Revenge of the Dog Team

by William W. Johnstone

  The corners of the stranger’s mouth quirked upward at that, in what could have been a small smile. He sat down on Brady’s right, facing the cemetery, resting his back against a nearby tree.

  Whatever was in the brown paper bag, its contents both rattled metallically and made a liquid gurgle, sending Brady’s heartbeat hammering. Yes, it must be—!

  Indicating the scene below, the stranger said, “Looks like the show’s about to start.” If by show, he meant burial, he was right. The grave site was packed with black-clad mourners, dozens, scores of them. The immediate family sat in the front row of several rows of folding chairs under the green, open-sided canopy. They sat closest to the open grave. Not a chair under the canopy was unfilled. Many more persons, men, women, and children, stood on the sides, grouped in an arc that curved around the open grave. A complicated, slinglike apparatus held a big black coffin suspended over the grave. Ornate and oversized, it was an ebony oblong box with gleaming bronze handles.

  “Nice to be out of the sun,” the stranger said. Unrolling the top of the brown paper bag, he reached in and hauled out a six-pack of beer, tallboys, each about the size of a can of tennis balls. Condensation gleamed on their sides like a beadwork of jewels. Twisting one free from the plastic webbing, he offered it to Brady, saying, “Care to join me?”

  Brady managed to croak, “Don’t mind if I do.” He reached for it, his hands shaking. He held it in both hands to keep from dropping it. He popped the top, white foam bubbling out the wide-mouthed opening. Mindful of some obscure shred of dignity, he fought to keep from guzzling it dry in one mighty chug.

  The stranger said, “I hate to drink alone.”

  Brady said, “Mighty kind of you, friend, mighty kind.”

  “The name’s Kilroy,” the other said, holding out a hand. Brady gripped it, shaking it.

  “Brady, I’m Brady. Folks hereabouts call me Hard Tack.”

  “Glad to know you, Hard Tack. Well, here’s how.” Kilroy drank some beer.

  Brady did the same. The next thing he knew, there was a tingling wetness in his mouth, throat, and innards, and an empty beer can in his hand. One was too many, and an ocean of beer wouldn’t be enough. Hell, he didn’t even like beer. The hard stuff, red-eye, was what he preferred.

  Beggars can’t be choosers, though, and to him that first tall, cool one was as manna raining down from heaven on the desert.

  Kilroy said, “Man sure works up a thirst in this heat, and that’s a fact.” Yet he was still nursing his first. Gesturing toward what was now a four-pack, he said, “Help yourself, Hard Tack.”

  “If you’re sure you can spare it, Mr. Kilroy…”

  “Kilroy, just plain Kilroy. Be my guest.”

  “Thank you kindly.” Brady forced himself to slow down, to make this one last. To do so was a triumph of willpower, but he succeeded. Dimly aware that Kilroy had just said something, Brady said, “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that last.”

  “I said, who’s that getting planted down there?” Kilroy nodded toward the grave site.

  “You must be new to Adobe Flats, Mr. Kilroy.”

  “Kilroy,” the other corrected.

  “Kilroy,” Brady repeated, nodding. “That is—was—one of our leading citizens, Mr. Choey Maldonado, taken from us all too tragically soon, too young.”

  “They’re sure giving him a hell of a send-off. There’s more flowers down there than at a Mob funeral.”

  Brady gave him a sharp look. “I thought you said you were new to our town.”

  “Just got in today,” Kilroy said.

  “Then you’re a good guesser. The Maldonados are the biggest crooks in Adobe Flats.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “Pardon me. I misspoke. The Maldonados are not the biggest crooks in town. They’re one half of the biggest crooks in town. The other half is Sime Simmonds,” Brady said. Somehow, he had started on his third beer. He went on. “The Maldonados run this part of town, the Mexican-American section. Simmonds runs the north, Anglo half.”

  “I get you,” Kilroy said. “It’s equal opportunity for crooks.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  Pointing at a couple of police cars parked outside the graveyard’s gates, Kilroy said, “And the law?”

  Brady said, “Equal-opportunity grafters. They take from both sides.”

  “Seems fair.”

  Brady took another mouthful, letting the beer tingle on his tongue before swallowing. A comfortable fullness nestled in his belly, and warmth circulated through his veins. For the first time in some hours—since the last time he’d had a drink—he felt like he could catch his breath again. He had a slight buzz; his head was starting to feel unmoored from the rest of him.

  Under the glow, he began to feel expansive. He started pointing out the various members of the Maldonados seated in the front row under the canopy. “The old gal with the white hair, that’s Mama Rita, the matriarch of the clan. Standing next to her, on her right, that’s Rio. He runs the family business.”

  Rio took up a lot of space. Kilroy said, “Big fella, ain’t he?”

  Brady nodded. “Meaner than a rattlesnake, too.”

  “Bad man to cross, eh?”

  “Poison,” Brady said. “The one sitting next to Mama Rita is Leandro. Her firstborn, but Rio runs the outfit, even though he was her second.”

  Kilroy said, “Leandro doesn’t kick about taking a backseat?”

  “Nope. Leandro, he ain’t much for thinking, while that Rio, he’s smart as a whip. Big brother’s content to sit back and let Rio do the brainwork while the money rolls in.”

  “And the woman sitting next to Leandro?”

  “Lupe. The sister.”

  Kilroy’s eyes narrowed. “Even from here, looks like she’s got a pretty good shape on her.”

  Brady chuckled wheezily. “That’s probably what the male black widow spider says just before mating with the female of the species. You know about black widows?” Kilroy did know, but it was easier to let Brady go on talking. The other warmed to his subject. “The black widow mates with the male, and after she’s had her fun, she kills him and eats him,” Brady said.

  Kilroy said, “Sounds like my ex-wife.”

  “Not hardly, mister. You’re still around.”

  “This Lupe’s a real black widow, huh?”

  “She’s buried three husbands, and not one of ’em died a natural death. They all had big life insurance policies, too. She only killed one, though, as far as I know. Cut his throat from ear to ear with a bread knife.”

  “Nice.”

  “Never went to trial. The grand jury no-billed her. Ruled it was self-defense.”

  “And the other two?”

  “One was killed in a drug gang shootout and the other died in a car wreck,” Brady said. He noticed that his beer can was empty. “This talking’s thirsty work…”

  Kilroy handed him another can. “Enjoy.”

  “Much obliged.”

  Kilroy gathered up the empties, dropping them in the brown paper bag. “Don’t want to go littering up a graveyard.” He was still working on his first beer. He must not be very thirsty, Brady guessed, so Brady didn’t mind drinking up the lion’s share of the brews. Why not, since Kilroy wasn’t kicking about it?

  A balding man with a shaggy black beard and a barrel torso stood behind and to the side of Rio. He leaned forward to say a few words in Rio’s ear.

  “That’s Hector,” Brady said. “He’s what you’d call their foreman. Decent enough, so long as you’re not in the way of any Maldonado interests. In which case, he’d squash you like a bug.”

  A small knot of persons came over to Mama Rita to express their condolences. Brady pointed out the ones he knew. “That blond fellow, the Anglo, is Maddox Kent. Handles the family’s legal business.”

  A group of three went to the matriarch: a dark-haired, bearded, middle-aged man; a matronly woman with a chunky physique and a black scarf tied covering most of her orange-co
lored hair and knotted under her chin; and a young woman with frumpy dark hair, glasses, and no makeup, wearing a shapeless sack dress, knee socks, and clunky shoes.

  Brady said, “Bert Sarkesian, runs a big carpet and furniture store in town. A newcomer to Adobe Flats, only been here a couple of years. Legitimate, from what I heard, but it don’t hurt even a straight businessman to pay his respects to the Maldonados. You sure don’t want to get on their wrong side. The old gal built like a pillowcase full of doorknobs is his sister; the young ’un’s his niece.”

  The Sarkesians moved, making way for a young blond woman, alone and unescorted, who wore dark glasses, a black dress, black wrist-length gloves, and high-heeled shoes. Long hair was done up in a bun at the top of her head. The sunglasses with their oversized lenses covered much of her face, creating a masklike, vaguely insectoid appearance. With the heels, she was about six feet tall, wide-shouldered and slim-waisted, with a full-breasted, long-legged figure that made Kilroy sit up and take notice.

  He said, “Well, hello!”

  Observing his reaction, Brady said, “Whoa, boy, better simmer down and take it easy.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Vangie Lynn. A dancer, what you might call a kind of local celebrity. Star attraction over to Sime Simmonds’ club.”

  Kilroy cut Brady a quick sidelong glance. “Dancer, you say.”

  Brady said, “The kind that takes off her clothes.”

  “She even looks good with them on. Enough to make the dead man sit up and take notice.”

  “Don’t think he didn’t try. Choey wanted to make her real bad, but she was way out of his league.”

  Vangie Lynn stood talking to Rio for some time, he holding her gloved hands in his oversized mitts all the while. Leaning forward, she gave him a hug and kissed him on the cheek before moving on toward the rear of the canopy.

  Brady said, “Whew! That’s sure gonna stir up some heat.”

  Kilroy said, “It already has, as far as I’m concerned. And in the right places, too.”

  Brady shook his head. “That’s not the kind of heat I meant.”

  “I did.”

  “You young fellows, that’s all you got on your mind, ain’t it.”

  “Not exactly on the mind, old-timer.”

  Brady snorted. “Vangie Lynn’s bespoken for. The sheriff’s got it bad for her, real bad. Sheriff Boyle, that is. He’s the number-one son of a bitch in Adobe Flats, at least in the law enforcement department. He’s torching pretty hard for Vangie.”

  Kilroy said, “Judging by her and Rio, looks like she’s capable of bespeaking for herself.”

  “That’s Vangie Lynn for you. She does as she pleases,” Brady said, admiration coloring the tone of his voice. “And her working for Sime Simmonds, too. Ol’ Sime and Rio are oil and water. They don’t mix. There’s bad blood between them, and Choey’s death ain’t helped cool things down any. Quite the contrary. Ol’ Sime, he ain’t gonna cotton to Vangie Lynn’s showing up for the funeral.”

  Kilroy said, “Speaking of star attractions, what about the dead man? What’s his story?”

  Brady spat. “Choey? The kid brother, baby of the family. He never was worth much, didn’t amount to a bucket of warm piss. Pure mean through and through. No guts, but with his brothers to back him up, he didn’t need any.”

  “Died young, did he?”

  “Not soon enough, most folks would say, but not openly. Somebody gunned him and two gang members out in the desert. Nobody knows who done it. Them Maldonados would sure give plenty to know who, so they’d know who to tear apart. As it is, there’s too many suspects. Rio and Leandro are so mad, they could spit.”

  Brady studied Kilroy thoughtfully for a moment over the top of a beer can. “You seem like a man of sense, Kilroy. Things I’m saying, they’re not the kinds of things you want to say out loud in Adobe Flats. It ain’t healthy.”

  “You can rely on me, Hard Tack. I never violate a confidence.”

  “Of that I’m sure, but you know, a person just can’t be too careful. Thought I’d spell it out, you being new in town and all.”

  “I’m a closed book.”

  Brady drank some more. “By the way, what line of business did you say you were in?”

  “I didn’t say, Hard Tack, but I don’t mind telling you. I deal in futures.”

  “What is that, real estate or something?”

  “Speculations. I take my opportunities where I find them,” Kilroy said.

  A stir of motion rippled through the mourners as two priests began to take up positions near the grave site. Kilroy said, “Looks like the service is about to start. You can’t say they’re not doing it up big. Two priests for the send-off.”

  Brady said, “The old boy’s Father Fitzpatrick, Father Fitz—he’s been here forever—and the young ’un’s his new assistant, Father Diego, fresh out of seminary school.” He chuckled. “Some of the confessions he’ll hear will curl his hair soon enough.”

  Suddenly, Kilroy grabbed Brady by the forearm, the one not holding a beer. “Did you see that?!” He was intent, his voice low, his manner urgent.

  Surprised by the other’s dramatic change in demeanor, Brady didn’t know how to react, except to concentrate on not spilling a single precious drop of beer. He said, “Huh? Wha’?”

  Kilroy said, “Act natural. Don’t let on that you saw it.”

  “Saw what?”

  “The gun.”

  “What gun? I didn’t see no gun—”

  Kilroy said, “Whatever you do, don’t tip that we noticed. I don’t know what’s going on, but we don’t want to get caught up in the middle of things. Now, without making it obvious what you’re doing, take a look at those two grave diggers down there.”

  Brady’s face expressed his befuddlement. Kilroy said, “Over on the right, down near the bottom of the ridge, where the backhoe is. Don’t move your head, just your eyes. See it?”

  Brady’s bloodshot eyes rolled around in their wrinkled pouches like two ball bearings in oil, finally fixing on the yellow earthmoving backhoe standing idle some distance from the grave site. Sure enough, two men in gray coveralls huddled furtively behind the backhoe. The coveralls were the front-zip type that garage mechanics and factory hands might wear over their clothes jumpsuit-style.

  The duo were positioned so the backhoe and a mound of fresh-dug dirt screened them from the view of the mourners assembled at the grave site. They were visible from the top of the knoll where Kilroy and Brady sat, though.

  Brady’s mouth was dry again. “I see ’em.”

  Kilroy said, “One of them’s got a rifle.”

  Brady looked for it and couldn’t see it, telling Kilroy just that.

  “I saw it,” Kilroy said. “He must’ve just put it down under the backhoe, out of sight.” His voice was a whisper, urgent, thrilling. “Good thing they didn’t see us.”

  Brady said, “Why—why not?”

  “We’re witnesses,” Kilroy hissed. “Figure it out for yourself. The Maldonado crime family, all gathered in one place. And a couple of grave diggers, so-called, lurking nearby with a rifle.”

  Brady got it. “Oh, Lordy!”

  “Shh! Not so loud!”

  “What’re we going to do, Kilroy?”

  “Since they didn’t see us yet, what’s important is they don’t see us now. Lucky this brush gives us some cover. Let’s get behind these trees first. No, don’t get up, crawl on your hands and knees.”

  Brady did so, one hand still clutching a beer, the liquid sloshing in the can as he crawled between two tree trunks and got behind them. Kilroy snatched up the brown bag with the empties and the last unopened beer before nimbly scrambling through the trees to lie flat on the ground beside Brady.

  Kilroy rose on his elbows, peering between the trees and tall grasses. The grave diggers were still hunkered down behind the backhoe, intently watching the grave site. He said, “Looks like we made it without them noticing us. That’s a break.”

&nbs
p; Brady peered blearily through the weeds. One of the grave diggers was cradling a scoped rifle in both hands. “It is a gun!”

  Kilroy said, “Remember, they can use it against us as easily as they can anyone else down there.”

  “What’ll we do now?”

  “You stay here, Hard Tack.”

  “What’re you gonna do?”

  “I’m going to get behind them, set up a yell. With all those Maldonados down there, there should be plenty of firepower. At least that way, maybe it’ll be a fight and not just a turkey shoot.”

  “You’re loco!”

  Kilroy grinned. “I told you I deal in futures. Time to start dealing!”

  Brady shook his head. “There’s no future in being a dead hero. Anyhow, them Maldonados got it coming. Why mix in something that ain’t your business?”

  “There’s women and kids down there. I appreciate your position. Whoever sent those shooters might be sore if their pitch is fouled.”

  “You’re damned right!”

  “I don’t blame you for not wanting to tie into it. You can get clear of it. Go down the other side of the knoll into that arroyo there that runs into the brush. Follow it till you’re clear of the graveyard and be careful nobody sees you coming out in the open.”

  Brady said, “I’d help you if I could, but I ain’t fooling nobody, not even myself. I’m an old rumdown, I got nothing left.”

  Indicating the brown paper bag and the unopened beer, Kilroy said, “Don’t leave any evidence behind that there were watchers here. Somebody might come looking for you.”

  Brady said solemnly, “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Okay,” Kilroy said. “See you later maybe.”

  He eased down the west side of the knoll, not rising until the hill screened him from skylining.

  “Luck,” Brady whispered after the other’s retreating form. Kilroy reached the bottom of the hill, where a dry creek bed lay. He followed it south, circling the hill until he was out of sight.

  The evidence of their presence was safe with Hard Tack Brady. First, he made the rest of the opened beer he was still clutching in one hand disappear by chugging it down. He gave serious thought to doing the same with the last intact beer, but decided to save it for later, since there was no telling where and when his next drink might be coming from. He dropped the empty can and the full one in the brown paper bag, grabbed it by its rolled-up top, and half slid, half crawled down the side of the knoll to the creek bed, taking it in the opposite direction to that taken by Kilroy. Following its northward windings through the brush, he put some distance between himself and the graveyard.