree guffawed. “You mean to tell me he was fool enough to walk in here? Well, ain’t he a cherry for pickin’?” He turned to one of the other men at the table and said, “Dwayne, go get my cherry picker. The shiny one!”
Jackson warned, “Stay where you are!” He pointed his pistol directly at Tree’s head. Fletcher had identified John Tree as one of the men who had had a hand in the death of Jackson’s father. That thought kept flashing across his mind. He was filled with such unanticipated anger that briefly he considered pulling the trigger and blowing off the top of Tree’s head, but it did not seem penalty enough.
Carlos patted them down for weapons as Jackson stood guard. Tavio entered the room and assisted Carlos. Two revolvers and three knives were confiscated and the guns were emptied of bullets. Tavio went and stood at the rear of the room next to two closed doors.
Jackson walked over to the table and studied the four men. He forced himself to look into each one of their faces. He and Carlos had agreed beforehand that he would take the lead and Carlos would speak only if absolutely necessary. Jackson said to the men, “This can be easy, or it can be difficult. Frankly, I don’t care which it is. I need some information. Where can I find Deleon DuMont? Who knows where he’s staying?”
The attorney smiled and fingered his Van Dyke as he said, “We shouldn’t be talking with guns in our hands. We should be sitting down and negotiating.”
“What’s to negotiate?” Jackson asked, pacing around the table. Another one of Carlos’s team entered the room and conferred with Carlos. Carlos turned to Jackson and tapped his watch. Jackson nodded in response and repeated, “What’s to negotiate?”
The attorney smiled as if he had caught Jackson asking a trick question. “I think there are a wide spectrum of issues that—”
Jackson interrupted impatiently, “I know who you are, you sleazy bastard! So don’t give me your bullshit! There are only two issues I want you to focus on and that’s where is Deleon and where is Braxton?”
Jackson saw the fourth man at the table glance involuntarily at the jacket on the unoccupied chair next to him. Jackson walked over and checked the jacket’s pockets. He found a wallet in an inside breast pocket and when he flipped it open, it was Braxton’s. A strange excitement suddenly filled him. The one who had masterminded the attacks against his family was also close at hand. He turned to Carlos. “Braxton! He’s here somewhere! Watch these men. I want to find him. Tavio! Diego! Check all the doors in the hallway. Don’t take any risks. Spray the walls with bullets; that may encourage him to give up easily. I’ll check behind the two doors at the rear of this room. These walls don’t seem that thick,” Jackson commented as he pointed his .45 waist high at the rear wall and fired measured shots into it every four feet. The smack of crushed Sheetrock and the splintering of wood drowned out the soft bark of his silenced weapon. He was halfway across the rear wall when he heard commotion behind the door on the right.
All vestiges of hesitation were gone. Jackson emptied the rest of his magazine into the walls around the door behind which the sounds had originated. He dropped an empty magazine on the floor and popped in a new one. Once he had chambered a bullet, he opened the door cautiously. He let the door swing open all the way and with his gun at the ready, he entered a short hallway which led to an office. It was a small office with a heavy wooden desk and cheap leather furniture. Other than the dim light which flowed through the doorway that he had entered, the office was unlit. Jackson checked the iron-grille-covered door on the far side of the desk and the small toilet and shower which adjoined the office. It was only when he stood examining the huge padlock that was still locked tightly on the grille door that he noticed the window behind the curtains. It was a large double-hung window which had its lower section pushed open. He saw that there was blood on the windowsill and that the window’s outer metal grille was unlatched and opened. He leaned out the window and saw in the shadows of the unlit alley fifteen feet below a dimly outlined pile of black plastic garbage bags. He thought he saw a human leg sticking out of the pile, but when he pointed his gun down toward it, he saw a police car stop at the end of the alley and focus its spotlight down the length of the alley. Jackson pulled the window’s grille closed and stepped behind the curtains.
Frustration and anger swept through him. So close, yet so far. Momentarily, Jackson considered firing his gun into the pile of plastic bags, but he could not be sure that the flare of his weapon’s discharge wouldn’t be seen. He did not want to arouse the suspicions of the men in the patrol car. He waited by the window listening for sounds of a human scrambling to his feet, but there were none. The police car remained parked at the end of the alley, although it turned out its spotlight. After a few minutes Jackson shut
the window and walked back through the hallway to the main room, slamming doors behind him. “The bastard must’ve jumped out the goddamn window!” he explained to Carlos. “I think he’s still down there, but a police car is sitting at the end of the alley.”
The attorney interjected, “You don’t have a lot of time now! If you want to—”
“Shut the fuck up!” Jackson growled, pointing his pistol in his direction.
The attorney forced a frightened chuckle. “If you kill me, you’ll never find out what you want to know!”
Jackson stared at him for a minute, saw the smirk on his face, and thought, I don’t have time for this bullshit! He did not hesitate; he pointed his pistol and shot the attorney in his left foot. The man screamed and bent over the table. Jackson was getting angrier and angrier. These men were wasting his time, and in doing so they were preventing him from getting to Elizabeth. A new and different feeling was welling up within him and it was eagerness. He wanted the men to take some precipitous action that would justify the infliction of pain. He watched unsympathetically as the attorney gasped in agony, then he demanded, “Do we have a failure to communicate? Have I focused your attention, or do I have to shoot you someplace else?” Jackson moved around to shoot the other foot that was under the table.
The attorney panted, “Yes! Yes! I’m focusing! Please, no more!”
Tree growled, “You mighty brave when you got all this backup! You gon’ be this brave when the police get here?”
Jackson had difficulty looking into Tree’s face because every time he did, he wanted to kill him. There was no conscious thought about it. It was simply a desire that originated somewhere deep within him. He had to restrain himself from filling the man’s chest with lead.