The Darker Hours

by Sam Lee Jackson

  “Problem?” Boyce said.

  “Tail,” Jackson said. Boyce was a pro. She didn’t turn to look.

  42

  Boyce lowered the visor and pulled the flap away from the mirror. She studied it. “White pick-up?”

  “Yup.”

  They went across on the ribbon of asphalt that traversed the Salt River basin. The river was dry as usual. He got to Baseline and ripped it back west, pushing the accelerator. The white truck had given up on subtlety and came after them fast. At 51st Avenue Jackson turned back south, tires screeching. The truck was struggling to keep up. Luckily the traffic was light. They came back to the riverbed and Jackson yanked the wheel and went bouncing down a dirt truck path that led into the bottom. Scattered in the bed of the river were huge, tall piles of rock and dirt. A bulldozer was parked off to the side.

  “Get out of line of sight, then let me out,” Boyce said. She pulled her Glock from her waist holster. She ratcheted a round into the chamber and unfastened her seat belt. The Mustang was scraping and bouncing along. Jackson had his eye on the rearview mirror. He yanked the Mustang behind one of the mounds of dirt and skidded to a stop. Boyce bailed out. Jackson took off, dirt and dust spewing out behind. He headed for another mound of dirt fifty yards off. He pulled in behind it just as the white truck came bouncing down into the river bottom.

  Boyce stood behind the mound of dirt and listened as the truck came roaring closer. Jackson had slid in behind the other mound of dirt leaving just a little of the rear-end showing. The truck went by Boyce, spitting dust and rocks in its wake, focused on the Mustang. Boyce began running after it. The truck came up ten yards from the Mustang and slid to a stop. Two men boiled out, one brandishing a pistol, the other with a pump shotgun. They were Hispanic guys. Both dressed hip-hop with backward ball caps, shirts with the sleeves gone and very low-slung jean shorts. Any lower they’d be around their ankles.

  They ran to the Mustang, one on either side. The guy with the shotgun fired a round into the back of the Mustang and jacked in another round. Boyce was running full out. She almost went down, her feet sliding through the loose nock and dirt. She put their truck between her and them.

  Boyce went into a shooter’s stance, aiming across the hood and yelled, “Police! Put the guns down!”

  Simultaneously they looked over their shoulders. The guy with the pistol began firing at her. She ducked behind the truck as the bullets whanged into it. The shotgun guy was running sideways around the Mustang looking for a target. The guy with the pistol ran toward Boyce, firing as he ran. Boyce came up over the hood of the truck. She could feel the bullets thupping past her head. Gunfight, front sight. She put the front sights on the guy, picking the center mass and began pulling the trigger. Dark spots appeared on his chest and his momentum kept him stumbling toward her. He staggered forward as he collapsed in an involuntary dive. He went headfirst into the driver’s side hubcap. He was dead before he hit it.

  Boyce came around the hood of the truck. She glanced at the crumpled body then turned and ran toward the Mustang. The shotgun had gone around the mound of dirt and was not in sight. She circled wide around the Mustang looking for a target. Then she saw the guy and he heard her at the same time . He spun around.

  “Hey!” Jackson’s voice was loud. It came from above. The guy involuntarily looked up and he and Boyce simultaneously saw Jackson standing silhouetted against the sky, on top of the mound of dirt. For a split second they were all frozen. Could have been a diorama. Then the guy with the shotgun began to lift the barrel to point it at Jackson. Jackson fired three rounds. The guy crumpled to the dirt.

  Boyce heard a sound behind her. She spun, pistol ready. Bennett’s Chrysler 300 came bouncing down the embankment toward them, fishtailing and spitting dust. Boyce straightened up, standing quietly, her Glock in her hand. She left it hanging at her side. She could hear Jackson sliding down the other side of the dirt mound.

  Bennett pulled up beside her and cut the engine. The two detectives got out. Barbieri walked over and looked at the guy crumpled against the truck tire. Jackson walked around the mound of dirt. He had put his gun away and walked toward them with his hands where they could see them.

  Bennett looked at him and Jackson said. “Another one around on the other side.”

  Bennett walked out and around Jackson until he could see the other body. He came back and Boyce said, “Why are you here?”

  “Civilian called in about a truck and a Mustang chasing each other. Said at very high speeds. We just happened to hear the dispatch. Said they were driving very recklessly. We heard the description of the Mustang and knew it was you.”

  Boyce walked over and squatted down beside the dead man. She studied him. She stood and walked around to the shotgun guy. Bennett and Barbieri followed. Jackson leaned against the truck. As they came back Boyce said, “I don’t know them, do you?”

  Bennett shook his head. Barbieri said, “Shotgun boy is Raoul Naruda. Don’t know who the other one is. Naruda is a Pistolero.”

  “Pistolero tats on both,” Bennett said. Jackson looked down and saw the blazing pistol tattoo between the dead man’s thumb and forefinger.

  “Why were they after you?” Bennett said.

  “You tell me. Did you call this in?”

  Bennett nodded. “When we saw you down here.” He looked at Barbieri, “We need to have your weapons,” he said, turning to look at Jackson.

  “We’ll turn them over to Mendoza,” Boyce said.

  Bennett looked at her, frowning. “What makes you think Mendoza’s coming?”

  Boyce just looked at him. He studied her for a long moment then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  They could hear sirens in the distance. It was a half hour before Mendoza showed up.

  43

  “I don’t like this,” Elena said.

  It was early afternoon, late in the week and the El Patron wasn’t open yet. They were all at the rectangular bar. Boyce sat next to Elena. Blackhawk sat next to Jackson with Nacho on the other side.

  “Imagine how I feel,” Boyce said, taking a sip of the open bottle of Becks she had in front of her.

  Jackson turned to look at Nacho. “What do you know about the Pistoleros?”

  Nacho was drinking club soda. “Not much. When I was in the can it was the Crips and Bloods and the Mexican Mafia that sucked up all the oxygen.” He took a drink and looked at the lemon slice in his glass. “I knew one guy that wore a tat like you described but he, I don’t know, he wasn’t much to worry about.”

  “What was he in for?” Boyce said.

  “Murder,” Nacho said.

  “Yikes!” Blackhawk said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “You know what I mean,” Nacho said.

  Jackson looked at Boyce. “You been in Gangs for what now? Seven years?”

  Boyce nodded.

  “And you don’t know anything about the Pistoleros?”

  “No more than I know about MS13. I know they are bad dudes. They make their money from drugs. They were part of Cicero Paz’s system. Drugs is so lucrative there’s no need to do anything else.”

  “Extort small business?” Jackson said.

  “No, see, that’s small potatoes up against selling coke or opioids.”

  “You said this Mookie guy was selling for Cicero Paz.”

  “He got picked up when they rounded those guys up.”

  “Why didn’t he go to jail?” Elena said.

  Boyce shrugged. “Don’t know. Any number of reasons.”

  “So, we’re back to why you?” Blackhawk said. “Maybe the shot that killed the detective was on target. Maybe this Mookie dude busted into the restaurant where we were eating to shoot at someone else.”

  “Fucker was shooting at me.” Boyce looked at Elena, “How’s Gabe?”

  Elena shrugged, “He don’t come around much anymore.”

  “And the two guys in the river bottom. They weren’t after me.” Jackson said.

  Boyce sh
ook her head. “If I knew why me, I’d know which way to go.”

  “Somebody got a grudge?” Blackhawk said. “You’ve been busting balls for seven years you say.”

  “You shouldn’t talk like that,” Elena said.

  Blackhawk smiled, “What should I say?”

  Elena grinned. “She’s been busting cojones for seven years.”

  “Much better,” Boyce said.

  “Anyone holding a grudge?”

  She shook her head, “Probably, but this is too weird for something that simple.”

  “Weird like how?” Nacho said.

  “Weird like somebody does a drive-by at a high school hangout just to draw certain police detectives so they can shoot them. Who does that?”

  “Drive-by killed Livvy,” Jackson said, “but no detectives shot there.”

  “Wrong neighborhood,” Blackhawk said. Boyce looked at him. “Too hard to get in and out without being noticed. Not like on Bell Road.”

  “And at night,” Nacho said.

  “What difference does that make?” Elena said.

  “No one on the street at night. If you are on the street, you stand out,” Blackhawk said. “Best time to hit someone is in broad daylight on a busy street.”

  “Like school just got out.”

  Jackson looked at Boyce. “That rifle check out?”

  Boyce nodded.

  “What rifle?” Elena said.

  “Can’t say right now,” Boyce said.

  “The rifle that did Detective DiMartini,” Jackson said. “They found it at a guy’s house Torres was staying at.”

  “They found it?” Blackhawk said.

  Boyce looked at Jackson and took a drink of beer. “Bucket mouth.”

  “Top secret,” Jackson said, trying to look serious.

  “Ooh, I love secrets,” Elena said.

  Blackhawk grinned, “Yeah, no one can keep a secret like you. You and your two hundred best friends.”

  Elena made a face at him.

  “Fingerprints?” Jackson said.

  “Covered with them.”

  “Torres?”

  Boyce nodded and finished her beer.

  “Another?” Nacho said.

  Boyce shook her head. She looked at Jackson. “I think we should look up Little Joe.”

  “Who’s Little Joe?” Elena said.

  “Little Joe Cartwright,” Jackson said.

  Elena shook her head, “Who’s Little Joe Cartwright?”

  “Like on Bonanza,” Nacho said.

  Blackhawk looked at him. “How would you know that?”

  Nacho shrugged. “I watch afternoon TV in here when it’s slow.”

  “What’s a Bonanza?” Elena said.

  No one said anything. Finally, Jackson looked at Nacho. “Looks like this one is yours.”

  Nacho looked at Elena, “I’ll bet you saw it sometime. Bonanza was like an old guy with three sons. Had a big ranch. Adam, Hoss and Little Joe.”

  “Don’t forget Heath,” Boyce said.

  “Heath was on the Big Valley,” Jackson said.

  “What’s the Big Valley?” Elena said.

  Blackhawk shook his head.

  “Old gal with three sons,” Jackson said.

  “And a daughter,” Nacho said. “Audra. You can’t forget her. Man, she was hot.”

  Elena looked at them. “Old man with three sons. Old woman with three sons and a daughter. Sounds like the same show.”

  Jackson smiled. “Yeah, probably was.”

  “Very popular at the time,” Blackhawk said.

  “Sounds phony,” Elena said. “I’ll bet it would never make it on Telemundo.”

  Blackhawk shook his head smiling. Nacho barked out a laugh.

  Elena looked at them, “What?”

  44

  This time they were in a city ride. A five-year-old Chevy Impala. Boyce was driving. She had gotten an address for Little Joe from his parole officer. It was in the 4300 block of west Olive. A typical west side neighborhood. Little Joe’s place was a two-story, the only one on the block. He rented room number two. All the rented rooms were on the second floor.

  When they pulled up in front there was a man and a woman sitting on the front porch. The woman was sitting in a plastic strapped lawn chair. The man sat on the front steps. He was smoking. Neither one appeared to be doing anything except sitting. The lawn was mowed but hadn’t been cared for, so it had patches of bare dirt. There were no vehicles in the driveway.

  Boyce led the way up the walk. She pulled her badge from her belt and held it up for the two to see.

  “I’m looking for Joseph Cartwright,” she said.

  The man turned and looked at the woman. She was in her fifties. She wore a man’s shirt and a pair of jeans. Her hair was permed in improbable tight curls. The hair at the nape of her neck was colored blue.

  The woman said, “Don’t know if he’s home.”

  “If he were home, where would he be?”

  The woman made a gesture toward the door. “Upstairs. His room is number two. Number’s on the door.”

  Boyce nodded her thanks and with Jackson following, she went through the door. It opened to a small space that had a door on one side and an open stairway on the other. Jackson followed Boyce up the stairs.

  The landing opened to a hallway with two doors on either side. They were numbered with the stick-on numbers you buy at the local Home Depot. Number two was on the right at the end of the hall.

  Jackson rapped on the door. There was no answer. He rapped again. Opposite, door number four opened and an older woman stuck her face out. Her wispy hair was in giant curlers.

  “He ain’t home,” the old woman said.

  Boyce turned to her. “You know where he would be.”

  “He down at the Red Pony playin’ cards. That what he usually do.”

  “Do you know where the Red Pony is?” Boyce said.

  “It down there behind where the Seven Eleven is. By the laundromat. What you lookin’ for Little Joe for?”

  Boyce turned to walk away. Jackson smiled at the woman, “Thank you ma’am, we appreciate your help,” he said and followed Boyce.

  They came back down the stairs and out on the porch. The woman and the man were gone. They found the Red Pony two blocks west. It wasn’t behind the Seven Eleven but was next to a laundromat. The inside was dim and cool. A typical neighborhood joint. There were cars parked in front but when Boyce and Jackson walked in. The only person in sight was a young female bartender.

  As they slid up on their stools the girl came and sat a coaster in front of each of them. “What’ll it be?” she said.

  “Bud Lite draft,” Boyce said.

  “Make it two,” Jackson said. “Where is everybody?”

  The girl tilted her head toward the back. “Playing cards.” She hooked two mugs and went to fill them.

  Jackson slid off the stool. “I’ll go see if he remembers me.”

  “Oh, he’ll remember you,” Boyce said.

  Jackson went to the back of the bar to where the restrooms were. Beyond the restrooms was an unmarked door. Jackson stepped through it.

  This was a storage room, but an area had been cleared for two large round tables. There were six guys around each table. One of them at the furthest table was Little Joe. He had his back to the door. He was big enough to be recognizable. A few of the men glanced up at Jackson as he came in, but most were concentrating on their cards. That and the pile of chips in the middle.

  At Little Joe’s table they were playing Texas Hold’em. Jackson stood to the side of the door and watched as the dealer rolled up another card. A man bet and the rest folded. He gathered in his chips as Jackson moved further to the side so that Little Joe could see him. Finally, Little Joe looked up at him. He looked back at his chips, separating them into little piles. Then he stopped and looked up at Jackson again.

  “Son of a bitch,” he exclaimed. “Jack Summers.” All the men turned to look at him.

  “Hey
, Little Joe,” Jackson said. “Can I buy you a beer?” Jackson cocked his head back toward the door.

  Little Joe looked at him for a moment, then he turned and pushed his chips toward the guy with the cash. “Cash me out,” he said. The man counted the chips, then counted out the money and handed it to him.

  Little Joe followed Jackson through the door and back into the bar. Boyce was sitting at the bar with two beers in front of her. No one else had come in.

  “Let’s grab a booth,” Jackson said to her. Boyce took the beers and they moved to a booth. Little Joe was a little puzzled but slid in with them.

  The bartender came over. “You want something, Little Joe?”

  “Usual,” Little Joe said. He looked at Boyce. “Afraid we haven’t met,” he said.

  Boyce stuck her hand out. “Boyce,” she said.

  “Boyce?”

  She nodded, “That’s right.”

  “I’m Joe Cartwright. Friends call me…”

  “Little Joe,” Boyce said. “Yes, I know.”

  “She knows all about you, Little Joe,” Jackson said.

  Little Joe looked puzzled. He looked at Jackson. “So, when did you get out?”

  “Yeah, I need to tell you some things,”

  The bartender brought a bottle of Coors and a shot and set it in front of Little Joe. “Can I get you guys anything else?” They shook their heads. Little Joe was looking at Jackson.

  “I never went in,” Jackson continued.

  “You never…..” He leaned back and stared at Jackson. There was a long awkward pause. Finally, he shook his head. “Son of a bitch. It was you.”

  “My name is really Jackson, not Jack Summers.” Jackson nodded at Boyce. “And this is Detective First Grade Boyce of Phoenix PD.”

  Little Joe was staring at her. “Jesus, you look familiar.”

  “Remember the bag lady that hung around the bar all the time?” Jackson said, smiling.

  Little Joe leaned back and stared at her. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “That was you?”