by Tim Green
"Sorry doesn't do anybody any good, Father," Teuch said, still in English. "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Doesn't it say that?"
"And turn the other cheek," the priest said.
"Not me."
"I should show you something," the priest said. "It was something I showed your brother, a tragedy for our people."
"We both know what really happened to my brother, don't we?" Teuch said. "He couldn't keep his snake in his pants."
"Your brother was a good family man," the priest said, shaking his head. "You should know what he tried to do for others."
"That doesn't matter to me, Father," Teuch said. "Only the people who did this matter."
The priest shook his head. "Maybe you could help. The Lord brings His blessings to those who help the weak."
"I gave that money to your church because of my goddaughter," Teuch said. "Sorry, Father. I help my own. I have an appointment."
Teuch pulled away, kicking up a cloud of dust that made the priest cover his nose. Teuch carried on until he hit Belt Line Road. He turned right and kept on the main thoroughfare until he came to an auto-body shop on a parched and stony half-acre behind a rusted chain-link fence.
He pulled in and drove around to the back. Each of the three bays held a car in some stage of repair. A handful of Mexicans milled about in gray jumpsuits. They reminded Teuch of his brother. Sorry-ass beaners working for gringos who were no better than the chilango politicians in his own country, whores and thieves who hid behind the law. They didn't fool Teuch with their laws. He had a different law. He knew how to get even and he knew how to protect his own, as a Latin King should. He had his eyes on the third crown of his chapter, the warlord, and a termination this big would guarantee it for him.
The one who'd murdered his brother was a big gabacho, as big as they got. That's why he'd taken the trip up from San Antonio. That's why he'd play the Mojo slave, just to get close. Respect, that's what it was about. Teuch got out and ambled into the first bay, scanning the area for whites and seeing none.
He adjusted his wraparound Oakley sunglasses and ran his hand through the ragged thatch on his head, then walked through the bays as if he belonged there, assessing the men who worked there, looking for a sign that might tell him who would talk. The two old-timers rebuilding the front end of a Ford Explorer didn't even look up. In the next bay, though, a skinny kid with a pock-scarred face and wearing a red bandana on his head glanced Teuch's way, showing off a bit of gold with a half-smile.
In Spanish, Teuch asked the kid how he was doing. The kid wiped his hands and stood up from the hubcap he'd been lining up. Teuch told him he was from out of town and looking for work. He told the kid he'd heard about a big ranch outside town where they'd hire men without papers.
One of the old-timers wandered over with a paint gun in his hand. Through his mask he told Teuch that he didn't look much like a ranch hand. Teuch told the old naco to kiss his ass and that got a giggle out of the kid. Teuch observed that this job must be a pain in the balls for a kid who didn't like to take shit from ignorant old nacos. The kid showed his teeth and agreed out loud that they were a sorry bunch, and then Teuch asked again about the ranch.
Sure, the kid said with jittery eyes, Lucky Star Ranch, east of town out on Malloy Bridge Road. There was a big stone fence with an iron gateway that read lucky star, but that was to the main house. He'd want to take the next gravel road after that. If he crossed the river, he'd gone too far. Or he could wait like the rest of them outside the rail yard about six in the morning. That's when those who didn't get work at the yard got picked up for day labor. The ranch always had someone there to pick up some cheap hands.
Despite the scowls the kid drew from his coworkers for talking too much, he kept going and told Teuch the name of the man who did the hiring, an Indian half-breed by the name of Bill Ells. The kid said he ought to try the rail yard first, though, because they paid only two dollars an hour out at the ranch and even if you caught on for any length of time, the water in the bunkhouses sometimes went bad.
When Teuch asked about the Mexican who got killed out on the ranch the previous week, the kid shut right down. Teuch didn't push it. He had what he needed and he took his time shuffling out of the shade of the building and back into his truck. When he got there, he reached in and drained off the rest of his King Cobra forty-ounce. It had begun to warm, reminding Teuch of piss. He tossed the bottle up by the neck so that it hung in a high arc before smashing outside the bay where the two old-timers worked. That got their attention, but neither of them moved toward him or the glass.
Teuch figured it was weak-ass old-timers like them who gave being Mexican a bad name.
The kid wandered out, though, grinning. Teuch gave him a wink, lit a fresh cigarette, and climbed in. It wasn't far out to the ranch and Teuch gritted his teeth as he pulled past the gravel drive meant for Mexicans. The gringos, they all wanted workers, but they didn't want to treat them like people. That's why the Latin Kings thrived. If you were a King or a Queen, you got respect.
Teuch doubled back and got a thirty-dollar room at the Texas Road Inn on Route 45. He rolled a couple of joints and put his feet up on the bed. He planned on being at the rail yard by six. That would be the safest way into Lucky Star, the least conspicuous, even if it took a couple of days to get picked up. He certainly didn't want to pull up to the ranch looking for menial work with a thirty-thousand-dollar pimped-out lowrider. Even the old-timers at the garage had pegged him for more than a wetback fresh in.
He blew a cloud of smoke toward the water-stained ceiling, confident that by week's end he'd be able to line himself up for a shot at the boss who did Elijandro. Teuch patted the MAC-10 nestled into the covers beside him and smiled, because with a gun like that, how could he miss?
CHAPTER 6
WHO'S WHO SOLD BIG PREMIUM BURGERS TO THE WOMEN who could afford to shop in the adjacent stores, some of Highland Park 's finest. Casey parked her old Mercedes next to a gleaming new white one and marched up the steps. Paige Ludden flagged her from the wooden deck amid the buzzing throng of women taking a break from their shopping sprees and the lucky few who sat with husbands in crisp tailored suits.
Casey sat down, happy for the umbrella that offered some shade.
"Thanks for ordering," she said. "I've got a meeting with the DA at one. Sorry."
"Well," Paige said, arching her back, "what do you think?"
Casey caught her breath and assessed her friend, the only holdover from her past life. There was a lot to look at. Paige wore her brass-blonde hair swept back and held in place with plenty of spray. Her nails, like her lipstick, were fire-engine red. The white sleeveless dress she wore was punctuated by black polka dots and the red belt around her narrow waist matched her nails.
"My boobs," Paige said in her syrupy Southern drawl. "Don't tell me you can't see them."
"Oh," Casey said, "of course. Fantastic."
"C to a D," Paige said, leaning forward to issue a hushed secret. "In and out in two hours."
"C is pretty big to begin with," Casey said, glancing down at her own modest chest.
Paige reached over and slapped Casey's hand. "How do you think I got Luddy in the first place? That's what they like, you know that. We ought to get you some. And where's your makeup? Good Lord, you've got to put it out there for them a little bit. You wouldn't fish without a worm, would you?"
Casey lifted her burger off its plate and sank her teeth in, shaking her head and relishing the taste of blood.
"One rich husband is enough for one lifetime," she said with her mouth half full.
"Doesn't have to be a Ludden or a Jordan," Paige said, chattering like a wren, nibbling at her burger, and dabbing the corner of her lip with a paper napkin. "No one needs that much money. But something for between the sheets, anyway. What about that Mexican you got working for you?"
Casey gulped some diet soda and choked.
"His name is O'Brien," she said. "He's half Irish and he d
oesn't work for me."
"Mexican, Irish, whatever. God, that's a man," Paige said, sipping through a straw. "Has he asked you out?"
"He can't be much more than thirty. What? Seven, eight years younger than me?"
"Age," Paige said, flicking her fingers. "I'm almost twenty years younger than Luddy. Fix up that face and wear something a little less, I don't know, frumpy."
"Paige."
"I'm sorry, but I'm your friend," she said. "Pleated pants? That mustard blouse? So last year, honey. I remember when you and Taylor came up from Austin for the Margarita Ball that one time. My God, that strapless thing? Shoulders like a goddamn statue. You were the talk of the town."
Casey chewed and took another bite, but couldn't help glancing down at herself. She straightened her back and swallowed.
"I'm going to start running again," she said. "I don't know, it got cold over the winter and one day I just said the hell with it."
"Don't worry about that," Paige said. "You don't have to be as skinny as a model. It's not natural for a girl to run six miles every morning anyway. I'm talking about some style, perfume, heels, a little lace for God's sake. I can see the industrial-grade bra from here. Send out some signals. Date the Mexican if you need to. God, my mother must be rolling over in her grave. I'm serious about the boobs. You only live once, honey."
Casey looked at her for a minute, unable to keep from smiling. She'd known Paige since college, the debutante who took her under her wing like a sister even though Casey came from a poor family in a West Texas cow town.
"Even if I wanted them," Casey said, "they cost too much."
Paige rolled her eyes. "Don't even bring up money with me. Who told you to let Taylor off like that? You could have been rich, no strings attached."
"Well," Casey said, finishing her last bite and removing a twenty from her purse, "I never wanted what wasn't mine."
"Your money's no good with me," Paige said, snatching up the bill and stuffing it back into Casey's purse. "Luddy said it was yours, by law. Not that he ever would, but he said if we were quits he'd be obligated to keep my allowance coming and give me half the house as well as either Aspen or Grand Cayman."
"It's not about that anymore," Casey said. "I'm not saying I'm right and you're not. I wouldn't even be able to do half of what I do without your money, and your friends."
"It'd be more if my trust wasn't set up that way," Paige said, her face dropping into a worried look. "You know that, honey. One million a year for charity sounds damn good, but when you have to split it ten different ways? I asked Luddy if I could funnel it to the clinic another way, but he told me that'd be some kind of fraud and I don't like the sound of that."
"No, you're extremely generous," Casey said. "And you're happy."
"Yes. I suppose."
"And you're helping," Casey said. "Believe me, what you're doing is just as important as what I am. These people need help and my staff can't afford to work for nothing."
"You shouldn't, either," Paige said with a pout. "I tell you that. You're a lawyer. You should get paid. A hundred thousand? Luddy's driver makes that. Pay yourself, and buy yourself some clothes and some boobs. You were one of the best. Susan Lucci, for God's sake, no matter how old she is. How many women lawyers can say that? How many women?"
Casey wiped her hands and kissed Paige's cheek.
"I'll see you at the tea," Casey said. "You've got some good prospects lined up?"
"Only Mrs. Cavanaugh and Sissy James, two of the richest women in Dallas. We'll get you out of that god-awful gas station yet."
Casey smiled and said, "You're great. I'm sorry I have to run, but the DA isn't easy to get time with."
"You know Luddy's caddy's son got a DUI and that man wouldn't let him off? Luddy called him himself. I don't know how a man like that gets elected and calls himself a good Republican. Oh, Luddy gave him an earful. Don't mention my name when you see him. It won't help at all."
Casey blinked and searched her friend's face to see if she was serious. She was.
"I won't," Casey said with a smile. "Thanks for the burger, and the tip."
CHAPTER 7
THe Twelve-Story Courthouse Buildings Stood Like Twin rectangular guardians between downtown Dallas and the scrubby greenbelt feeding off the murk of the Trinity River. By now, the sun's work assured heat from below as well as above, leaving the blacktop pliant and pulsing with thermal waves. Casey parked in the deck out back, took a side entrance, passed through the screeners, and rode the elevator up to the top where Dustin Cruz could survey his kingdom from a corner office full of leather and mahogany.
Casey drank in the vista through the floor-to-ceiling smoked glass and felt a pang of envy. Dustin Cruz swiveled around in his high-backed chair with the phone to his ear, the salt-and-pepper hair on his head so thick it looked like a rug. His bristly mustache, shoe-polish black, seemed to jump off his face and tended to distract people from the red blotches that worried his olive skin. The big DA nodded at Casey and signaled for her to hold on while he finished his business. She shifted from foot to foot until he hung up.
"Would you like to sit?" he asked, his low voice rumbling.
Casey did. She took out the file Jose had given her, slid it across the desktop, and said, "Dustin, I want to ask you a favor."
"Do I owe you a favor?" the DA asked, snorting and pointing to himself. "I must have missed that."
"I'll owe you one," Casey said. "And it won't cost you anything, no political capital. You won't take a shot in the papers. In fact, I'm betting that they'll love it."
"Love what?" Cruz asked.
"Your compassion."
"I don't have compassion," he said, the bags under his eyes giving him a weary cast. "I'm the DA. The judges-some of them-have compassion. Not my job."
"But you could have."
"Ms. Jordan," Cruz said, "I don't know you. I didn't see the movie, though I heard about it from my wife, and I read about you in the papers at the time, so I admire you. Also, I'm glad you've kept yourself busy with green cards and restraining orders, and left the real dirtbags in this city to me. That's why I'm sitting here talking to you when I've got five murder trials on the docket in the next three weeks. But right now, you're close to abusing the courtesy I've given you as a kind of celebrity."
Cruz forced a smile and looked at his watch.
"I'd like you to drop the charges against Rosalita Suarez."
Cruz narrowed his eyes. "The girl who killed the coyote?"
"Before you say anything," Casey said, "look at this."
She removed the file from her briefcase and slid the photos across the desk.
"This man smuggled illegals across the border from the bus stop in Nuevo Laredo for five years and these are some of his other victims," she said. "Women he peeled away from his group, the same way he tried with Rosalita, women he raped and then killed. The only difference is that when he got Rosalita off by herself, she had a.357 in her skirt, thanks to a cautious older brother. I've got the DNA reports on the other victims in here."
She flopped the rest of the file down on the edge of the desk.
"How did you get this?" Cruz asked.
"And a statement in here from the guy who picked up his route. This woman is completely innocent."
Cruz stared a moment, then flipped through some of what she had before he looked up.
He cleared his throat and said, "Maybe a reduction, but don't talk to me about dropping this."
"This isn't justifiable?" Casey said, pitching voice and eyebrows higher.
"No, not entirely. I'm sorry."
"I'll take it to trial if I have to," Casey said, clenching her hands to stop their trembling.
"You can afford that?" he asked. "You know I'll throw three ADAs at it and burn you to the ground with paperwork. No offense, but I play to win."
"Fine," she said, folding her arms. "Think of the patrons I'll get. Think of the press. Then think of the women voters."
"You don'
t shoot a man's balls off, I'm sorry."
"In self-defense?"
"Not in Texas," Cruz said. "A jury won't let that go, not a Texas jury."
"But rape and murder is okay as long as it's a Mexican girl?"
"My parents were Mexican," he said, the big mustache covering his mouth in its frown. "So that's that. And she was neither raped nor murdered by the victim."
"Those girls were," Casey said, jabbing her finger toward the photos.
"You say."
"You son of a bitch."
Cruz's face softened. "Look, we're the sixth most dangerous city in America. I win every election by double digits because we've got the fourth-highest conviction rate for murders. I've got her prints. I've got the gun. I've got her confession. She's either pleading guilty and doing time for something, or she's going down like a sack of concrete."
Casey didn't say anything. She pressed her lips tight, snatched up the photos and the DNA reports, and crammed the file back into her briefcase.
"Hey," Cruz said when she reached for the door, "try to get Tom Selleck."
"What?" she said, glaring at him.
Cruz stroked his mustache. "You know, the mustache, the green eyes. If they get Susan Lucci for the sequel, then I think I gotta be Selleck."
CHAPTER 8
HALF THE SHADE UNDER THE PUMP ROOF STOOD EMPTY, SO Casey knew her team had been hard at work. She let herself in the back way, taking one step inside before she recoiled, retching. She clasped her hand to her face and peered inside. A pool of sewer water covered her office floor. A small slick of luminescent greens, purples, and blues oozed across the surface, a psychedelic scum hinting of gasoline. From the low center of the small room a floor drain coughed and bubbled.
"Stacy!" she said, covering her face the instant the word left her lips.
Across the dark pool, the door swung open and Stacy appeared.
"Oh, God, I know," she said. "The plumber's on his way. Someone clogged the toilet."