by Mark Reps
“Did the calendar come with the building too?”
Zeb walked over to the calendar and took a look at the pictures sitting atop Josh’s desk. One of them was of Josh wearing a cowboy shirt, hat and holster. He looked to be about four years old. Next to it was a wedding picture. The man looked happy, beaming broadly and not looking at all uncomfortable in his ill-fitting suit. Darkened skin and a tan line across the forehead made it obvious the man worked in the sun and wore a hat. The stunningly beautiful bride looked radiant in her wedding dress.
“Yes, it did. The French family put up this building in 1906. They used it as a livery stable until the Second World War. I checked it out at the library. I found some early pictures of the building at the Safford Historical Society. I’m thinking of having them enlarged and framed. I think they would look great hanging in the store.”
“Hell, you know more about my hometown than I do,” said Zeb.
“People are paying homage to the past more and more these days. My dad used to tell me you can’t know where you’re going unless you know where you’ve been,” said Josh.
“A philosopher too?” said Zeb.
“Well rounded. This is where the ammo was taken from.”
“It doesn’t look like anything else was disturbed.”
“I didn’t touch a thing. If I hadn’t just completed an inventory, I might have not missed it at all.”
“How did they manage to enter the building? I didn’t notice any damage to the front door,” remarked Zeb.
“Stay right where you are and look toward the back of the building,” replied Josh.
Josh flipped the lights off. The overly bright room became instantly darkened. For half a second, while his eyes adjusted, Zeb could see almost nothing. Then he noticed a crack of light streaming in through the doorframe. Josh flicked the lights back on.
“Watch your eyes.”
Zeb walked to the back door. His eyes winced from the sudden change in light.
“Here’s what I think happened,” said Josh. “There’s enough of a crack in the door frame to stick a thin piece of metal through and lift up the two by four.”
“What about the dead bolt?”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t pay attention to it. But it’s an old lock, a flip down style. Look at it closely.”
Zeb reached up and put the bolt through its normal positional changes. It slid easily having been recently cleaned and oiled. He left it in the open position.
“The dead bolt could be opened with a second piece of metal, an angled one--insert through the crack--flip up--pull back--and voila, you’re in like Flynn.”
“Two people, you figure? One for the lock and one for the two by four? Maybe a thief and a lookout?” suggested Zeb.
“That’s the way I had it figured when I first thought about it,” said Josh. “But I changed my mind.”
Using his right hand and left elbow, Josh deftly removed the large beam from the back door and leaned it against the back wall. He pulled the door open into the natural light of the sun.
“I found only one set of footprints that weren’t mine in the alley around the door. They go from the back door to near the dumpster, where he must have parked his vehicle. One distinct set of prints coming. The same exact footprints going.”
Josh gave Zeb minute details of the distance between the prints, the toeing out of the right foot, an approximated foot length and size, even the number of steps the person had taken.
“Have you ever been burgled before? I mean at your other store.”
“No. A few times teenagers have tried to shoplift. Never a burglary.”
“Robbed?”
“Never. It takes a desperate fool to rob a gun shop.”
“I’ll come back and make some impressions of the footprints. Was anything else disturbed on the outside?”
“Nothing that I noticed.”
A cowbell hanging over the front door clanged loudly signaling Josh that a customer had arrived.
“I’m going to have a look around back. Bar the back door behind me. I’ll come through the front when I’m done.”
The dead bolt clicked and the wooden crossbeam clunked into the U-hooks. Zeb’s hand rested against the adobe wall of the old building. The French family had built a respectable building, one that would stay cool in the pre-air conditioning era.
Following the footprints in the hardened dirt from the back door to the dumpster he imaged the route of the thief. It was a short one that could have been covered in mere seconds. Entry into the building with the right tools would have taken a professional less than a minute. Across the street were railroad tracks and a pair of empty, dilapidated industrial buildings. Directly across the alley was the back of a windowless storage shed. Zeb had been standing there for over three minutes and not one vehicle had come by. If the crook cased the alley, he might have guessed he could pull off the break-in even during broad daylight.
The building next door had a boarded up window. The plywood cover was stained with pigeon droppings. In the center of the excrement was a dried, brown stain. A thin trail from the center of the stain ran down the wood. Overhead, the tin roof slanted toward the alley. In a metal eave at the corner of the roof was an abandoned pigeon nest. Zeb marked the imprints with orange flags, walked down the alley and around the corner onto the street. He kept his eyes open for other clues but saw none. He re-entered Josh’s gun shop through the front door.
“Find anything useful?”
“Maybe. Mind if I take a closer look at the gun case?”
“Be my guest. The sooner you have a look at it the sooner I can replace the broken glass.”
Zeb touched the ridge of the entry point on the glass case. It had been etched, leaving only a smooth cut. Inside the case were ultrafine shards of glass. The thief had been quiet, clever and obviously experienced.
“Would I be likely to find anyone else’s finger prints on this cabinet?”
“On the top glass you’re going to find anyone’s who leaned on the cabinet. You know how people are. They put their finger on the glass and point at something they want to have a look at. I clean the glass every day. I’m certain I cleaned it the day before I ended up in the hospital. I was only open a short time on the morning of the robbery. I don’t recall anyone browsing this case, but I could be wrong. If there are any prints there, they could be from my unwanted guest. My prints should be the only ones on the back side of the case. I keep it locked and have the only key.”
“Can you keep people away from it until I can get Deputy Steele over here later to dust it for prints?”
“No problem. In fact have her come over as soon as she can.”
“You seem eager to see her.”
The men exchanged a knowing smile as the cowbell above the entry door clanged again. Zeb turned to see a local man whom he recognized. He tipped his hat to the man and they exchanged hellos. He had come for a box of twelve gauge shells and some .22 cartridges. He mumbled something about varmint hunting which caused Josh to laugh and make a quip about it being varmint season.
When Josh walked through the swinging doors to get the ammunition, Zeb got a clear view of the back office. A professional could have easily staked out the inside of the building. An eerie feeling came over him as he thought about Josh Diamond, expert tracker and man hunter, having his office space and business stalked by someone with a devious and clever eye for plotting a crime.
11
Ángel took a long pull on the tequila bottle. He began to feel better. It had been another sad and empty night without his beloved Juanita. His longing for her brought her to life in his daydream. During his prison lockup he counted the days, the hours and finally the minutes until he was paroled. His beautiful Juanita had written him a letter every day. Sometimes she would scent it with sweet perfume. Sometimes he could smell the heavenly fragrance of their lovemaking. He ached to run his fingers through her long black hair. To caress her silky soft skin would be divine. Ángel sighed
until his lungs ached with emptiness. His love for Juanita was larger than just about everything else in the world.
But the demonic tequila despised his thoughts of love. Suddenly the devil recoiled in his mind. Tears pooled heavily beneath his eyelids. He had no strength to fight against the Demon Tequila that stole his sense even when he thought of his sainted mother. She had died while he was in prison. His grandfather had written the warden asking for a simple, humble favor. Could Ángel be released from prison for one day so he could go to his own mother’s funeral? His grandfather even promised the warden on his dead daughter’s soul that he would return Ángel to prison the minute the funeral was over. Other men had received this sort of favor. These men had committed much worse crimes than Ángel. The warden had laughed at his grandfather. The warden even spit on him. He said Ángel could not be trusted in the hands of a frail, old man. The boy would “run like a dingo dog”. Those were his exact words. He had called Ángel’s grandfather frail and untrustworthy. He had called Ángel a dog. Ángel knew the warden hated him. The warden hated all the brown skins. He despised the Apache, who he called “goddamned redskins with no souls”. He called any prisoner with Mexican blood “the bastard sons of Spain”. The damned warden knew Ángel was first Mescalero, second Hispanic and last a Mexican-American. Such disrespect roused feelings of vengeance in his heart.
Ángel took one more long drink from the bottle hoping to put a lid on his growing hatred. The effect was quite the opposite. Ángel’s blood was boiling. All he wanted was his dream of a beach life in Mexico. With Juanita by his side he would drink cerveza on the beach and fish in the ocean. He would buy his little mujercita a house on the beach. They would live happily ever after, just like in the storybooks his mother had read to him when he was a child. Ángel’s mind raced between his hatred of the warden and the love of his Juanita.
“Jimmie Joe?”
“Sí, Ángel. You need more tequila so soon?”
“No. The tequila is tasting good.”
“What is it then?”
“I am worried about Juanita driving around in a stolen pickup. It is such a beautiful truck. She is such a beautiful woman. Somebody will notice her. People will wonder why a lovely woman in a fancy truck is without an hombre by her side. It is bound to make someone suspicious.”
“I told you a thousand times, Ángel. You never listen. When the pigs are looking for a stolen vehicle, they only check the license plates. I put a clean set of plates on that little truck before I handed her the keys. She will be just fine in that little baby blue Chevy pickup when she meets you in Tucson. Quit worrying. Have a little more fire water.”
“I’d be feeling so much better if I had been able to see her face and touch her.”
“Ángel, you know that would not be the safe thing to do. If you had taken the truck to her, you two would never come back. You and Juanita would be drinking and partying and having fun.”
“Sí, sí. This sounds so very good. Me and my baby dancing all night long.”
“But Ángel, you would have nothing, no money, no future. Now you wait only three short weeks.”
“But three weeks is a long time, Jimmie Joe.”
“How long were you in the prison, Ángel?”
“Two years, four months, six days, nine hours and forty-two minutes.”
“Then what’s a few more weeks out of your short life if you can be rich?”
“But, my Juanita...”
“You think Juanita won’t love you a whole lot more if you have a million dollars in your pocket?”
“I know she would love me if I had no money at all. She would love me if I was as poor as the little white mouse in the Iglesia Catedral back home. She doesn’t care about money. Juanita only cares about loving me.”
“Bah! Ángel you know nothing of women. You may look like a girl but you don’t think like a muchacha.”
“Cut it out, Jimmie Joe. Quit making fun of me. You shouldn’t do that.”
“Who saved your cute round ass from the homosexuals, Ángel? Huh? Who protected your cute little mouth from being a lollypop sucker?”
Ángel took a deep pull on the tequila bottle to put out the fire in his heart. That day in the shower--would Jimmie Joe never let him forget about it?
“Mi abuelo--my grandfather. You are sure he is okay? I know he is worried about me. Ever since mi madre buena went to heaven he prays from the Bible every day. If I could only have seen him one time, I would feel so much better.”
“How many times do I have to go over this? You could not see Juanita because she would steal your heart. You could not see your grandfather because he would talk to his friends. If one word slipped to the wrong person, then people would know you are in the area. That is exactly the sort of thing that could ruin our plan. We don’t want anyone to know we are anywhere near here. One little slip and we’re back in the big house. Look Ángel, use your head. We don’t want any trouble. I have got this thing all mapped out. We won’t vary from my plan. It is too late now to have it any other way. Don’t go screwy on me, Ángel.”
“I know, I know. I just miss my family so much it hurts me. They are the only ones left--Grandfather Felipe, Juanita…”
“You can’t really count on them. They’re no different than anyone else. They would turn on you like rats if the money was right.”
“That is not true. Family is blood,” said Ángel.
“I know from experience that family members are nothing but bloodsuckers.”
“I can count on my family no matter what.”
“You had better hope so,” said Jimmie Joe. “You had better hope so.”
Jimmie Joe fired a glob of spit next to Ángel’s hand. He pulled a tin of chewing tobacco from his right rear pocket. Ángel watched as the older man stuffed a fresh plug of chew between his cheek and gum. Pulling out the drippy gob of used tobacco the sinister older man held it out to Ángel.
“Chew? Its better the second time around, already broken in, if you catch my drift.”
Ángel turned away from the rancid smell of the stringy brown leaves pulled from between the rotting teeth of the diablo blanco. Why did the big White man insist on playing such stupid little tricks? Maybe his amigos were right. Maybe el diablo es loco.
“Doesn’t go good with tequila, huh? Here let me show you how.”
Jimmie Joe Walker grabbed the bottle from the tightly gripped fingers of his young partner in crime. Slowly he brought it to his mouth. An evil grin, full of black teeth, ran cheek to cheek. With one swallow he chugged down half of what remained in the bottle.
“See? Nothing to it when you’re a real man.”
The big White man with the huge tattoo of a laughing devil on his arm smiled broadly. A rancid display of tobacco juice hung between his widely gapped rotting teeth. The pain in Ángel’s stomach escalated in waves. His gut creaked like a rusty gate. Nausea surged through his body from head to toe. Stumbling out of the run-down trailer house he fell to all fours. Ángel began up-chucking a mixture of bile, tequila and blood. A wave of self-hatred rushed through him as he realized good liquor had barely been given a chance to do its job.
Ángel didn’t hear the footsteps behind him as he used the back of his hand to wipe the red and green brackish fluid from his face. As the putrid smell of the vomited liquid reached his nose, turning his stomach yet again, the big White devil placed a boot squarely in the middle of Ángel’s neck crushing his face directly into his own vomit. The boot striking his spine sent a lightning bolt of pain through his body. Ángel puked a second time. He struggled for breath. His anxious painful breathing forced some of the vomited liquid back into his stomach.
“Learn to hold your liquor, you stupid little bastard. So help me God, if you screw this up, you are going to be one dead fucker.”
12
Deputy Steele closed the door to her office. She slipped her copy of the bomb threats into the cassette player. Listening to the hum of the rewinding tape she stared intently at a
painting on her office wall titled “Where Beauty Begins”. Eskadi had drawn it for her shortly after he had given her the traditional Apache name of Son-ee-ah-Ray--Morning Star. The painting was a lifelike rendition of Jimmy Song Bird, Medicine Man at the San Carlos Reservation. Something caught her eye. Something that she had not seen in all the times she had stared at the painting. Eskadi had carefully constructed an obscure celestial design with the tiniest of stars painted into Song Bird’s dark and mysterious pupils.
The cassette player clicked. Kate rested a lithe finger lightly on the play button. She pressed it on slowly, softly. Her mind replayed the taped conversation a fraction of a second ahead of the actual recording. Every hesitation, every inflection, even the scratchy hang up noise from the caller’s phone was etched into her consciousness and seeping more deeply into her subconscious. The slight slur in his voice--was it alcohol or simply nervousness? Was she hearing regret in the man’s voice or not? The accent was Mexican Hispanic but the thick-tongued inflection carried hints of what she now knew to be Mescalero Apache. Whatever it was, it was definitely not a local accent. The caller’s cadence was neither precisely Spanish nor exactly Athabascan Apache. It was an unfamiliar rhythmic blend.
She looked at the regional map beneath the glass covering her desk. With a magic marker she drew a circle. The telephone company had confirmed the call was local. Thirty miles in any direction was the area she needed to know. That area involved a half-an-hour drive, a mere thirty miles. But it may as well have been the moon…or the stars in Song Bird’s eyes. Lost in thought, Sheriff Hanks’ voice took her by surprise.
“Kate? Mind if I listen to the tape with you?”
“Certainly, Sheriff. Have a seat. Maybe you can hear something I missed.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard everything there is to hear. It’s just that every time you listen to it I can hear it in my office. It sounds all jumbled through the wall. It was starting to annoy me. You know, hearing it without being able to make out what it said. I thought maybe if we listened to it together, we could hear something neither of us heard separately.”