by Mark Reps
“Come on, angel face. Let’s see what kind of action this machine we stole has,” whooped Jimmie Joe. “I’ll betcha a dollar to a dingo it can go one hundred and twenty miles an hour on a straight away and ninety, ninety-five around corners. Here, partner.”
Jimmie Joe tossed Ángel the keys. As the men took their seats, Jimmie Joe reached into the glove compartment. Removing an unopened pint of Cuervo Gold tequila, he handed it to the driver. Ángel hungrily twisted off the cap. One deep swallow drained a quarter of the bottle.
“Ah, sí, sí. That is some mighty good juice. Now I drive like lightning.”
“Come on, little buddy,” laughed Jimmie Joe. “Let’s go for a nice, long ride and break these wheels in.”
“Where we heading?” asked Ángel.
“Take some back roads over to Highway 191 and scoot down towards York. We’ll catch Route 75 and cut back up toward Guthrie and Granville. I want to see what you can do when you put the pedal to the metal.”
Ángel began to better acquaint himself with the big truck. Five speeds, eight cylinders, it rode high but cornered well. It did not make the ninety miles an hour Jimmie wanted, but seventy even seventy-five miles an hour without shaking was no problem. Ángel punched it up to a hundred and ten on a straightaway but it shimmied badly when he hit an unexpected pothole in the road. When they hit the paved roads, one twenty was no problem and it cornered like a racecar. Ángel did not know the plan, but he knew he was the man behind the wheel of the getaway vehicle.
“About ten miles north of Granville, just past the Mitchell Peak Road, there’s a dirt road that cuts over through the Rez and catches up with Indian Route 801. Eventually it runs into Indian Route 8. Let’s head that way,” said Jimmie Joe. “We need to get to know those roads.”
“Hell,” said Ángel taking another pull on the bottle. “I already know those roads out there like the back of my hand.”
“That’s what I am counting on,” replied Jimmie Joe. “That’s exactly what I am counting on.”
After three hours of crisscrossing every side road three or four times, Ángel had every bump and rut memorized.
“Head back over to Duncan,” said Jimmie Joe. I know a cut off up that way that will take us to the Blue River. Rich folks from Safford, Tucson, Phoenix and even El Paso got fancy houses up that way. Most of them are vacant ten months out of the year. I thought we might like to “rent” one of them for a few days. Maybe even drink up some of the rich man’s liquor. What do you say to that?”
“Rich man’s liquor? You mean like Bombay Gin and Johnny Walker Black Label Whiskey? Maybe Patrón Anejo Tequila?” asked Ángel.
“Sure. Maybe even that fancy-ass tequila with the worm in the bottle.”
“Cuervo Anejo. The drink of kings,” said Ángel dreamily.
“We can even sleep in the rich man’s bed. I heard every one of those places has feather pillows. Maybe even sleep with the rich man’s daughter, eh, eh Ángel? What would you think of that? I bet you would like that, wouldn’t you? Some real pretty long legged blonde with cha chas grande, eh Ángel?”
Ángel’s halfhearted chuckle was meant to placate the evil one. It was only Juanita that Ángel wanted. His letters to her from prison had promised his everlasting devotion. Nothing would make him break that promise. She was his gato. He was her tigre. He would see her in a week. He could wait for her. Not even Jimmie Joe could bully him into sleeping with a woman other than Juanita. But he knew he had to play along with the White devil or things would go very badly for him.
The sinking sun shimmered across the lazily flowing waters of the San Simon River. Ángel relaxed as he eyed an old man and a boy standing on the bank, casting for trout. Ángel honked twice. They smiled and waved. He remembered the days after his father’s death when his grandfather took him fishing. “Fishing,” his grandfather said. “You can go fishing instead of going to church and it’s okay with the Man Upstairs because he would just as soon be fishing too.” Fishing with his grandfather had made the pain of his father’s death more bearable. Soon he would again see his grandfather’s kind face. He would buy his grandfather a new fishing pole. Ángel’s spirits soared as he saw light at the end of his dark tunnel.
“Jimmie, do you like fishing? I love everything about fishing. I love to fish trout, bass, and crappies. When we’re done with this job, I’m…”
He almost let it slip but caught himself. Once the job was done, Ángel was headed to Mexico with Juanita. He would never see the big White devil again. Ángel was going to change his life forever. Jimmie Joe Walker was going to be but a faint memory.
“Maybe you and me will go fishing? Maybe the big house we’re going to stay at will have some fishing poles?”
Jimmie Joe cast an evil eye over the San Simon River.
“I hate fishing,” he snarled. “I can’t imagine one reason in a million why anyone would eat the slimy little bastards. I’d rather eat worms.”
Just ahead the city limit sign of Morenci marked the outskirts of the small mining town.
“Pull into downtown. Let’s see what’s happening. Maybe get a drink. How about that, Ángel? You must be getting a little thirsty by now?”
The White devil too well understood Ángel’s lust for alcohol.
“I can always use a drink,” replied Ángel.
Ángel drove slowly through downtown Morenci. He wanted to draw zero attention to himself, Jimmie Joe and the stolen pickup. Even though they had snatched it in Tucson and changed plates in Benson, Ángel didn’t want to screw things up when he was so close to being rich.
“You drive any slower and the cops are going to pick you up for blocking traffic,” growled Jimmie Joe. “Pull in next to that bar, it looks friendly enough. Let’s go in and have an ice cold brew.”
Ángel pulled into a parking spot in the alley behind the bar. A faded mural of a pair of muscular men in hard hats covered the side of the building. Beneath, a motto read, COPPER--KING OF METALS-- Morenci Miners Union, Local 616. The front of a rundown wood sided building displayed the name of the bar in neon letters, some of which were in working order and many that pulsed and flashed intermittently. The sign hanging at the front of the bar read “Earl’s Firebelly Lounge Cold Beer Set Ups”.
“It looks like a redneck joint,” said Ángel. “It’s probably dangerous for us to go in there.”
“It is exactly my kind of joint,” replied Jimmie Joe. “Rednecks got the same right as everyone else to drink in a bar. Are you prejudiced against white trash like me?”
Ángel did not bother to answer that one. He hated Jimmie Joe’s guts but needed him if he was ever going to be rich.
It was a dimly lit establishment with a dark wooden bar; a pair of grizzled old men smoking cigarettes slumped round-shouldered over the bar. It smelled of beer-stained carpet. A jukebox played old fashioned country music. The disheveled regulars remained slumped and unmoving as the newcomers passed by. In the corner a muted television played a sitcom with a perfect looking young couple kissing deeply and passionately. Ángel stood behind the men and stared at the actors. The television lovers made him ache for his beloved Juanita. The ache was one of both love and desire. He felt pangs from his heart to his groin.
But a few drinks of smooth whiskey would shift his focus and fill his head with thoughts of easy money and the luxurious life of a rich man. The job that would make them rich was less than a week away. Ángel was getting anxious for his partner to tell him what exactly they were going to do and how they were going to get all that money.
“Tell me, Jimmie Joe. I need to know the plan. Don’t you trust me?”
Ángel feared his partner might think he was chicken because the job was too dangerous. Everyone who knew Ángel knew he was not some sort of stinking pollo.
“You, my young pardner, will find out real soon,” replied Jimmie Joe.
Sitting at a corner table with his back to the wall, Ángel ordered another whiskey, this time with a tequila chaser. He watched from a
few feet away as Jimmie Joe rubbed his ugly paw against the oversized round bottom of a fat gringo woman. The woman’s long, narrow face reminded him of an old caballo his grandfather had kept for many years. She even seemed to whinny when she talked. Ángel watched her push Jimmie Joe’s hand away many, many times. Each time it found its way back until the woman ignored it altogether as she smoked cigarette after cigarette, blowing smoke rings to impress Jimmie Joe, Ángel assumed. Ángel would never let Juanita smoke cigarettes. It would not be healthy when she started having babies and they became a real family. Ángel grinned widely as he imagined himself and Juanita running on the beach at San Miguel while their beautiful children made castles in the sand. He would be a proud padre. He would teach his son how to fish, how to play baseball, how to drive, how to fix things with his hands. Juanita would teach the girls how to be good people and make sure they had a good education. He dreamed of a thousand things they could do. He visualized the future he would build around his family. His heart felt good, at ease and hopeful.
“Hey! Hey, Ángel.”
The harsh order from Jimmie Joe’s mouth yanked him from his peaceful place.
“Are you sleeping on the job again or just daydreaming about being a gringo?”
The Diablo Blanco screeched out a fit of hideous laughter as Ángel opened his eyes. Standing by his side was the White devil with his hairy, tattooed arm draped around the fat woman, cupping her enormous breast. He pointed a deformed finger at Ángel.
“This here little fella,” said Jimmie Joe nodding toward Ángel. “He falls asleep when he’s awake and daydreams about his darling Juanita. You can tell just by the look on his face that is exactly what he was thinking about. Did you ever see such a stupid looking grin?”
Ángel smiled politely at the obese, smelly woman who was too drunk to pay attention to Jimmie Joe’s ramblings. He noticed she was barely able to stand without the big man’s support. Ángel worried that the fat woman might fall on top of him and crush him.
“Here.”
Jimmie Joe spun the woman around and pushed her down onto Ángel’s lap. Ángel grunted as he braced and steadied himself under the enormous weight of the fat horse-faced woman.
“Maybe you’d like a little piece of dark meat as an appetizer?”
The stout gringo woman reeked like a dirty bathroom floor. Drool rolled through her lips as she nibbled on Ángel’s ear. He swooned at the wretched odor of her stale perfume and offensive body odor.
“I don’t think I want to…” began Ángel.
“Wha..?” belched the woman. “You don’t like what you see? You don’t like these.”
She lifted her mammoth breasts and shoved them into Ángel’s face. Ashamed, he looked down. He saw only the dirt under the chipped polish of her broken fingernails.
“No, señorita, it is just that…”
His mind raced to find a way to explain to her about his beloved Juanita. He was in love. As a woman, even a drunken, ugly woman, surely she would understand. Ángel looked up to see the angry fire in Jimmie Joe’s eyes as he lustily ogled the woman’s drooping breasts. Ángel could only find false words for the plump woman. He told her she was beautiful and offered her a drink and some cigarettes.
“Are you shaying you don’t want me? You don’t want this?”
She lifted up her filthy skirt, showing off unshaven legs and pair of filthy panties. Her slurred words were carried on the air of her hideous breath. Before Ángel could answer a hand came out of nowhere, walloping him across the face.
“Well, I never! I never been turned down by no greasy, little Mexican taco. What are you, some kind of fudge bunny? What kind of man turns down a woman like me? Maybe you like boys instead of girls? I bet that’s it. Faggot. Sex freak!”
Before Ángel had a chance to answer, she slipped off his lap. Crashing onto the floor, her large rear end went ass over teakettle sending her shoes flying into the air. One of them smacked against Jimmie Joe’s forehead.
The ruckus caused the two old men sitting at the bar to turn just far enough to see the woman sprawled over the floor. Unimpressed, they turned back toward the television. In silent unison they reached for their beer glasses, tipped back their heads, and swallowed their beer.
The bartender walked out from behind the counter. He helped the drunken woman to her feet. She cursed at Ángel, flipped him off with her middle finger and stumbled into the ladies room.
“We can’t have that kind of ruckus in here, young man. You had better leave now,” said the bartender.
“But I didn’t do nothing,” protested Ángel.
“And you had better go with him,” he said to Jimmie Joe.
The bartender pulled back his vest, revealing a holstered pistol. Ángel knew the knife hidden in his right boot would not be much of a defense against the big gun. For half a second he considered cutting the man, slicing him across the wrist or in the face near the eye. Then suddenly, Juanita came to mind. He envisioned her smiling face, the silver cross he had given to her before he had gone to prison, gleaming on her beautiful skin as it hung around her tender brown neck. He reached down and touched the identical necklace she had given him. If he wanted to see Juanita, he needed to stay calm. He glanced toward Jimmie Joe whose hand slowly began creeping under his jacket toward the back of his belt where he carried his gun. Ángel jumped to his feet.
“It’s my fault and I am terribly sorry. We are leaving now. Come on, Jimmie Joe. Let’s go somewhere else and spend our money.”
Jimmie spit on the bartender’s shoe.
“Next time,” he said glaring into the bartender’s eyes. “I might not be in such a good mood.”
The outburst of laughter from Jimmie Joe brought a relieved smile to the bartender. The old men at the bar shook their heads ever so slightly as the strangers made their exit.
“We don’t need no trouble, Jimmie Joe. Let’s get out of town. It is bad luck for us here.”
Jimmie Joe seethed. Turning into the alley, he grabbed Ángel by the throat and stuck the gun against his temple.
“Don’t you ever tell me what to do. I make the decisions for both of us. I should have shot that son of a bitchin’ bartender right between his fucking eyes. But I didn’t know if you were with me or not. You screwed up in there. Don’t ever let it happen again--that is, if you want to live long enough to see Juanita.”
Instantly, the effects of the alcohol on Ángel’s brain passed.
Morenci and Earl’s Firebelly Lounge were bad luck. Morenci was the town where Ángel’s father had died almost twenty years earlier. He had been run off the road and killed by a drunken gringo. Even his blessed grandfather, who worked so many years for the Morenci mine, had bad luck here. The town was a cursed place for his family. Ángel closed his eyes. His prayers to the Blessed Virgin were juxtaposed by the cold steel of a gun barrel against his temple. Jimmie Joe slowly ran the barrel of the .38 around Ángel’s ear, tickling the cartilage, caressing the lobe.
In prison Ángel had heard one well-placed shot directly behind the ear would kill a man or, worse, leave him a vegetable. Juanita would not want to spend her life taking care of a cripple. Ángel would not wish that on her. He always knew the day might come when Jimmie Joe might kill him. Ángel prayed harder. The cold steel of the gun penetrated, it seemed, all the way to his brain. Sweat rolled down Ángel’s cheeks and onto his lips. An insane explosive peel of laughter shot from his partner’s mouth.
“You look so worried, my little muchacha. You think I am going to waste a bullet on you when we are so close to being rich? Ha ha ha. You little fucking idiot. You don’t even know how close we are to the money right where we stand.”
Ángel looked down the alley and across the street. What was Jimmie Joe talking about? Next to the bar was a clothing store, the gas company, a drug store, a small building with hand painted sign in the window that he couldn’t read and a bank. The bank? Was the Diablo Blanco crazy? Ángel wasn’t a bank robber.
“The bank?
You think we are going to rob the bank?”
Jimmie Joe doubled over with laughter at his own question.
“No, no, no. Not the bank—next door—the little building. Get in the truck, I’ll show you.”
Turning to look over his shoulder as he put the truck in reverse, Ángel noticed the left taillight glowing brightly as it reflected in a store window.
“Shine the headlights on that store with the writing on the window. Go ahead, put the bright lights on.”
Ángel looked up and down the street. It would be stupid to be noticed flashing high beams into a storefront. A cop might take notice of what they were doing. He said nothing, knowing that Jimmie would only beat him down for questioning anything the he said.
“See,” laughed Jimmie Joe. “Read that window.”
The whitewashed sign in the window came into view. Ángel stared at the words and the reflected white spots from his headlights.
MORENCI RODEO AND PIONEER MINING DAYS
OCTOBER 25TH AND 26TH
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
As Kate headed toward the door on her way to the Garcías’ place, Helen handed her a pair of day old phone messages. She apologetically explained to Deputy Steele that the messages had been accidentally stuck to the bottom of a file.
“Sheriff Hanks is on his way out to Felipe Madrigal’s property. He said you would know what it was all about.”