by Mark Reps
“It would surprise the heck out of me,” replied Sheriff Hanks. “However, he doesn’t seem like the type who would call in a bomb threat either, but he did. He admits to that. Have you completed the background check on Mr. Madrigal? Work history, marriage, kids, criminal history, tax liens, anything.”
“I am working on all that. My report will be on your desk the minute it’s complete.”
“If he didn’t act alone, we need to find a link. I’ll take a ride out to his house and search it from top to bottom,” replied Zeb.
“Are you thinking you might find the stolen guns?”
“I doubt it, but I will look for them anyway. I don’t exactly know what I am going to be looking for. I just hope I know it when I see it.”
“You heading out there now?” asked Kate.
“Yes, right now.”
“What do you want me working on today?”
“We need to triple check to see if anyone in the area saw Lorenzo’s pickup after it was stolen.”
“What are you thinking?”
“A powder blue LUV pickup like that, somebody had to see it,” said Sheriff Hanks.
“Do you think Lorenzo’s truck is tied to the bombing?” asked Deputy Steele.
“I’ve known the García family forever. They are what you call a superstitious bunch. Mrs. García reads tea leaves and palms. She even makes predictions about the future. God knows what thoughts she is going to put into Lorenzo’s head over this whole deal. I will bet you anything he will be spooked into believing the dead woman’s spirit is going to affect him. If we can explain what happened, it will make a great difference to his peace of mind. Did you get any updates on the body they found in his pickup?”
“I got one follow up from Detective Muñoz,” said Deputy Steele. “He sent a note saying the body was a Hispanic female, between twenty to twenty five years of age, approximately five feet tall, weighing one hundred pounds. Most importantly the fire isn’t what killed her.”
“What did?”
“She had a broken neck and a crushed windpipe.”
“Murder?” inquired Sheriff Hanks.
“It looks like it. The message from Detective Muñoz indicated the investigation is open and ongoing. The Tucson police department is trying to locate any missing persons who fit the woman’s description. They haven’t had much luck.”
“To them this is a routine case of an undocumented illegal alien in a stolen truck.” said Zeb.
“That doesn’t make the young woman any less dead.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he replied, realizing how cold his statement sounded. “It’s just that the odds of finding out the who and the why are less likely when you are possibly dealing with an illegal alien as the victim.”
Kate knew the sheriff was right.
“We have to remember in this case we are here to serve the victim, a dead young woman,” he added.
Kate’s head told her not to follow her imagination. Yet her mind could not shake a horrifying vision of the young woman’s death scene--a brutal pair of hands gripped tightly around her neck, squeezing her life away, breaking her neck, crushing her windpipe. It was not a pretty picture.
“Maybe your friend, Detective Muñoz, can beat the odds on this one,” she said.
“I wouldn’t bet against him. As soon as you finish that report, why don’t you head out to the Garcías and check around. See if anyone remembers ever seeing the powder blue LUV pickup truck with someone other than old man García behind the wheel, or if anyone saw the vehicle driving faster than he would have driven it. Somebody had to have seen something the day it was stolen. Someone out that way must know something. Jar some memories. Give me a call on the two-way if you learn anything.”
20
“Snap to attention, amigo, siesta time is over. We’re burnin’ daylight.”
The half-asleep Ángel felt a rough hand on his shoulder shaking him back and forth.
“Come on ass-wipe, we got work to do.”
Opening his eyes, Ángel Gómez yawned widely and slowly stretched his arms over his head. The harsh command from Jimmie Joe Walker had roused him from a pleasant, sweet dream of his beloved Juanita. In his dreamlike condition Ángel could practically smell the lovely rose water she splashed behind her ears and sometimes even between her breasts for him. It was her firm breasts that had been the focus of his dream. His flesh tingled as he thought of her holding the hemline of her skirt away from her body in one hand and snapping fingers on the other as she danced a sensuous salsa she called El Gato Caliente.
Ángel drifted back into semi-consciousness as he imagined his lovely woman dancing closer, closer, enticing him to be a man, a hot-blooded man, making him ready to pounce on her like the animal he was.
“Wipe that silly, shit eatin’ grin off your God-damn mug. I said wake up, boy.”
This time Ángel awoke fully. Standing above him the man who had become his compadre and master was slowly loading bullets into a handgun one at a time.
“One--two--three--four--five--six. Bang, número uno, bang, número dos shot, bang, número tres, bang, fourth shot, bang, fifth bullet out of the gun. Just one shot left.” He pointed the gun directly at Ángel’s forehead. “Kapow--you’re dead. Gone to hell forever, my little muchacha. Gone directly to hell.”
Diablo Blanco was playing with his guns again. The evil game of pointing the gun at Ángel and pretending to fire the bullets frightened him. The look on Jimmie Joe’s face was the look of an hombre loco who might just pull the trigger. Ángel felt a rush of dread run through his veins. In prison he had seen Jimmie Joe do so many crazy things. He knew the White devil did not feel things in the same way other people did. He was crazy like a rabid lobo and mean like a cornered rattlesnake. Maybe one day the devil inside the big White man would make him pull the trigger and Ángel would be blown to bits. If the devil shot him, he hoped it would be a quick one through the head, not a slow one in the stomach.
“You don’t like to play my little game, chiquita? Then you’d better be a real good driver because I don’t want to shoot you--and you know why I don’t want to shoot you, don’t you?”
Ángel smiled at the apparent reprieve but did not know how to answer. Shake your head one way and Jimmie Joe would go crazy, shake it the other and who knows what might happen. Jimmie Joe erupted into a fit of insanely disturbing laughter. Ángel broke into a cold sweat.
“I don’t want to waste no stinkin’ bullet.”
Jimmie Joe’s smile faded to hard steel. Bending down toward Ángel he caressed the young man’s cheekbone with the barrel before resting the cold metal against his ear. He rubbed so lightly it tickled. But Ángel did not laugh.
“Let’s go for a little ride. We need some practice in driving the big truck fast around corners. You drive.”
“I’ve got to take a leak first,” said Ángel. Then I’ll be ready to go.”
Ángel stepped outside the ramshackle trailer and behind the mesquite tree. He unzipped his pants and gave a small morado cactus a good dowsing of yellow water. As he tucked his private parts into his underwear, he looked over his shoulder. He wanted to be certain Jimmie Joe was not watching him. Reaching into his boot, he took out his switchblade knife, checked its action before tucking it tightly into a secret compartment he had sewn into the waistline of his pants, and untucked his shirt for additional cover of the hiding place. Reaching back, he double-checked the positioning of his blade. A second knife in his boot was also ready. Jimmie Joe, sitting inside the cab of the big four-wheel drive truck, appeared oblivious to Ángel’s actions.
“Come on, angel face. Let’s see what kind of action this machine we stole has,” whooped Jimmie Joe. “I’ll betcha a dollar to a dingo it can go one hundred and twenty miles an hour on a straight away and ninety, ninety-five around corners. Here, partner.”
Jimmie Joe tossed Ángel the keys. As the men took their seats, Jimmie Joe reached into the glove compartment. Removing an unopened pint of Cuervo
Gold tequila, he handed it to the driver. Ángel hungrily twisted off the cap. One deep swallow drained a quarter of the bottle.
“Ah, sí, sí. That is some mighty good juice. Now I drive like lightning.”
“Come on, little buddy,” laughed Jimmie Joe. “Let’s go for a nice, long ride and break these wheels in.”
“Where we heading?” asked Ángel.
“Take some back roads over to Highway 191 and scoot down towards York. We’ll catch Route 75 and cut back up toward Guthrie and Granville. I want to see what you can do when you put the pedal to the metal.”
Ángel began to better acquaint himself with the big truck. Five speeds, eight cylinders, it rode high but cornered well. It did not make the ninety miles an hour Jimmie wanted, but seventy even seventy-five miles an hour without shaking was no problem. Ángel punched it up to a hundred and ten on a straightaway but it shimmied badly when he hit an unexpected pothole in the road. When they hit the paved roads, one twenty was no problem and it cornered like a racecar. Ángel did not know the plan, but he knew he was the man behind the wheel of the getaway vehicle.
“About ten miles north of Granville, just past the Mitchell Peak Road, there’s a dirt road that cuts over through the Rez and catches up with Indian Route 801. Eventually it runs into Indian Route 8. Let’s head that way,” said Jimmie Joe. “We need to get to know those roads.”
“Hell,” said Ángel taking another pull on the bottle. “I already know those roads out there like the back of my hand.”
“That’s what I am counting on,” replied Jimmie Joe. “That’s exactly what I am counting on.”
After three hours of crisscrossing every side road three or four times, Ángel had every bump and rut memorized.
“Head back over to Duncan,” said Jimmie Joe. I know a cut off up that way that will take us to the Blue River. Rich folks from Safford, Tucson, Phoenix and even El Paso got fancy houses up that way. Most of them are vacant ten months out of the year. I thought we might like to “rent” one of them for a few days. Maybe even drink up some of the rich man’s liquor. What do you say to that?”
“Rich man’s liquor? You mean like Bombay Gin and Johnny Walker Black Label Whiskey? Maybe Patrón Anejo Tequila?” asked Ángel.
“Sure. Maybe even that fancy-ass tequila with the worm in the bottle.”
“Cuervo Anejo. The drink of kings,” said Ángel dreamily.
“We can even sleep in the rich man’s bed. I heard every one of those places has feather pillows. Maybe even sleep with the rich man’s daughter, eh, eh Ángel? What would you think of that? I bet you would like that, wouldn’t you? Some real pretty long legged blonde with cha chas grande, eh Ángel?”
Ángel’s halfhearted chuckle was meant to placate the evil one. It was only Juanita that Ángel wanted. His letters to her from prison had promised his everlasting devotion. Nothing would make him break that promise. She was his gato. He was her tigre. He would see her in a week. He could wait for her. Not even Jimmie Joe could bully him into sleeping with a woman other than Juanita. But he knew he had to play along with the White devil or things would go very badly for him.
The sinking sun shimmered across the lazily flowing waters of the San Simon River. Ángel relaxed as he eyed an old man and a boy standing on the bank, casting for trout. Ángel honked twice. They smiled and waved. He remembered the days after his father’s death when his grandfather took him fishing. “Fishing,” his grandfather said. “You can go fishing instead of going to church and it’s okay with the Man Upstairs because he would just as soon be fishing too.” Fishing with his grandfather had made the pain of his father’s death more bearable. Soon he would again see his grandfather’s kind face. He would buy his grandfather a new fishing pole. Ángel’s spirits soared as he saw light at the end of his dark tunnel.
“Jimmie, do you like fishing? I love everything about fishing. I love to fish trout, bass, and crappies. When we’re done with this job, I’m…”
He almost let it slip but caught himself. Once the job was done, Ángel was headed to Mexico with Juanita. He would never see the big White devil again. Ángel was going to change his life forever. Jimmie Joe Walker was going to be but a faint memory.
“Maybe you and me will go fishing? Maybe the big house we’re going to stay at will have some fishing poles?”
Jimmie Joe cast an evil eye over the San Simon River.
“I hate fishing,” he snarled. “I can’t imagine one reason in a million why anyone would eat the slimy little bastards. I’d rather eat worms.”
Just ahead the city limit sign of Morenci marked the outskirts of the small mining town.
“Pull into downtown. Let’s see what’s happening. Maybe get a drink. How about that, Ángel? You must be getting a little thirsty by now?”
The White devil too well understood Ángel’s lust for alcohol.
“I can always use a drink,” replied Ángel.
Ángel drove slowly through downtown Morenci. He wanted to draw zero attention to himself, Jimmie Joe and the stolen pickup. Even though they had snatched it in Tucson and changed plates in Benson, Ángel didn’t want to screw things up when he was so close to being rich.
“You drive any slower and the cops are going to pick you up for blocking traffic,” growled Jimmie Joe. “Pull in next to that bar, it looks friendly enough. Let’s go in and have an ice cold brew.”
Ángel pulled into a parking spot in the alley behind the bar. A faded mural of a pair of muscular men in hard hats covered the side of the building. Beneath, a motto read, COPPER--KING OF METALS-- Morenci Miners Union, Local 616. The front of a rundown wood sided building displayed the name of the bar in neon letters, some of which were in working order and many that pulsed and flashed intermittently. The sign hanging at the front of the bar read “Earl’s Firebelly Lounge Cold Beer Set Ups”.
“It looks like a redneck joint,” said Ángel. “It’s probably dangerous for us to go in there.”
“It is exactly my kind of joint,” replied Jimmie Joe. “Rednecks got the same right as everyone else to drink in a bar. Are you prejudiced against white trash like me?”
Ángel did not bother to answer that one. He hated Jimmie Joe’s guts but needed him if he was ever going to be rich.
It was a dimly lit establishment with a dark wooden bar; a pair of grizzled old men smoking cigarettes slumped round-shouldered over the bar. It smelled of beer-stained carpet. A jukebox played old fashioned country music. The disheveled regulars remained slumped and unmoving as the newcomers passed by. In the corner a muted television played a sitcom with a perfect looking young couple kissing deeply and passionately. Ángel stood behind the men and stared at the actors. The television lovers made him ache for his beloved Juanita. The ache was one of both love and desire. He felt pangs from his heart to his groin.
But a few drinks of smooth whiskey would shift his focus and fill his head with thoughts of easy money and the luxurious life of a rich man. The job that would make them rich was less than a week away. Ángel was getting anxious for his partner to tell him what exactly they were going to do and how they were going to get all that money.
“Tell me, Jimmie Joe. I need to know the plan. Don’t you trust me?”
Ángel feared his partner might think he was chicken because the job was too dangerous. Everyone who knew Ángel knew he was not some sort of stinking pollo.
“You, my young pardner, will find out real soon,” replied Jimmie Joe.
Sitting at a corner table with his back to the wall, Ángel ordered another whiskey, this time with a tequila chaser. He watched from a few feet away as Jimmie Joe rubbed his ugly paw against the oversized round bottom of a fat gringo woman. The woman’s long, narrow face reminded him of an old caballo his grandfather had kept for many years. She even seemed to whinny when she talked. Ángel watched her push Jimmie Joe’s hand away many, many times. Each time it found its way back until the woman ignored it altogether as she smoked cigarette after cigarette, blowing smoke rings
to impress Jimmie Joe, Ángel assumed. Ángel would never let Juanita smoke cigarettes. It would not be healthy when she started having babies and they became a real family. Ángel grinned widely as he imagined himself and Juanita running on the beach at San Miguel while their beautiful children made castles in the sand. He would be a proud padre. He would teach his son how to fish, how to play baseball, how to drive, how to fix things with his hands. Juanita would teach the girls how to be good people and make sure they had a good education. He dreamed of a thousand things they could do. He visualized the future he would build around his family. His heart felt good, at ease and hopeful.
“Hey! Hey, Ángel.”
The harsh order from Jimmie Joe’s mouth yanked him from his peaceful place.
“Are you sleeping on the job again or just daydreaming about being a gringo?”
The Diablo Blanco screeched out a fit of hideous laughter as Ángel opened his eyes. Standing by his side was the White devil with his hairy, tattooed arm draped around the fat woman, cupping her enormous breast. He pointed a deformed finger at Ángel.
“This here little fella,” said Jimmie Joe nodding toward Ángel. “He falls asleep when he’s awake and daydreams about his darling Juanita. You can tell just by the look on his face that is exactly what he was thinking about. Did you ever see such a stupid looking grin?”
Ángel smiled politely at the obese, smelly woman who was too drunk to pay attention to Jimmie Joe’s ramblings. He noticed she was barely able to stand without the big man’s support. Ángel worried that the fat woman might fall on top of him and crush him.
“Here.”
Jimmie Joe spun the woman around and pushed her down onto Ángel’s lap. Ángel grunted as he braced and steadied himself under the enormous weight of the fat horse-faced woman.
“Maybe you’d like a little piece of dark meat as an appetizer?”
The stout gringo woman reeked like a dirty bathroom floor. Drool rolled through her lips as she nibbled on Ángel’s ear. He swooned at the wretched odor of her stale perfume and offensive body odor.