Scorched Noir

by Garnett Elliott

  At twenty feet Tench stopped again, listening. No sounds from the trailer. No sounds from the road. He was being too cautious. Gustavo had told him the man had no muscle around. He had to get this sneaking stuff over with quick, so he could start the real work.

  He crept up to the window. Craned his head. The light was coming from a lamp and a black and white TV. There was a recliner propped in front of the set, and the back of a gray-haired head sticking above the recliner. He heard snores over the soft TV voices.

  Cake. Fucking cake. He ran to the side door. Flimsy lock; he slid his pocket-knife into the jam and pried the bar up with a faint pop. Crept into a narrow hallway. Ahead lay the living room, TV and recliner. Juan Smith, snoring louder now. He'd get his wakeup soon. Tench hefted the axe-handle and grabbed a zip-tie out of his pocket. A quick blow to stun, not too hard. Then the zip-tie. Then the gag, until he was ready to talk.

  Someone coughed.

  Tench froze. The coughing sound had not come from the recliner. Where?

  And now the gray-haired man was stirring, straightening up in the chair. Turning around to face Tench. It was Don Gustavo. He still wore the creased Wranglers and boots, but the cowboy hat was gone. The lips under his moustache curled.

  "What're you doing here?" Tench said. "Where's Juan Smith?"

  "Relax."

  "What's going on?"

  Gustavo settled his arms across his chest. "Do you have a gun?"

  "No. You said—"

  A tall closet next to the recliner rattled and the door slid back. A man stepped out. He had to stoop to clear the frame … about six-four, dark-skinned, heavy-shouldered, with a greaser haircut and an aquiline nose that hinted at Yaqui heritage. The man wasn't carrying weapons and didn't need to. Tench's fingers dug into the axe-handle.

  "There are complications," Don Gustavo said, "in working both sides of the law as you do." His voice sounded far away, though in fact he had taken a couple steps closer to speak. His eyes were half-lidded. He nodded at Tench.

  The tall dark man came forward. His face had the fixed expression of someone expecting violence. Tench cocked the axe-handle back, ready to swing but balking when he saw all that muscle ripple toward him. He swung. The heavy's hand flashed out and caught him at the wrist with fingers made of cinderblock. Tench balled his left and drove it into the man's stomach. More cinderblock.

  "Go easy, Chuy," Gustavo said.

  But the heavy was already tightening his grip, fingers closing on Tench's wrist with inexorable force. Plans flashed through his mind, desperate. Knee the guy in the nuts. Kick his shin. Lean close and head butt him. A thousand tricks he'd learned while inside. But pain and panic kept him still. His fingers were going numb.

  "You beat a man yesterday, in that jail," Gustavo said. "Brutally. I understand this was done as a matter of principle. I can respect such a thing. I hope you can, too."

  Tench shook his head, not understanding. Too much pain to make the connection.

  "Hector Tamayo is my godson," Gustavo said.

  Tench heard the first of a series of pops from his wrist. The axe-handle clanked against the floor. He swayed and felt like he was going to pass out, but the heavy jerked him upright. Tench looked into his eyes for signs of mercy. No dice. There were blue-black lines on the man's corded neck that ran down to the top part of his chest, swirling together to form the portrait of a saint. Tench recognized the technique and dropped his head. Prison tattoos.

  "Now, Chuy," Gustavo said, his voice almost a whisper.

  * * *

  They broke nearly every bone he had and left him out by the freeway. Trucks roared by until the sun came up. Someone must've finally called 911, because suddenly paramedics were swarming all over him, shaking their heads. He'd gone so limp they had to scrape the stretcher under him to get his body off the ground.

  At the hospital a toxicology screen found cocaine in his system, and one of the EMT's had come across Gustavo's "payment" while the coveralls were being cut away. They had left that for him after all. A parting gift. The possession was dutifully reported and Tench got his pre-trial notice while still learning to spoon applesauce to his swollen lips.

  He should've left the stuff at home, with Leeza.

  Later, sitting upright in bed, he tried to think of a single prison in the Southwest where he hadn't worked and the cons didn't know him by name.

  †

  Somerton Sangre

  A weathered face thrust through the doorway, followed by roils of fragrant smoke. "Vega, work."

  Vega un-curled the dumbbell he'd been lifting. He slipped a shirt over his tattooed chest and followed the old woman out.

  The cooks in the backyard already had the fires going. Sweating, stripped to the waist, they turned cuts of flank steak and green onions over an oil-drum grill. Vega swayed past them into the restaurant proper, past a crowded room filled with tables and empty Tecate bottles. The old woman led him out to the dirt parking lot in front.

  A shiny black SUV waited there, engine running. It was the only new car in the lot. A woman sat behind the wheel. She stuck her head out the window as he came over.

  "Are you Vega?" she said, in English.

  He nodded.

  "A man named Torrecon told me about you."

  "I guess I owe him some money, then."

  She was in her mid-forties. Not pretty. Her head squatted on a thick neck and she wore a gold lamé coat with a high collar. Her chin was broad like a shovel and her mouth followed suit. He guessed she was a wealthy Sonoran, up from San Luis with her permiso tucked away in her purse, nice and legal. Rancher, probably.

  "What does my money get me?" she said, looking him over.

  Vega grinned. He showed her the nickel-plated .38 he kept tucked away in his pocket, clipped to his belt-loop by a length of heavy chain. Then he showed her his fists. Balled up, they were big as Texas pink grapefruits.

  She nodded. One of her nicely-manicured hands rummaged around and came up with a pair of photographs.

  Vega took them both, squinting at the glare from the slick paper. The first one showed a guy a little younger than himself, lanky, with a square jaw. He was on a beach somewhere, holding a green coconut up to the camera for a toast. From his half-lidded expression, the coconut had alcohol in it. The second picture looked like it had been shot in a hurry. It was at an angle, and showed a human torso wrapped in plastic, an arm, and a piece of scalp covered with dark wavy hair. The same dark wavy hair gracing the head of the guy in the first photo.

  He put the picture in his back pocket. "Family?"

  "My younger brother." Her eyes looked like little chips of stone. "I want to know who did that to him. And why."

  "Drug-runners cut people up like that, sometimes."

  She shook her head. "He wasn't involved with drugs, or smuggling."

  "You sure?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Did he have any enemies?"

  "Not outside his own family."

  Vega wrinkled his forehead to show he didn't understand.

  "My brother estranged himself," she said. "I will not go into how. My family has wealth and land and my father kicked him off our estate, told him not to come back. Naturally, I felt sorry for him. I gave him money from time to time.

  "A couple months ago he got the idea he should cross the border into the U.S. He thought he might make a name for himself here. Doing what, I don't know, but he got the idea. So I gave him some extra money. He was very excited. He—"

  She grasped the steering wheel with both hands and lowered her head. She took a deep breath. "My family got that last picture from the Mexican consulate, about a week after he'd told me he planned to cross."

  "Where'd they find the body?"

  "In a field near here, in Somerton. Someone just dumped him." Another deep breath.

  Vega thought about that.

  "Crossing illegally is dangerous," he said. "People get lost, die from heat exposure and thirst. Why didn't your brother just get a visa
and drive across like you did?"

  "It's not that simple. You have to have a job or a title in order to get a visa, and my brother had neither. They make sure you have something to go back to before they let you across."

  "Your family's rich. They could've bribed somebody."

  "If my father allowed it, which he wouldn't have, and if my brother had asked, which he was too proud to do." She glanced at the trim little watch strapped to her wrist. "Are you going to work with me or not? Torrecon said you needed the money."

  "He's right. Tell me, did your brother plan to cross near San Luis, or Algodones? Or someplace else?"

  "San Luis. He told me just before he left."

  Vega stroked at his stubbled chin. "That narrows things down, anyways. I can't search the entire goddamn Arizona-Mexico border."

  They talked numbers.

  * * *

  Vega neglected to tell Mrs. Sandoval he knew very little about the process of illegal immigration, beyond what any other second or third generation Mexican-American did. Smuggling drugs across the border was a different story, of course. But human contraband required some original thinking.

  In the end he could only come up with one plan.

  He cut his hair. He bought worn clothing from a church thrift-shop, including a dusty baseball cap and a flannel shirt. They didn't fit well, but that was the idea. He practiced the slower cadence of rural Spanish and smiled a lot in what he hoped was a shy, dumb-ass sort of way.

  Then he crossed through the checkpoint of San Luis on foot. A bored INS agent waved him through. There was no elaborate security getting in to Mexico.

  He spent half a day wandering the streets, pushing past turistas, hookers, and street-vendors. He asked around. A cab driver took him to a bar that seemed to cater to newcomers. It played accordion music and served tequila in dirty plastic cups.

  An old man there, a cigarette vendor, told him about Rafe' Limas.

  * * *

  Limas's tumbledown house backed onto a heap of dead washing machines, their cases yellowed and spilling rusted guts. Part of the lot had been cleared and the units pushed into neat rows, forming a sort of dog-run. Limas, sweating, smoking, making the occasional go at a tub of chile verde, sat on an elevated platform and watched his sole dog, a gray boxer he called Chato, struggle through the run. Chato had a canvas sack stuffed with bricks strapped to his back and didn't seem to be enjoying the experience.

  "Why are you doing that to him?" Vega asked. He sat on a faded lawn chair next to Limas. The lot crawled with lizards and broken glass and dog turds baked adobe-hard by the sun.

  "Makes him buff." Limas slapped a meaty hand against Vega's chest. "Like you, my friend."

  Vega gave his sticksville smile.

  "Where'd you say you were from?" Limas said, reaching for the verde. He was big and fat and half of him flopped out of the chair every time he moved.

  "Veracruz. I used to catch shrimp, but they're all dying out."

  "You came a long way."

  "I saved up money." He took out his wallet and flashed some of Mrs. Sandoval's bills.

  Limas's eyes widened. Suddenly the chile was having a hard time going down his throat.

  "An investment," he managed to say, pounding his chest. "Once you get to the states, a big guy like you will have no trouble finding work. Hell, I bet someone would hire you as a bouncer for a club. You know about bouncers? Women'll fuck you just to get inside the place. Better than hauling nets, huh?"

  Vega nodded. "My cousin came up this way a couple months ago. Tall guy, big jaw. His name's Arturo Sandoval. Did he work with you?"

  Limas's face became carefully blank. "I don't always get names," he said. "I work with a lot of people. But if your cousin has any brains, then he probably came with me."

  Vega remembered the plastic-wrapped torso and tried to put the image out of his mind. "The guy I spoke to in the bar, he said you take special care of your people."

  "That's true." Limas puffed out his flabby chest. "I've got connections on the U.S. side. Other polleros get you across and then strand you in some chicken-shit border town, too small to have any real work. Not me. I've got someone with an air-conditioned van, takes you all the way to a big city like Phoenix. That's a place for a man to find work."

  "Sounds good."

  "Hell, I'll even look after your health. Did the old man tell you about the clinic?"

  Vega shook his head.

  "Well, you'll get to see it soon enough. Very professional."

  Out in the yard, the dog had reached the far end of the run. Limas yelled encouragement.

  "Tomorrow morning," he said, "you find your way to the market plaza. My coyote Tomas will be waiting. He'll see you across to the other contact, the one with the van."

  "And the money?"

  "Tomas will take care of it."

  Vega scratched his head. "You don't go across yourself?"

  "Oh no," Limas said. "I'm the pollero. I'm the one who gathers the little chicks."

  He laughed smoke.

  * * *

  A man was waiting on Limas's front porch when Vega let himself out. An Anglo, dressed in a dark blue suit. He had thinning blond hair and glasses and looked so out of place Vega thought there might have been something funny in the cigarettes Limas had slipped him.

  But no, the blond-haired man smiled nervously and walked past without vanishing.

  There was something professional about the smile. In the stiffness of the man's movements. What profession exactly? Vega couldn't say.

  Then he was back out on the ugly streets of San Luis and looking for a cab.

  * * *

  Tomas was waiting for him in the plaza the next day, just as Limas had said. A hard-muscled, rugged little man, as lean as the pollero was fat, dressed in a faded black shirt and cowboy hat. He collected the crossing fee and shook Vega's hand. Another would-be traveler joined them around ten o'clock, a hopeful kid who looked all of sixteen years. He said his name was Rodolfo and he jabbered constantly as Tomas led them to his battered pickup truck.

  They drove for an hour and a half, Vega riding in the cab. The piss-colored buildings of San Luis gave way to shacks of tin and scrap lumber, and finally rolling desert. Tomas spoke very little. He concentrated on the road and rolled down the window every now and then to exhale smoke.

  The truck eventually pulled off onto a dirt road. Tomas eased to a stop behind a clump of greasewood tall enough to hide the vehicle and got out.

  They hoofed it for half a mile. Vega could see a road with trucks roaring past in the distance. Between them and the road stood an old chain-link fence, twelve feet high, that looked like it had been cut through and patched many times.

  Tomas pulled a bolt cutter from his back pocket.

  Twenty minutes later they were stateside and running through a field of iceberg lettuce. Tomas kept checking his watch. They came across a dried-up canal and the coyote had them scrabble down it, Rodolfo chattering away like a nervous groom.

  The canal ended at a rusted gate and they used a piece of frayed nylon rope to pull themselves out. A short distance away squatted a hay truck on a stretch of gravel road. The truck bed was piled high with bales, slightly green.

  Tomas beamed at his watch. "Right on time."

  "Is this—is this what's going to take us to Phoenix?" Rodolfo said, frowning.

  Tomas shook his head. "Only to the clinic. Hide yourselves in the bales. The drivers will be back soon and they'll take you there. Once they stop they'll sound the horn. That's your signal to jump out and make for the nearest building. The people there will tell you what to do next. Got it?"

  Rodolfo nodded for both of them.

  "Good." Tomas clapped Vega on the shoulder, then disappeared down the canal without a backward glance.

  They pushed and slid the bales to make a gap big enough to wiggle through. Vega heaved the straw back into place behind them, and they crouched in a narrow vale lit by cracks of sunlight. Rodolfo was already panting.r />
  "It's hot in here," he said.

  Vega stripped off his flannel shirt. "So much for the air-conditioning."

  "We'll get that soon, I think."

  "What's this clinic they keep talking about? The fat guy, Limas, he didn't tell me much."

  "He didn't?" Rodolfo frowned. "Well, Mr. Limas made arrangements for us to be tested. Tuberculosis, I think. You need that to work most jobs in the states. The doctor's going to give us certificates after we pass, and we'll take them with us to Phoenix."

  "I see." A suspicion began to fossilize in Vega's brain.

  They waited maybe twenty stifling, sweat-soaked minutes, and then the truck's big diesel engine rumbled to life. They started moving. Life-giving breezes poured in through the cracks.

  "Not long now," Rodolfo said, smiling.

  The truck made a couple brief stops, seemed to shift directions a few times. Vega considered then rejected starting a pack of smokes. He was beginning to re-think the possibility when the brakes squealed and the driver laid into the horn.

  "That's our cue," Vega said. He shoved bales aside and the two of them jumped down from the truck.

  The driver roared off like he was hauling blow. Vega caught a pair of dark eyes, a knowing smile in the rearview mirror, and then the whole rig disappeared behind a cloud of dust.

  They were standing in a field of cauliflower, recently harvested. The leaves and stray pieces of white flesh had already begun to rot, and the smell was worse than the dumpster behind his cousin's asadero at noon. A familiar mountain range poked up to the east. He couldn't swear it, but he thought they were somewhere near Somerton.

  Just across the street stood a tan stucco house, shaded by a line of cottonwoods. A dark green van was parked next to the house.

  Rodolfo trembled like a puppy.

  The door to the house opened and a skinny woman in a white smock leaned out. She waved them over. When she saw they weren't running she waved harder until they did.