Diablo Nights (Detective Emilia Cruz Book 3)

by Carmen Amato

  Following Gloria’s directions, Emilia drove east, around the lip of the bay. But instead of taking the familiar road southeast to Puerta Marques and the Palacio Réal, they headed due east on the road to San Marco and into the no-man’s land of Costa Chica.

  “Do you have a family, Gloria?” Emilia asked.

  Gloria sat huddled in the corner of her seat, her shoulder pressed against the car window. “Three boys.”

  “Are they in Acapulco with you?” Emilia wondered how much time they had or if Gloria had to be back in the city before school let out.

  “Two are with me,” she said. “The oldest is in Gallo Pinto.”

  “With your mother?”

  “He married a girl from the town,” Gloria said. “They live with her family.”

  “Does he work?” There weren’t many real jobs in small towns like Gallo Pinto, which is why people like Gloria earned their money in Acapulco. The few jobs that were available in the small mountain towns didn’t pay much. In contrast, being a lookout or a courier for the Sinaloa cartel or the Knights Templar meant money, girls, a fancy truck. Guns. Respect. Power over your neighbors.

  “At the vegetable cannery,” Gloria said. “Everybody works there.”

  “That must be a good job.” Emilia’s direction for the conversation was a straight path to what they would find in Gallo Pinto.

  Gloria shrugged. “If you can get it.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “Dead,” Gloria sniffed. “Had the wrong friends.”

  Emilia took that to mean he’d aligned with the wrong cartel, whichever that one was today. It changed in small towns with alarming frequency.

  They continued east. Emilia asked Gloria to verify the way at each road sign.

  “You’re really police?” Gloria asked after a few more kilometers.

  “Yes,” Emilia said. “I showed you my badge.”

  “And him?” Gloria didn’t turn, just pointed over her shoulder at Flores in the backseat.

  Emilia glanced in the rearview mirror before answering. Flores hummed and his head bounced gently as he stared out the car window. “Yes, he’s a police detective, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Why is he a cop?”

  “Why are you?”

  Emilia considered. Because my cousins were cops first. Because I’m not afraid to fight. Because someone has to find the missing. “I’m good at solving problems,” she said.

  Gloria sniffed. “The police only create problems. They’re good at hiding the truth and taking money from people like me.”

  “I’m looking for the truth,” Emilia said. “That finger could belong to someone important.”

  “Then how could Pepe have found it?” Gloria’s tone implied that Emilia was an estupida.

  “I don’t know,” Emilia admitted. “I hope he can tell me.”

  “I keep telling you,” Gloria said. “He’s simple. Simple-minded.”

  Emilia had a sharp, intense longing to see Silvio in the passenger seat instead of Gloria, gray crew cut imperious to wind or rain, scowl in place, tall cup of coffee in his hand. A growling noise and “Shut up, Cruz” coming out of his mouth when she said anything mildly funny.

  After two hours, they left the highway for a narrow country road, past the silent cactus standing like surrendering soldiers. Eventually the tarmac deteriorated into gravel and the Suburban’s suspension bounced its passengers like a trampoline. They began to pass animal pens and cement shanties. Farm fields, like irregular patches strewn over the hills, wore the broken and dried stalks of an old harvest. They would be planted again with corn and beans closer to the rainy season. It was a rough way to make a living, Emilia thought as the Suburban topped a rise. She braked as a couple of goats skittered past. Two old trucks were parked sideways across the road just beyond.

  “Los Martillos de Cristo,” Gloria muttered. The Hammers of Christ.

  “Are they always here?” Emilia asked.

  “Sometimes.” Gloria looked pleased with herself. “When they expect trouble.”

  Red and white flags fluttered from the antenna of each truck. As the breeze snapped the red-bordered fabric taut, Emilia saw a crown of thorns centered on the white background above the silhouette of a hammer.

  She counted eight men lounging against the trucks. They watched the Suburban approach. All wore bright white tee shirts with the hammer and thorns design, wide-brimmed hats or ball caps, and automatic rifles slung across their chests.

  “Emilia?” Flores asked from the backseat. “What’s going on?”

  “These are the community police,” Emilia said. She didn’t know how well the cooperation between Los Martillos and officialdom was going, but it stood to reason that even if things were going badly the vigilantes would have little to gain by murdering two Acapulco cops.

  “They don’t look like police.” Flores’s voice was sharp and high.

  Emilia caught his eye in the rearview mirror and kept her voice steady. “Do what I say, Orlando, and we’ll be fine.”

  A man stepped into the road and pointed his weapon. Emilia eased the Suburban to a stop. As his compatriots aimed their rifles at the car, the man approached the driver’s side. Emilia rolled down her window and rested her arm on the opening. Relaxed. Nothing to hide.

  “What’s your business in Gallo Pinto?” he asked. Between his wide brimmed cowboy hat and aviator sunglasses, there was little of his face to be seen besides a poorly shaven chin and a stubby cigar clenched between gray teeth.

  “Bringing Gloria to see her mother,” Emilia said.

  “I haven’t seen this car before,” he said suspiciously. “Cut your engine.”

  Emilia compiled. “From Acapulco,” she said.

  He stuck his head in the window and the cigar came dangerously close to Emilia’s elbow. “Gloria.” There was recognition in his voice. “It’s not the weekend.”

  “They’re police,” Gloria said from the other side of the console.

  “Bringing Gloria to see her mother,” Emilia repeated.

  “Why?” He came around to Gloria’s side of the car. They obviously knew each other and the man had the same wary, yet sly, eyes as Gloria. Gallo Pinto was a hard place. “You in trouble?”

  Gloria snorted. “She wanted to come here. Some crazy idea that someone found something of hers here.”

  The man leaned against the car door as if settling in for a chat. “In Gallo Pinto?” He chewed the end of the cigar, then spit into the road

  “She wants to meet Pepe. The crazy one who lives on the hill.” Gloria looked sideways at Emilia. “She’s estupida, you know?”

  He raised his eyes. “Show me your identification,” he said to Emilia.

  Emilia wore her badge on its lanyard under her shirt. She pulled it out and held it so that he could see the number on the shield and the words Detective and Acapulco.

  “Anybody can buy one of those,” he said.

  He went to grab the badge but Emilia didn’t let go. To cover, he leaned further into the car and stared at Flores. “Who’s that?”

  “Her friend,” Gloria answered.

  The man withdrew his head and marched over to the other men still aiming their weapons at the Suburban. They had a lengthy conversation before the cigar chewing vigilante came back to Gloria’s window.

  “I’m your guide,” he said. “Understand? Follow the truck.”

  One of the trucks bounced off the shoulder of the road and swerved in front of the Suburban.

  Flores leaned forward and grabbed Emilia’s shoulder. “What is going on?”

  “I don’t know,” Emilia said honestly. “They must be worried about Templar activity. Maybe something happened recently. Be honest, but don’t say anything unless you’re asked.”

  They didn’t have a choice. Half of the vigilantes had climbed into the bed of the truck and sat facing the rear. Their blinding white tees were a nice contrast to the weapons pointing at the Suburban.

  “I
should sell bleach here,” Gloria said.

  ☼

  The road widened and the smattering of shanties turned into a small town. There were a few cars parked on the street in front of outdoor restaurants. As they slowly followed the truck bristling with men and guns, Emilia took in the few shops, the open food market, the vendors on the street selling pay-as-you-go phone cards and lottery tickets. The center square was dominated by a whitewashed church and a small playground with a painted metal jungle gym.

  A few young men in more Los Martillos tee shirts lounged in front of place called The Movie Shack, a place where a man in a dirty shirt sold snacks and what appeared to be bootleg DVDs. A women and a little boy stood hand in hand by a bus stop. The child wore a school uniform.

  The truck ahead of them pulled to the side. A few shouts told Emilia to do the same.

  They were herded out of the Suburban and into a small restaurant where Emilia and Flores were searched for weapons. Both of their handguns were confiscated and the man who’d proclaimed himself their guide took Emilia’s badge as well.

  The place was empty. There were four plastic tables with matching chairs, all of which showed black scuffs and red drips from too many rough mannered eaters and too little hot water and soap. A glass counter was backlit with a naked fluorescent bulb, both illuminating and warming greasy empanadas, chupata rolls stuffed with ham, and some tired pieces of egg and spinach pie. Emilia and Flores were shoved into plastic chairs at one of the four tables in the place. Gloria stood by the wall.

  “You want a cola?” the guide asked.

  It wasn’t spoken as an option. “Sure,” Emilia said.

  “One hundred pesos.” Laughter rippled around the white shirts.

  A curtain behind the glass counter parted and two men walked into the seating area. The guide went to the tallest, who was obviously the local jefe.

  Emilia watched the tall man. He was twice her age, yet still carried muscle on his frame. He wore the white tee of Los Martillos, jeans, and a large belt buckle. His face was puffy, from either fighting or heavy drinking. Or both. As his eyes swept over Emilia and Flores, his eyes were appraising and dark under thick brows.

  He left the guide standing by the glass case and came to the table. “Detective Cruz from the Acapulco police, no?”

  “You have the advantage, señor,” Emilia said. “You know my name and your men have my gun and my badge.”

  He gave a false little bow, one hand on his heart. “My apologies,” he said. “I am Bernardo Valentino Pinto and Los Martillos are my men. With all the trouble we have had in my city we must be very cautious.”

  “I can understand that,” Emilia said. “But I’m not here as a police detective. I am here to simply talk to a friend of Gloria’s and she was kind enough to guide me to your lovely city.” Gallo Pinto was hardly a city but Emilia was taking her cues from Valentino.

  “Then why did you bring a gun?”

  Emilia spread her hands in a gesture of supplication. “It is our regulations. An Acapulco detective must always carry their gun, even when visiting a friend. Even in a city secured by friends.”

  “Who is this friend you are here to visit?”

  “Pepe,” Gloria broke in. “Pepe the simple-minded who lives on the hill. This one”—she pointed to Emilia—“thinks he has something of hers. I say she’s as simple as him. But she’s paying me to show her.”

  Valentino finally looked at Flores. “Who is this? The man who sits in the backseat and lets a woman drive him around?”

  Flores half rose in his seat and Emilia yanked him back down. “This is his town, Orlando,” she said.

  Someone chambered a round as Flores put both his cédula and badge on the table.

  Valentino swept the identification off the table. Emilia held her breath and waited.

  “Your name is Flores Almaprieto?” Valentino asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This one drives the car?” Valentino still had Flores’s cédula in his hand and he waved it at Emilia.

  “Yes,” Flores repeated.

  “She is your driver, no?”

  Flores frowned at the unexpected line of questioning. “Yes, she drives the car. But she’s more than a chauffeur.”

  His response brought a volley of guffaws from both Gloria and the white shirts. Valentino tossed a red-faced Flores his identification and gestured to the guide to return Emilia’s badge and their weapons.

  ☼

  Gloria directed Emilia to turn left and they headed uphill again. The vehicle jounced over a ridge and banged onto cobblestones, which soon turned into a gravel track. Flores made an annoyed sound from the back seat.

  Sugar cane grew on one side of the track. On the other side they passed low cement houses, many with corrugated metal roofs. As the Suburban protested its way, the houses grew fewer and farther in between. They turned again, onto a dirt track and Gloria pointed to a small blue house surrounded by pots of plants. “That’s my mother’s house.” It didn’t have windows; instead the window openings were filled with cement blocks perforated in a flower pattern. Ventilation but no view.

  “Is Pepe your mother’s neighbor?” Emilia said.

  “He lives beyond the road.”

  They continued to bounce along the dirt track. The cane gave way to scrubby pine and debris from long-since razed cement structures.

  “The cannery had a place here once,” Gloria said. “Then they built the big place closer to the road to San Marco.”

  The Suburban’s clanks of protest competed with the roar of the engine as the heavy vehicle clambered over the uneven terrain and Emilia felt her teeth clatter together. The track dwindled down to a barely worn footpath and Emilia stopped the car, unable to drive any further.

  They climbed out and Flores looked around in surprise. “You were right about the shoes, Emilia,” he said.

  It took ten minutes of uphill walking on the path before they saw a small shack of unpainted gray cement. Like the home of Gloria’s mother, the windows were made of perforated blocks. The door was a canvas curtain. The place was surrounded by a makeshift fence; a conglomeration of driftwood, rusted pieces of corrugated metal, part of a shipping crate with huge stenciled letters, and pieces of plastic that once might have been a trash barrel.

  Gloria clapped her hands loudly as they approached the crazy-quilt fence. “Pepe!” she shouted. “A pretty lady wants to talk to you.”

  Emilia was sweating in the heat but she wasn’t winded. Behind her she could hear Flores laboring to catch his breath.

  The curtain was pulled aside and a man stood in the doorway. Even from a distance, Emilia could see there was something wrong with him. One shoulder was held higher and thrust forward and his head was inclined toward that side as if his nose and armpit were trying to touch. A shock of lank hair fell across his forehead. He had on a tee shirt and jeans, with sneakers that had once been white but were now stained the color of the brown dirt that swirled around Emilia’s feet.

  “Hola,” Emilia called when she got to the rickety fence. The stench was strong and she was sure the place had neither running water nor indoor plumbing. A pack of dogs of indeterminate breed rose to its collective feet and began barking wildly. The pack sorted itself out into five dogs, all with short hair and large teeth. One sprang against the fence, paws against rickety metal, the dog’s jaws level with Emilia’s face. She retreated.

  “Pepe,” Gloria shouted again. She kept her distance from the fence. “Tell the dogs to shut up. This lady came all the way from Acapulco to talk to you.”

  The hunched man named Pepe stepped away from the canvas-covered doorway. The ground between the house and the fence was loose dirt kicked up by the pack of dogs. Dust puffed around his feet at every step. It was probably a sea of mud in the rainy season.

  An older man came out of the house behind Pepe. Emilia guessed it was his father.

  “What do you want, Gloria?” the older man asked.

  “She’s got busines
s with Pepe,” Gloria called back, with a nod of her chin at Emilia.

  The old man fixed eyes on Emilia. “How do you know my boy?”

  “He found something that belongs to a friend of mine,” Emilia said. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the continual barking of the dogs.

  “I find a lot of things,” Pepe said. His voice was high for that of a full-grown man and the twist in his torso made it seem as if he was speaking to his side.

  “You found a finger,” Emilia said. Flores stepped up to stand next to her. He wasn’t Silvio, yet she was glad that she wasn’t doing this alone.

  The father shouted at the dogs. The pack yelped one last time and then subsided into a silent, sinister presence, pacing between the older man at the door and the younger one near the fence.

  “A finger,” Emilia repeated into the sudden silence.

  The rank smell of men and dogs filled her mouth with a gummy taste. Emilia fought the urge to run back down the rutted track, fling herself into the Suburban and drive without stopping until she was back in Acapulco; back where she belonged with the wind blowing the tang of salt and fish and suntan oil in her face.

  Both father and son looked at her dully. Emilia tried again. “I want to know where you found the finger.”

  “Which one?” Pepe asked.

  It wasn’t a question Emilia had expected. Flores made a squeaky noise and Emilia put a hand on his arm. She turned to Gloria. “You didn’t tell me he had more.”

  The woman shrugged, her eyes still on the older man by the doorway. The dogs were clustered by his bare feet. “He showed the one I paid for,” Gloria said in a voice that suggested she would have bought more if they had been available.

  “I need to see where he found them,” Emilia said. “All of them.”

  “Pepe,” Gloria called. “You need to come show the lady where you found the fingers.”

  “My boy don’t need to do nothing.” The old man waded through the dogs and stood by the fence. The dogs barking resumed, the dogs running back and forth with excitement.