The Sinister Pig jlajc-16

by Tony Hillerman

  “You can’t fix it?” Bernie asked. “And who are you?”

  The young man in the greasy coveralls straightened, drew a deep breath. “My name is Delos Vasquez. I am a mechanic.” Then he gestured toward the jugs. “Water, you said. I must call Mr. Gomez and his family.”

  “Sure,” Bernie said, thinking the man looked totally harmless. Not much taller than her and skinny. About thirty, with large, brown, sad-looking eyes. Now she noticed Mr. Gomez and his family emerging from the hillside brush and moving cautiously toward them. Gomez wore a straw hat, a neatly trimmed white beard, and was carrying the little girl.

  Vasquez motioned, shouted in Spanish. Something about water but Bernie didn’t catch much of it. She was in the truck cab, screwing the cap off her Thermos, handing that and the cup under it to Vasquez, motioning to him to help himself to the water.

  He smiled at her. “No. The rule is that the women and children must go first.”

  While the woman and the children were dealing with their thirst, Vasquez brought over the bearded man. “May I present the father of my sister-in-law, Señor Miguel Gomez,” he said. Señor Gomez bowed. So did Bernie, trying to remember the formal language of introduction. Failing that, she said: “Welcome to the United States.”

  “And this is Señora Catherina Vasquez, the esposa of my brother, and their children.”

  Catherina Vasquez, dusty, disheveled, looking utterly exhausted, managed a shy smile. So did the children.

  My criminals, Bernie thought.

  Before the Border Patrol shuttle arrived Bernie had improved her Spanish a little and collected from Vasquez and Mr. Gomez an account of how he and the Gomez group happened to be here. Gomez, so the story went, had gone to San Pedro Corralitos to get work at the copper smelter there because there was no work at Nuevo Casas Grandes, where his family lived. But the smelter was still shut down, and the only work there was a crew repairing the pipeline that had brought the fuel in to fire its furnaces. So Mr. Gomez had paid a tour guide in Sabinas Hidalgo to bring his daughter, Catherina, and her children to visit Vasquez’s mother in Lordsburg, so she could see her grandchildren. The coyote had taken them to the port of entry at Antelope Wells and given them visa credentials. Mr. Gomez showed these to Bernie, who recognized them instantly as examples of the fraudulent documents she’d been shown in training classes. With some translating help from Vasquez, Gomez told her the coyote had then taken them to the border fence, showed them where to cross it, and showed them where to wait until a truck would arrive to take them to Lordsburg. The truck arrived, took them up the road toward Interstate 10. But near this mountain he stopped, told Mr. Gomez a border patrol helicopter had flown over and seen them and they must get out and hide. He would come back and get them.

  Here Vasquez took over. “I got a call in Lordsburg yesterday. The son of a bitch told me where he had left them. He said he had to drop them off or everyone would have been arrested. So I came where he told me, and finally I found them.” He shook his head, eyes sad. “If I hadn’t they would have died.”

  That was the story Bernie was passing along to the dispatcher.

  “Haven’t got time for all this. But you can’t believe it anyway.”

  “What he told me sounds logical enough. But I’m new in this business.”

  “No sign of coke. So forth?”

  “Nothing easily visible. But I didn’t pry into the luggage, or the tires or anything like that. They had hours to hide it. Does that Delos Vasquez name mean anything to you?”

  “Vasquez around here is like Kelly in Boston or Jones in Texas or Begay at Window Rock,” he said. “But Delos, that’s unusual. Rings a bell. I think he showed up on a list of underlings of some big dealer at Agua Prieta. Down in Sonora.”

  “Do we have a warrant for him?”

  “Just some gossip. Collect lots of that. Agua P’s just over the border from Douglas. Good place for eavesdropping.”

  The Border Patrol van arrived, manned by two CPOs she’d never met. They introduced themselves as Billy and Lorenzo, and handcuffed Vasquez. Gomez, Catherina, and the children were shoed into the van and the door locked.

  “We’re going to search your bus,” one of the backup crew said, “and we want you to stay right here with Officer Manuelito while we’re doing that. If we have any questions we’ll be calling you down.”

  Vasquez nodded.

  They stood by the van, watching the bus being searched.

  “They will be deported back to Mexico now,” Vasquez said. “All their money gone to the damned coyote. Poorer than ever.”

  “How about you?”

  “I’m a U.S. citizen,” Vasquez said. “Probably I will have to spend some time in jail. But I don’t know what they will charge me with.”

  “Maybe conspiring to violate the immigration law?”

  “Yes. I guess I did that.” He looked at her, expression sad. “But with family needing help, then you do what you have to do. And it wasn’t anything about drugs. I wouldn’t do that. Those men are evil.”

  “If I were you, or if I was your lawyer, I would give you some advice, Mr. Vasquez. When the federal authorities ask you about your part in this, I would start at the point where you get a call from the man who told you he had dropped off the family and they wanted you to pick them up and if you didn’t you were afraid they would die of thirst. I would leave off all that first part. Let Mr. Gomez tell them about that.”

  Vasquez considered that. Nodded.

  “Do you know those drug dealers in Mexico?”

  “Two or three,” he said. “At Agua Prieta, I was a driver for them for a while. But I didn’t want to do that work. I didn’t want to be around them.”

  Bernie nodded.

  “I think you think I am a drug man,” Vasquez said, shaking his head. “Or Mr. Gomez is one. But no.”

  During all this conversation, Vasquez had been studying her, and the little silver and turquoise replica of Big Thunder she was wearing on her collar.

  “That is very pretty,” he said, pointing to it. “That little silver stick man.”

  “He represents one of the Navajo spirits. My mother’s brother made him for me. For luck. We call him Big Thunder.” But Bernie didn’t want this conversation to be so personal. She said: “Why didn’t you want to be around them?”

  “Well,” he began, and stopped. “They kill people.”

  “I’ve heard that,” she said.

  He was frowning at her, looking hesitant and thoughtful.

  “You have been very kind to us,” he said. “Did you know they have your picture in Agua Prieta? Those men, I mean. I think the coyotes down there might be afraid of you.”

  “My picture?” Bernie said, startled. “I don’t think so. How could they?”

  “It was you,” Vasquez said. “I noticed it the first time I saw you. Just like the picture they were showing around.”

  Bernie produced a shaky smile. “A lot of women look like me.”

  “This one was wearing that little silver stick man on her shirt. I noticed it in the photograph.”

  “But why would they have my picture? I don’t understand that.”

  The men searching the bus shouted, motioning for Vasquez.

  “Because they seemed to be afraid of you. So when any of them see you they will recognize you as a spy. And these people, when they are afraid of somebody, they want to kill them.”

  15

  Winsor’s houseman, George, brought the package into his living suite. It was one of those tough document-sized Airborne Express envelopes, originally delivered to his office and then relayed to his town house by messenger. It was marked “personal,” and it came from El Paso, Winsor noticed, with the return address of the office of the lawyer he used there. He zipped it open and removed the contents.

  Seven 8-by-12-inch black-and-white photographs and a note folded with them:

  The answer to your Who question: Carl Mankin.

  No personal data available to us here
.

  The answer to your Why question:

  Remember your order required extreme action.

  Enclosed: the requested photos and photo of the CPO Officer who took them. Officer Bernadette Manuelito. Former Navajo Tribal Police Officer, transferred down from the Shiprock NTP district earlier this year with strong endorsement from NTP headquarters.

  Her photo taken by West.

  Winsor looked at the photo of Bernie long enough to decide the woman, rewarding him with an embarrassed smile, was one of those who would never be called “cute.” Pretty, yes. Probably a very handsome woman. More important for his interests, she looked intelligent. Noticeably intelligent. Smart. Clever. That led him to the photographs she had taken.

  He set two aside with a glance, then focused on the Mexican standing beside a tool trailer glowering at the camera. He fished his magnifying glass from a desk drawer for a closer look. The tools he could identify were what one would expect in a mechanic’s truck—assorted wrenches, measuring devices, pressure gauges, two fuel tanks. Probably propane or methane. Some were strange to him. But would they be strange to pipeline workers? Probably not.

  Then he focused on a photo, obviously taken from a location above the work scene with a telescopic lens. It showed three big ugly animals walking along a hillside. Oryx, and one with a great curving, trophy-sized horn. Some of old man Tuttle’s exotic game. The other photo looked directly down on the trucks, the men working around the excavation—and into the excavation. He picked up the magnifying glass again. Looked through it at the print, held his breath for a long moment, and then exhaled and produced an angry expletive.

  He picked up his telephone, punched his houseman’s number. While he waited he studied the photo of Bernie again. Why had she taken that photograph? Because she’d been sent there specifically to take it? Because something she’d seen had made her suspicious?

  George’s voice said: “Yes, sir.”

  “Get Budge,” Winsor said. “Tell him to call me. Tell him it’s urgent. Tell him to get the plane set for El Paso and then into Mexico. Then get me packed for four or five days. With walking shoes.”

  “Yes, sir,” the houseman said.

  Winsor sat back in his chair, shook his head, and muttered: “One damned thing after another.” He picked up his “congress” file, opened it, and reread the fax Haret had sent him. The congressman from Oregon causing trouble as usual, their bought-and-paid-for Midwestern congressman forgetting why Winsor had financed his campaign and saying nothing helpful, and the marijuana bill undefeated, merely tabled for further consideration. A bad time to be leaving Washington.

  A flash of reflected sunlight caught his attention. It came from the glass eye of the Bengal tiger head in the trophy room. He shut the folder, picked up the photographs from New Mexico, and looked at the little procession of oryx Officer Manuelito had photographed. Scimitar-horned oryx, he remembered, and the horns they carried justified the name. He’d take a rifle along. If he had time to shoot that big one, he’d use it to replace the head of the lion he’d shot in Kenya. It wasn’t a very impressive lion and the trip hadn’t been one that produced any happy memories.

  He didn’t expect any happiness out of this one, either. But he had to make it, to quit counting on others to get a job done. He’d handle it himself, with Budge there to lend a hand if needed. No way to guess what he’d find at the Tuttle Ranch. But if things were going bad there, or at the Mexican end of that project, he’d have to fix them. Otherwise it wouldn’t matter much what happened in that congressional committee. Or at the bank.

  16

  Even before responding to Bernie’s “welcome home,” even while putting her overnight bag in the entry closet, Eleanda Garza was giving Bernie curious looks. Then she followed Bernie into the kitchen.

  “Hey,” she said. “I heard you made a bust of illegals. All by yourself. And I heard you sort of bent the rules some by taking risks. Is that right?”

  Bernie was not in the mood this morning for any sort of criticism. “Risks?” she said. “A mother, two kids, and an old man. And a brother-in-law. A citizen who came out to get them after the coyote dumped them.”

  Eleanda raised a hand, laughed. “OK. OK. You did just what I would have done. I kept doing it until one day I got shot at. After that I’d call a backup even if it was an old lady in a wheelchair carrying a baby.”

  “All right then,” Bernie said. “Sorry I sounded so grouchy. You think Mr. Henry will get on me about this?”

  “You betcha. But if this is the first time he got on you about something it’ll just be about a five-minute lecture. Little bit of finger shaking, and a couple of ‘Goddammits,’ and a ‘Don’t let it happen again.’ Will this be the first time on the carpet?”

  “Well,” Bernie said. “I guess so. But he called me in about getting onto the Tuttle Ranch. I didn’t know we had that special deal with them.”

  Eleanda’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t either. What deal?”

  “Mr. Henry said they do our work for us on the ranch. You know, tipping us off if illegals show up. Sort of unofficially holding them until we come to the gate and take custody. And in return we don’t go in their hunting preserve, or get nosey if they have their rich Mexican business friends in there on hunting trips.”

  Eleanda had taken orange juice out of the refrigerator and was pouring herself a glass. “Nobody told me about that,” she said. “But maybe because it’s sort of, shall we say, semi-illegal. Or an exception not provided for by the statutes.” She laughed. “One of those arrangements that takes days of writing reports if the wrong people hear about it.”

  “Eleanda,” Bernie said, “why would Mr. Henry want to take a picture of me?”

  Eleanda looked surprised. “I can’t imagine. When did that happen?”

  “I took some photos out at the Tuttle place. Oryx, and the Mexican truck I followed in there, things like that. And Mr. Henry told me to turn them over to him. And then he said he had to have a photo of me. And he took one.”

  Eleanda shook her head. “Maybe because he likes your looks. You’re a good-looking woman. But, really, I don’t know. Didn’t he say.”

  “Just that he needed it.”

  Eleanda was studying Bernie over her glass of orange juice. “You’re worried about this?”

  Bernie debated what to tell Eleanda, noticed the woman’s concern, decided to tell her everything.

  “This man who was picking up the illegals. Delos Vasquez. The dispatcher said someone of that name might have worked for the dopers at Agua Prieta. He said he recognized me. That they had a picture of me at Agua Prieta.”

  “Who had it?”

  “He said people in the drug trade. Said he’d driven for them a while and then quit because he was afraid of them.”

  Eleanda was thinking, frowning. She nodded. “He was trying to make a hit on you, Bernie. You’re a good-looking woman. Most likely, he just made it up. Or it could have been a picture of someone else.”

  “He said he thought he recognized me right away, and then he knew it was me because of that little silver pin of mine. Big Thunder. I had it on my shirt collar. And I was wearing it when Henry took the picture.”

  “On your uniform shirt?”

  Bernie nodded.

  “I’ll bet he didn’t like that.”

  “Henry told me it was against the rules to wear jewelry on duty.”

  “But you had it on yesterday.”

  “It’s for good luck,” Bernie said.

  Eleanda finished the orange juice. Looked pensive. “Why would they hand your photo around among the coyotes at Agua Prieta. Did this Vasquez explain that?”

  Bernie looked embarrassed. “He said they were supposed to be on the lookout for me. Be afraid of me.”

  Eleanda considered this, abruptly reached a decision.

  “Have you talked to Sergeant Chee about this? If you haven’t you should.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s a cop with a lot
better connection than us. See if he can find out what’s going on.”

  Bernie didn’t respond to that.

  “Have you told Henry about it?”

  Bernie shook her head.

  “I wouldn’t. He’s the one who took the picture, and I sometimes think ... Well, I’m not sure about him. Call your sergeant. See what he thinks.”

  “He’ll think I’m silly.”

  “He won’t,” Eleanda said. “And if you don’t call him, I will.”

  Bernie stared at her, bit her lip.

  “Honey, time to get smart. That man hurt your feelings. But he really likes you.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Bernie said. “He also likes stray cats, and retarded kids, and ...”

  “OK, then. I’ll call him.”

  Bernie grimaced. “OK then. But if you think it’s something dangerous we should know more about, call Joe Leaphorn. He’s retired, but he knows everybody. He’d do what he could.”

  And so, Bernie gave Leaphorn’s number to Mrs. Garza.

  17

  Leaphorn was out in his driveway searching his car for a notebook he had left somewhere.

  “Joe!” Louisa Bourbonette shouted. “Telephone.”

  “Can you take a number. Tell ’em I’ll call ’em. I want to find these notes.”

  “It’s long distance. A woman named Garza. From Rodeo, wherever that is.”

  Leaphorn hustled up the walk, said thanks, took the phone, said, “This is Joe Leaphorn.”

  “I’m Eleanda Garza. A Customs patrol officer with the Border Patrol. And I’m Bernadette Manuelito’s housemate. I think you’re a friend of hers.”

  “I am,” Leaphorn said. “Is she all right?”

  “Fine. Just homesick and lonesome. But she had some information she wanted me to pass along to you.”

  Mrs. Garza thereupon started at the beginning. Bernie taking the pictures at the Tuttle Ranch of the exotic animals and the work project. Ed Henry, her supervisor, telling her she had violated an arrangement Customs had with the ranch, described the arrangement, described Henry photographing Bernie, told of Bernie arresting the four illegals and their driver and how the driver had recognized Bernie—telling her that drug operators in Agua Prieta had copies of the photo Henry had taken, and they had the idea that Bernie was some sort of special agent for the Drug Enforcement Agency.