Tularosa

by Michael McGarrity

  He drove toward the freeway on-ramp, looking at the fax picture. So this was the cop Meehan wanted him to find and kill. No problem, Benton thought to himself. After all, damage control was his specialty. It gave him something to look forward to.

  THE PAINKILLERS the doctor had given Eddie made him woozy. He had spent the afternoon either chained to the cot or throwing up in the bathroom. Now Carlos stood over him, a clean white cook’s uniform in his hand.

  “So, you are going to live, Eddie,” Carlos predicted. There was a hint of friendliness in his voice. “Have you finished puking?”

  “It would seem so,” Eddie agreed, “although my stomach now thinks I am starving.”

  “There will be food for you.” Carlos picked his nose with his forefinger while he pushed his upper plate into place with his thumb. “Are you well enough to work tonight?”

  “Of course. I must. I gave my word to the patrón.”

  Carlos bent over and unshackled Eddie’s leg. “Friday night is very busy. Many of Don Enrique’s friends come early before leaving for their homes in the country. Clean yourself. Can you do it with one arm?”

  “I can manage,” Eddie answered, swinging his legs off the bed.

  “And your wound?” Carlos asked.

  Eddie stood and wiggled the fingers that protruded from the sling around his arm. “I must thank the doctor when I see him. The arm feels much better.”

  “Tomorrow he will stitch you,” Carlos reminded him. “Thank him then.”

  “I will,” Eddie replied, determined that in the morning, at the latest, he would be at the Fort Bliss military hospital being treated by an Army doctor who wasn’t on DeLeon’s pad.

  Carlos walked him to the dressing room and told him not to be long, as others might have need for the toilet. He would be outside, waiting. Eddie bathed quickly, keeping the wound dry as he sponged himself, washed his hair, and used his left hand to shave with a razor Carlos gave him, nicking himself several times. He dressed in the clean clothes—a much better fit than yesterday’s apparel—dried his hair, and adjusted the sling and the hump. He felt good enough to think about escaping. His plan was simple: given enough of a distraction he would run away.

  Carlos knocked at the door. Eddie opened it, and one of the cooks brushed by him on the way to the urinal, unbuttoning his fly as he went.

  “Time for your meal, jorobado,” Carlos noted, “and then to work.”

  “I am ready.” Eddie smiled at the ugly man as he handed back the razor.

  KERNEY STOOD INSIDE the Little Turtle and looked around the room. The gambling house was filled with well-dressed men and women busy placing bets, socializing, and milling about the casino. It had a party atmosphere to it, and from the way people mixed, it was not a gathering of strangers. Kerney picked out a bodyguard hovering near a man with a slick-looking woman draped on his arm, and another close by an older gentleman betting at a monte table.

  He counted six more bodyguards in the room before switching his attention to the bar. More muscle, Kerney thought to himself, as he sized up the man standing directly behind a table at the corner of the bar. A thug with acne scars and a bushy mustache, the bodyguard carefully scanned the room with watchful eyes. At the table the goon guarded, a man and a young woman were talking. On a bar stool to one side sat a hunchback dressed in a cook’s uniform, smiling stupidly at everybody.

  Kerney walked toward the table, and the bodyguard cut him off.

  “What do you want?” Carlos asked in heavy English, looking the gringo up and down. The man wore an expensive suit with an Italian cut that accentuated his square shoulders. He was tall and deeply tanned, with blue eyes that crinkled at the corners. He’s a big son of a bitch, Carlos thought to himself.

  Kerney smiled. “I have an appointment with Señor DeLeon,” he said in Spanish.

  “Your name?”

  “Kevin Kerney.”

  “You must wait, señor,” Carlos said, nodding at the table. DeLeon was still talking with the girl, who wore tight designer jeans and a scoop-neck silk top that revealed remarkable breasts. “I will tell the señor you are here.”

  Kerney nodded, slipped onto the empty stool next to the hunchback, watched Carlos walk quickly to DeLeon and whisper in his ear. DeLeon looked up in irritation, glanced at Kerney, nodded to the bodyguard, and returned to his conversation.

  Kerney watched DeLeon for a brief time and spoke to Eddie. “Are you bringing the customers luck?” he asked in Spanish, patting the hump.

  “I hope so, señor,” Eddie answered, trying to mask the astonishment he felt. Dressed up, Kerney looked like a major player, not at all like a shit-kicking cop from New Mexico.

  Kerney pointed to the sling and held out a twenty-dollar bill. “It looks like you didn’t keep any luck for yourself.”

  “A minor accident.” Eddie put the money in his pocket. “Thank you.” He glanced at Carlos and decided he couldn’t risk saying more.

  The girl with DeLeon pouted, stood up, flipped her long hair over a shoulder, kissed DeLeon on the cheek, and pranced off to a monte table. DeLeon gestured for Kerney to approach.

  “Señor Kerney,” he said, rising. “Please join me.”

  “Thank you.” Kerney studied DeLeon as he settled in. A good-looking man with pale blue eyes and strong features, freshly shaved and dressed in a tan business suit, DeLeon smiled back at him. His hands were soft and his nails manicured.

  “Francisco Posada said you wished to secure the services of a broker.”

  “That is correct.”

  “What type of products do you wish to ship?”

  “Artifacts.”

  DeLeon raised an eyebrow. “That covers a wide range.”

  Kerney handed DeLeon a typed copy of Gutierrez’s list and waited for a reaction.

  DeLeon scanned the contents and smiled warmly at Kerney, his mind racing. His chartered plane, scheduled to leave Mexico City for Hong Kong in two days, would carry an identical cargo. It was an impossible duplication.

  “Where did you get such treasures?” DeLeon inquired.

  “That’s not important,” Kerney countered. “Do you know anyone who specializes in such antiques?”

  “A select few deal in antiques,” DeLeon replied, tapping his fingers together in thought. “But all I see are items written on paper. Authentication would be necessary.”

  “I can provide samples,” Kerney replied, “but there is some urgency to the matter.”

  “I understand,” DeLeon replied. “Time is money, is it not? I have an associate who might be interested. May I keep the list to show him?”

  Kerney didn’t like the idea, but he had no choice. “Certainly.”

  DeLeon folded the papers and put them in a pocket. “Excellent. Could you return later this evening?”

  “Will your associate be joining us?”

  “Yes. Come back after midnight.” DeLeon stood and offered Kerney his hand. “I’m sure we can accommodate you.”

  “I look forward to it,” Kerney said.

  He shook DeLeon’s hand and left, walking past a man at the door entering the club. The man eyed Kerney intensely. He had a weight lifter’s build, gray eyes, and a small scar on his chin. Kerney nodded and kept moving.

  Benton pushed his way through the crowd to DeLeon, who whispered something to Carlos as the bodyguard leaned across the table.

  DeLeon’s eyes snapped when he saw Benton. “Wait,” he ordered Carlos. He shoved some papers across the table at Benton. “What is going on?” he demanded.

  “He’s a cop,” Benton said, thumbing through the inventory.

  “How did he get the list?”

  “Our courier died in a traffic accident. The inventory was in his vehicle, and the cop found it. He’s just snooping around.”

  “And the last shipment?”

  “Still on the base. We’ll get it out.”

  “Are you lying to me, Benton?

  Benton shook his head. “The cop’s name is Kevin Kerney. H
e’s a sheriff’s lieutenant from Las Cruces. All he has is the fucking list. I swear it.”

  “Then you will dispose of Lieutenant Kerney, instead of Carlos.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Do it,” DeLeon ordered, his eyes narrow, “and clean up after yourself when you’re finished.” He walked toward the young woman in the scoop-neck top and the stone-washed jeans, who was still at the monte table, betting heavily.

  OUTSIDE THE CLUB, Kerney looked for a taxi. Expensive automobiles were double-parked around the small plaza, blocking most incoming traffic, and there were no waiting or cruising cabs. A fat cop with an enormous head wandered between the cars, his hand resting on his pistol grip. Kerney gave him some money and asked him where he could get a taxi.

  “I can call one for you, señor,” Dominguez replied. “It can be here in less than ten minutes.”

  Kerney could see the thoroughfare about a mile in the distance, down the narrow residential street leading from the plaza. He didn’t like the idea of waiting. It only gave DeLeon time to have him followed, which was a sure bet.

  “The night air feels good,” Kerney said. “I’ll walk. Thanks anyway.”

  He started out at a brisk pace, looking for something he could use as a weapon if DeLeon decided to send some muscle after him, which was another possibility. What he really wanted was the pistol safely locked in the glove compartment of his truck.

  CARLOS WATCHED Benton hurry from the club and felt Eddie tugging on his sleeve.

  “I must go to the baño,” Eddie announced, in a loud voice. Several people at the bar looked up from their drinks.

  “Not now,” Carlos answered.

  “I will soil myself,” Eddie rejoined shrilly, trying to look miserable. “My bowels are loose.”

  Carlos gave him a peevish look. “If you must go, be quick about it.”

  “I won’t be but a minute.” Eddie scooted toward the cantina, almost knocking over a waiter coming through the swinging door. He moved through the kitchen to the rear door and ran into the alley. No one tried to stop him. The lane paralleled the plaza and ran straight to the main drag. Eddie took off in a sprint, tugging his arm out of the sling. He ripped off his shirt, yanked the harness free, and threw the contraption to the ground. He veered through the backyard of a small house and onto the street, stopping to catch his breath. Ahead, he could see Kerney walking toward the strip, making slow progress. He stepped into the darkness at the side of a house and checked for Benton behind him. Nothing yet. The street was quiet. A few viejos were on the front steps of a house, enjoying the mild evening.

  Eddie froze as a car drove out of the plaza coming in his direction. As it passed under a streetlamp, Eddie recognized the driver and relaxed; it was one of DeLeon’s customers. He started running again. He had heard DeLeon order Kerney killed, and he needed to reach the lieutenant before Benton showed up.

  GREG BENTON saw an obese cop at the end of the square chasing some kids away from a Range Rover. He called him over, gave him a fistful of dollars, and asked about a gringo in a suit with a limp. The cop pointed in the direction of the main drag and told him Kerney was on foot. He ran his car up on the sidewalk to avoid the parked vehicles on the plaza, found an opening, bumped into the street, and floored the gas pedal, burning rubber as he accelerated toward the strip. He flicked on his high beams and saw two men on the sidewalk about a hundred yards apart. He passed the first one; some punk in white pants running at full tilt. Up ahead Kerney moved in an awkward gait. Benton laughed; it was a ludicrous sight.

  First Kerney, Benton decided. If the kid posed a problem, he would deal with it later.

  Kerney heard the car coming and left the street at a run, disappearing between two houses. Tires screeched on the street, and he ran faster. He pulled himself over a backyard fence, ducked under the low branches of a tree, and doubled back down the cobblestone alley. He needed to find cover and something to use as a weapon.

  Benton left the car in the street and gave chase on foot. He stopped at a backyard fence next to an alley, where the low branch of a tree moved gently in the still air. He listened for sounds and heard a slight clacking of heels on the cobblestones. Kerney was moving back toward the Little Turtle. Benton smiled to himself and reached for the knife in his ankle sheath. It would be a good hunt after all. He stepped into the alley and started stalking.

  As far as Kerney could tell, he was alone in the alley. He found the jagged top of an oil drum that had been cut with a welding torch and a stubby piece of metal pipe. They would have to do. He stood with his back against the wall of a shed listening to the rats inside squeak at his presence. He knew someone was out there, going, he hoped, in the wrong direction.

  He took a fast look down the alley. The light from the concourse gave him enough illumination to pick up any movement. Nothing. A car door slammed and he pulled back his head. The sound was followed by rapid, loud Spanish. Somebody wanted to know who the asshole was who had left his car parked in the middle of the street.

  He looked again and saw movement, a shadowy ripple against the light. The movement stopped under a solitary tree, a good fifty feet away. Slowly Kerney crouched down, hoping his attacker would be searching at eye level. Risking one last glimpse, Kerney saw a discernible shape moving cautiously in his direction.

  Kerney held his breath and waited until the man was almost on top of him. When he saw the knife, he came out of his crouch and swung the stubby pipe at the man’s head.

  Benton skipped back and kicked, the blow landing full force on Kerney’s bad knee. The leg caved in and put Kerney on his back. Rolling to avoid another kick, he threw the lid as a distraction and scrambled to his feet, his back against the shed wall, waiting for the man’s next move. He was the gray-eyed bodybuilder with the scar on his chin.

  Benton laughed. He had a knife in his hand, held low so it could rip into the belly. “Can’t you do any better than that?” he jeered.

  Benton stepped in for the kill, feinting an overhand lunge at Kerney’s chest. He stopped the thrust in midair, rotated his wrist, and arched the blade up to slash Kerney’s gut. Kerney slammed the metal pipe on Benton’s wrist.

  Benton grunted and sprang back as Kerney tried to swipe him across the face. “Now you’re trying,” he said indulgently.

  The son of a bitch isn’t even breathing hard, Kerney marveled. His knee locked up as he circled to the center of the alley.

  Benton turned with him, relaxed and watchful. He came at Kerney in a textbook move: wheeling, faking a kick, driving the point of the knife at Kerney’s exposed torso. Stepping into the thrust, Kerney turned sideways, caught the knife hand, locked the pipe against the wrist, and wrenched it back with all his strength until the bones snapped.

  Benton yelled in agony as the knife clattered to the ground, and hammered a solid left into Kerney’s eye with his good hand. Kerney held on to the wrist, trying to bend the man to his knees.

  Refusing to go down, Benton hit Kerney again, flush in the mouth, followed by a solid smash to the stomach. The blow put Kerney on his hands and knees, with a searing pain that exploded in his stomach. His vision blurred, he clawed desperately on the cobblestones, searching for the pipe. He had to get to his feet. He tried to push himself upright. The knee failed, and as he tried again he felt the knife against his throat.

  “You son of a bitch,” Benton rasped. “You broke my fucking wrist.”

  The man bent over him, his gray eyes locked on Kerney’s face, savoring his victory. Get it over with, Kerney’s mind screamed.

  The jagged oil-drum top came out of nowhere, like a discus. The rusty, sharp edge caught Benton in the neck and severed the artery. Blood gushed over Kerney as Benton turned toward his attacker, both hands clutching his neck. He crumpled to the ground, his dying heart pumping blood into a pool that seeped into the porous cobblestones around his head.

  Kerney clutched his stomach, blinked away the pain, looked at the man walking toward him, and didn’t
believe what he saw. It was the hunchback from the Little Turtle, only he wasn’t a jorobado anymore. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, speaking between the jolts that ripped through his stomach.

  “Eddie Tapia. Provost Marshal’s Office. Criminal investigations. White Sands.” He bent over Kerney. “Are you all right, Lieutenant?”

  “No, I’m not all right.”

  Eddie inspected Kerney again, more closely. He was beat up, but the damage seemed superficial. “You seem to be in one piece,” he said.

  “Hardly.”

  “Are you cut?”

  Kerney shook his head. “Forget it. Just a private joke.” He held out a hand. “Help me up.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Of course I can.”

  On his feet, Kerney felt light-headed. If he could puke, maybe he would feel better. He swayed, and Eddie grabbed him around the waist to keep him steady.

  “Can you make it to Benton’s car?” Eddie asked.

  “Benton’s car?” Kerney repeated vaguely, wondering if Benton was the dead man.

  “Yeah. He left the keys in the ignition.”

  “Let’s go.”

  At the car, Eddie checked for any sign of Carlos, hurried Kerney inside the vehicle, and drove to the main drag as quickly as possible. Surrounded by Friday-night traffic and heading toward the bridge, he risked a glance at Kerney. The lieutenant, doubled over with his head between his legs, seemed to be gagging.

  Kerney sat up and rested his head against the back of the seat. “I just threw up,” he said. “Sorry about that.”

  “I know how it feels,” Eddie said. He sniffed, wrinkled his nose, rolled down the window, and turned on the air conditioner. “Mind telling me what the fuck is going on?” Eddie asked.

  ENRIQUE DELEON paced on the loading dock waiting for Carlos to return with Eddie. Carlos would have to be punished. His inattentiveness had allowed the jorobado to flee. A beating would improve his attitude. He heard footsteps running down the alley. The warehouse foreman moved to his side protectively, pistol in hand. Carlos arrived winded, and stood looking up at DeLeon with a distressed expression. He placed a bundle on the dock at DeLeon’s feet.