Tularosa

by Michael McGarrity

  DeLeon had decided to add one of the swords and scabbards from the missile range shipment to his collection of antiques. He would hang it over the fireplace at the hacienda. He also decided to keep Eduardo, the jorobado. The hunchback seemed intelligent. He would house him in the old cantina with Duffy until he was sure Eddie was trustworthy. If it worked out, Eduardo could do small, useful errands for DeLeon when he wasn’t entertaining customers. DeLeon liked his decision. Now that the Little Turtle was fully revived and profitable, the hunchback would add good fortune to the casino.

  MAJOR TOM CURRY felt particularly good. His daily session at the piano had been a resounding success. Finally he could approximate the unique left-handed roll of Erroll Garner. He was so pleased with himself he ran through five renditions of “I’ll Remember April” before his wife told him it was time to get dressed and go to work.

  He entered Sara Brannon’s office humming the bridge to the melody. She swiveled her chair away from the desk and stood up, her expression guarded.

  “Relax, Sara,” Curry said. “I’m not here to chew you out again.”

  “Major…”

  Tom cut her off with a wave of his hand. One apology was sufficient. “It’s a new day, Sara. Let’s leave it at that. I have news for you. Our sister service, the Navy, has just informed me that Petty Officer Yardman turned himself in to the San Diego shore patrol a week ago. Your analysis was right on. It seems he went on quite a crime spree in Mexico to support his gambling habit. The police chased him from Juárez to Tijuana before he crossed the border. Nice of the Navy to let us know so promptly, wouldn’t you say?”

  “That is good news,” Sara said, her voice brightening. She sat down at her desk and changed the subject. “Agent Johnson called and gave me his preliminary findings.”

  “Did your story hold water?”

  “So far. But there’s more I need to tell you.”

  Curry sat down in the chair in front of Sara’s desk, his good mood evaporating. “What is it?” he asked tersely.

  Sara took a deep breath and started talking. She held nothing back about Kerney’s discovery of Gutierrez’s inventory, his theory of the source of the treasure, and his decision to try to find the pipeline into Mexico.

  After the briefing, Curry left Sara’s office feeling relieved and damn glad that this Kerney fellow was in Juárez, and not Sara. If what she said was true, and he had no reason to doubt her, the value of the treasure, historically and monetarily, was astounding. If artifacts of such importance vanished from the missile range, he would have to explain it to some very unhappy people with stars on their collars. And it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference that nobody knew about the treasure until it was stolen. The case was either a career-maker or career-breaker for Sara.

  Failure to solve a case of such importance would dampen Curry’s retirement party, which was not that far off. Curry didn’t like that thought; it would be much better to go out on a high note. He went back to Sara’s office and told her he wanted all available investigators assigned to the Yazzi homicide, and every piece of evidence, every interview, and every report gone over with a fine-tooth comb.

  “Keep Tapia in Juárez,” he ordered. “Tell him to back up that sheriff’s officer, if he can find him. And not a word to anybody about the treasure, Sara,” he cautioned. “Keep it under wraps.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Curry left, Sara almost whooped with delight as she reached for the phone.

  AFTER MIDNIGHT, the clientele at the Little Turtle changed, this time dramatically. The bohemians, young couples, families, and run-of-the-mill gamblers were gone, replaced by fashionable men and sleek ladies, some with bodyguards. The women were as elegant as any Eddie had seen in the fashion magazines Isabel brought home from the grocery store. The men were dressed in suits that cost more than Eddie made in three months, and sported watches of thick gold and jewels. The women favored diamond necklaces, pins, and earrings.

  DeLeon had assigned a watchdog to Eddie, a middle-aged thug named Carlos. His face was pockmarked, his breath smelled of garlic, and he had an upper plate of false teeth that he constantly adjusted with his thumb. A bushy mustache completely covered Carlos’s upper lip, and a low forehead gave him the appearance of a permanent frown.

  Eddie was told to greet arriving guests at the entrance. Carlos stayed with him, twitching his fingers at the hem of his suit coat to keep the shoulder holster under his armpit hidden.

  By two in the morning the Little Turtle resembled a commodities market for smugglers, drug wholesalers, and politicians. Deals were being made by men throughout the room, in person and on cellular telephones, while the women gambled, drank, and socialized in small groups. Eddie made good money at the door, by Mexican standards, most of it in American dollars. Carlos, as a payment for his attentiveness, took half of it off the top.

  ENRIQUE DELEON moved among his guests, occasionally glancing at the door to watch the jorobado, who seemed to be a popular attraction. DeLeon wore a white linen banded collar shirt under a black linen jacket, with dark gray trousers. At his side, the director for cultural affairs solicited a donation.

  “You know how important the García Mansion is to the people of Juárez. And so close to the mayor’s residence. We cannot allow it to be razed,” Ramón Olivares said.

  DeLeon looked down at him. Olivares, short, pudgy, and sweating, smiled up at him.

  “It would be a tragedy,” Enrique said. “Have you plans for the building?”

  “A fine arts museum. The mayor supports it.”

  DeLeon nodded approvingly. “Have you a sum in mind?”

  “We’re asking one hundred thousand dollars from benefactors,” Olivares replied.

  “Of course, I’ll participate,” DeLeon said, knowing Olivares would pocket 10 percent of the donations, “but Ramón, I’ll want something more than my name on a plaque.”

  Ramón’s smile turned into a knowing grin. “As always. I have a Spanish Colonial wardrobe from the seventeenth century in storage. A modest piece, but significant. I had planned to consign it for auction. It would look perfectly at home in your hacienda, once the renovation is complete.”

  “What was to be the minimum bid?” DeLeon asked.

  “Five thousand dollars,” Ramón replied, “but if it catches your eye, I would gladly present it to you as a gift.”

  DeLeon laughed and patted Olivares on the shoulder. “You must show it to me. Do you like my jorobado?”

  “He’s wonderful.”

  BY THE TIME Eddie was relieved of duty it was four in the morning and the crowd was rapidly thinning out. Carlos took him into the cantina and shackled his leg to the steel frame of the empty cot. Duffy, also chained for the night, was sprawled on his rack and snoring in spurts through an open mouth.

  Eddie, exhausted, tried to stay awake. He loosened the harness slightly to reduce the pain in his shoulders and stretched his muscles as much as he dared. He covered himself with a sheet to hide the hump and rolled on his side. One more day in the disguise was all he would chance. But with Carlos as his jailer, he would need to figure a way to escape. His eyes were heavy. Just a catnap, he said to himself as he drifted off to sleep.

  Sounds of pots and pans in the kitchen at the back of the cantina woke Eddie. He lay motionless, eyes shut, angry at himself for falling asleep. He couldn’t feel the hump between his shoulders. The device had slipped out of place, and the sheet no longer covered him. He heard breathing and felt a slight movement next to his face. He opened one eye and saw Duffy kneeling, looking him squarely in the face.

  “You ain’t no fucking hunchback, are you?” Duffy hissed. His long, stringy hair and beard hid his face, except for the revengeful smile. “Just another wetback hustler, ain’t you, Eddie? Too bad you don’t talk English. I don’t know if I should fuck you up myself or let DeLeon do it. He doesn’t like bogus beggars. I think he’d hurt you pretty bad. Comprende?”

  “Qué?” Eddie said, staying very still.
>
  “This shitty disguise,” Duffy responded, reaching across Eddie to shake the loose hump, “is what I’m talking about. Plus you fucked me with DeLeon. I had to kiss your little Mexican ass. I got enough trouble without you giving me grief.”

  “Donde es Señor DeLeon?” Eddie replied, looking as confused as possible. Early-morning sun seeped through the cracks of the plywood-covered windows. The light from the kitchen spilled across the floor between the partitions to the sleeping area. The sounds from the kitchen continued. Maybe two cooks at work preparing food for the vendors, Eddie figured. No more.

  “He ain’t here, asshole, that’s for certain.” Duffy’s smile turned wicked. “And I ain’t gonna wait to tell him about you.”

  Duffy’s right hand, out of sight at the side of the cot, came up fast. He slashed with a knife at Eddie’s throat. Eddie blocked the path of the knife with his right forearm and took a deep cut below the elbow. He gouged Duffy’s eye with his left thumb. Duffy pulled back, yelped in pain, and stabbed again, missing completely. Eddie flung himself at Duffy. The leg iron kept him chained to the cot. He sank the edge of his left palm into Duffy’s throat, driving the blow as deeply as possible. Duffy choked and recoiled, rocked back on his knees, and pulled Eddie with him. Fighting to keep his leverage, Eddie reached up, grabbed Duffy’s chin with both hands, and snapped Duffy’s head with all his strength. Their faces were inches apart. He heard a distinct crack and let go. Duffy, still on his knees, fell over, gurgling through his shattered larynx, his eyes fixed on Eddie.

  Eddie fell on top of him. He could hear Duffy’s death rattle. He pushed himself off the body and crawled backward until he was able to get on the cot. His heart pounded in his chest and his ears were ringing. Reaching back with his wounded arm, he tried to tighten the harness under his shirt. The movement brought tears to his eyes. The knife wound hurt like hell. He used his left hand to fix the hump and pulled his shirt down. There was blood soaking through his sleeve and onto the sheet.

  He heard footsteps. An old man wearing a splattered apron came around the partition. His wrinkled face was weary and dull-looking.

  “What have you done to Duffy?” the man asked, looking from the body to Eddie. His voice was agitated.

  “He tried to kill me. Call the patrón.”

  The old man’s mustache twitched. “You are bleeding.”

  “Yes,” Eddie answered through clenched teeth. “The gringo tried to kill me,” he repeated.

  The old man didn’t move. His expression was heavy with confusion. “Are you also dying?”

  “No. Get me a towel to stop the blood and call DeLeon,” Eddie snarled through clenched teeth.

  The man slowly took a filthy hand towel from his back pocket and handed it to Eddie. “I must call the patrón,” the old man announced.

  “Do that, by all means.”

  “José,” the old man called out to his partner. “The gringo Duffy is dead and the hunchback is much wounded. We will have no help in the kitchen this morning.”

  José rushed in to see for himself. The men muttered, shook their heads, and said the patrón would not be happy. Eddie listened to their jabbering as they debated what should be said and who would speak on the telephone to DeLeon. After an agreement was reached, the cooks left to make the call. Eddie bound the wound with the towel, tying it off with his good hand and his teeth. When he finished, he looked at Duffy. He had never killed a man before. It was not pleasant. He couldn’t tell Isabel about this, he thought. She would have him lighting candles for Duffy’s soul for the rest of his life.

  He wondered what Captain Brannon would think. He decided she would not like it at all. One dead man at his feet, no leads on Lieutenant Kerney, and he was chained to a frigging bed with no way to get help.

  He could not risk discovery as an impostor. He worked on a story he could use with DeLeon. It took a long time before the two cooks ushered DeLeon and Carlos to his cot.

  DeLeon took in the scene without comment. His face was harsh. Carlos, arms folded across his chest, adjusted his false teeth with his thumb and said nothing. The two cooks stayed back, out of DeLeon’s range.

  “Explain,” DeLeon finally said to Eddie.

  “I cannot. I awoke to find Duffy kneeling at the side of my bed. He spoke in English. He was angry about something. He had a knife. He attacked me.”

  “You understood nothing?” Enrique queried. His eyes searched Eddie’s face.

  “He said your name several times,” Eddie answered. “I think he blamed me for getting him in trouble with you.”

  “How did the attack take place?”

  “He tried to cut my throat. I threw up my arm to ward off the blade. I could not move away because of the chain. He cut my arm.”

  Deleon turned to the pudgy-faced cook. “Was the hunchback chained?”

  “Yes, patrón. I only released Duffy from his bed, as I do every morning.”

  DeLeon nodded and returned his attention to Eddie. “You killed him very neatly, jorobado.”

  “I did not know what I was doing. I am sorry, patrón.”

  DeLeon gave him a skeptical look and pointed at the body. “You are not listening. You gouge Duffy’s eye, shatter his Adam’s apple, break his neck. These are not the skills of a beggar.”

  “It was by accident, señor.” Eddie whined. “Truly. I only fought to defend myself. I was much frightened. I could not escape him. My finger poked his eye as I tried to push him away. I think maybe my elbow hit him in the throat as we struggled. We fell. I was almost off the bed, lying against him as he tried to stab me again. His neck twisted under my weight. I heard the snap. He did not move, and then the old man came to see what had happened.”

  DeLeon returned his attention to the cook. “Did you find Duffy where he now rests?”

  The old man looked at the body. “Yes, patrón. Exactly.”

  “Where did the butcher knife come from?”

  The old man blushed. “He stole it from the kitchen. I was unobservant.” He wrung the towel he clutched in shaky hands.

  “Go back to work,” DeLeon ordered the cooks. The men scurried out of sight. “Carlos, give me your opinion.”

  “It is possible. An awkward struggle, perhaps.”

  “You are not convinced?”

  “The jorobado has strong arms and a thick chest. He fought for his life. Perhaps it gave him added power.”

  “Perhaps,” DeLeon reflected. “Let me see the wound. Carlos, unbind it.”

  Eddie raised his arm so Carlos could untie the bloody towel. DeLeon waited for Carlos to roll up the sleeve and wipe away some of the blood.

  “It is a deep cut to the bone,” Carlos reported. “Duffy damaged him.”

  “Very well,” DeLeon said in a less caustic tone. “Call for the doctor to come and then remove Duffy’s body.”

  Carlos nodded, adjusted his upper plate, stepped over the corpse, and left to do his chore.

  “Were you not wounded, I would have you replace Duffy in the kitchen,” DeLeon said, “to learn a lesson. As it is, you will stay chained to the bed until the doctor tells me whether or not you will require more extensive care.”

  “What will you do with me, Don Enrique?”

  DeLeon sighed and prodded the body with the toe of his shoe. “Duffy is no great loss. He was not going to be with us much longer anyway. I do not tolerate those who lie or steal from me. Duffy did both. Have you lied to me, Eduardo?”

  “No, Don Enrique.”

  “Very well. I will accept your story for now and pay for your care.”

  “I will work for you tonight,” Eddie proposed. He had to get unchained. “I will work with one arm, if necessary, patrón. I will repay your kindness with loyalty and labor.”

  DeLeon chuckled in amazement. “Were you a whole man, Eduardo, I would have much better work for you to do. Your tenacity is strong. If the doctor agrees, you may work tonight.”

  “Thank you.”

  DeLeon gave him one last searching lo
ok and left. The subservient expression on Eddie’s face vanished. He was getting tired of kissing DeLeon’s ass. The man was nothing but a gangster. More than ever, Eddie wanted to get back to the United States.

  Carlos dragged Duffy’s body away, and the cooks brought clean bed linens. They moved Eddie to Duffy’s cot, secured him with the leg iron, and changed the bloodstained sheets, muttering to each other about the loss of Duffy’s help in the kitchen and the unfair burden it placed upon them.

  The doctor arrived promptly. He was a harried-looking man about thirty who talked to himself during the examination. Round-shouldered, wearing a rumpled suit, he had a narrow face, and his nostrils flared above a wide upper lip. He asked no questions about the knifing and deferred to Eddie’s request to stay fully clothed. He cut the shirt sleeve away, studied the wound, and pronounced it nonlethal. He told Eddie he might lose some mobility in the arm if it wasn’t quickly repaired. Eddie asked how long he could wait for the surgery.

  “I would be reluctant to see you delay for more than two days,” the doctor answered. “It would be best to fix the damage now so that the scarring will be minimized.”

  “How long would it take?”

  “One night in the hospital.”

  Eddie could not risk going to the hospital. “I have promised Don Enrique I will work tonight. It is a matter of honor that I do so.”

  “Carlos said you were a tough jorobado.” He raised a finger and shook it under Eddie’s nose. “Do not use the arm. I will disinfect and tape the gash, bind it, and give you a painkiller. I will fashion a sling for you and tell Carlos to bring you to the hospital tomorrow morning.” He opened his bag and began removing his medical supplies.