by Mark Reps
“I don’t think I want to…” began Ángel.
“Wha..?” belched the woman. “You don’t like what you see? You don’t like these.”
She lifted her mammoth breasts and shoved them into Ángel’s face. Ashamed, he looked down. He saw only the dirt under the chipped polish of her broken fingernails.
“No, señorita, it is just that…”
His mind raced to find a way to explain to her about his beloved Juanita. He was in love. As a woman, even a drunken, ugly woman, surely she would understand. Ángel looked up to see the angry fire in Jimmie Joe’s eyes as he lustily ogled the woman’s drooping breasts. Ángel could only find false words for the plump woman. He told her she was beautiful and offered her a drink and some cigarettes.
“Are you shaying you don’t want me? You don’t want this?”
She lifted up her filthy skirt, showing off unshaven legs and pair of filthy panties. Her slurred words were carried on the air of her hideous breath. Before Ángel could answer a hand came out of nowhere, walloping him across the face.
“Well, I never! I never been turned down by no greasy, little Mexican taco. What are you, some kind of fudge bunny? What kind of man turns down a woman like me? Maybe you like boys instead of girls? I bet that’s it. Faggot. Sex freak!”
Before Ángel had a chance to answer, she slipped off his lap. Crashing onto the floor, her large rear end went ass over teakettle sending her shoes flying into the air. One of them smacked against Jimmie Joe’s forehead.
The ruckus caused the two old men sitting at the bar to turn just far enough to see the woman sprawled over the floor. Unimpressed, they turned back toward the television. In silent unison they reached for their beer glasses, tipped back their heads, and swallowed their beer.
The bartender walked out from behind the counter. He helped the drunken woman to her feet. She cursed at Ángel, flipped him off with her middle finger and stumbled into the ladies room.
“We can’t have that kind of ruckus in here, young man. You had better leave now,” said the bartender.
“But I didn’t do nothing,” protested Ángel.
“And you had better go with him,” he said to Jimmie Joe.
The bartender pulled back his vest, revealing a holstered pistol. Ángel knew the knife hidden in his right boot would not be much of a defense against the big gun. For half a second he considered cutting the man, slicing him across the wrist or in the face near the eye. Then suddenly, Juanita came to mind. He envisioned her smiling face, the silver cross he had given to her before he had gone to prison, gleaming on her beautiful skin as it hung around her tender brown neck. He reached down and touched the identical necklace she had given him. If he wanted to see Juanita, he needed to stay calm. He glanced toward Jimmie Joe whose hand slowly began creeping under his jacket toward the back of his belt where he carried his gun. Ángel jumped to his feet.
“It’s my fault and I am terribly sorry. We are leaving now. Come on, Jimmie Joe. Let’s go somewhere else and spend our money.”
Jimmie spit on the bartender’s shoe.
“Next time,” he said glaring into the bartender’s eyes. “I might not be in such a good mood.”
The outburst of laughter from Jimmie Joe brought a relieved smile to the bartender. The old men at the bar shook their heads ever so slightly as the strangers made their exit.
“We don’t need no trouble, Jimmie Joe. Let’s get out of town. It is bad luck for us here.”
Jimmie Joe seethed. Turning into the alley, he grabbed Ángel by the throat and stuck the gun against his temple.
“Don’t you ever tell me what to do. I make the decisions for both of us. I should have shot that son of a bitchin’ bartender right between his fucking eyes. But I didn’t know if you were with me or not. You screwed up in there. Don’t ever let it happen again--that is, if you want to live long enough to see Juanita.”
Instantly, the effects of the alcohol on Ángel’s brain passed.
Morenci and Earl’s Firebelly Lounge were bad luck. Morenci was the town where Ángel’s father had died almost twenty years earlier. He had been run off the road and killed by a drunken gringo. Even his blessed grandfather, who worked so many years for the Morenci mine, had bad luck here. The town was a cursed place for his family. Ángel closed his eyes. His prayers to the Blessed Virgin were juxtaposed by the cold steel of a gun barrel against his temple. Jimmie Joe slowly ran the barrel of the .38 around Ángel’s ear, tickling the cartilage, caressing the lobe.
In prison Ángel had heard one well-placed shot directly behind the ear would kill a man or, worse, leave him a vegetable. Juanita would not want to spend her life taking care of a cripple. Ángel would not wish that on her. He always knew the day might come when Jimmie Joe might kill him. Ángel prayed harder. The cold steel of the gun penetrated, it seemed, all the way to his brain. Sweat rolled down Ángel’s cheeks and onto his lips. An insane explosive peel of laughter shot from his partner’s mouth.
“You look so worried, my little muchacha. You think I am going to waste a bullet on you when we are so close to being rich? Ha ha ha. You little fucking idiot. You don’t even know how close we are to the money right where we stand.”
Ángel looked down the alley and across the street. What was Jimmie Joe talking about? Next to the bar was a clothing store, the gas company, a drug store, a small building with hand painted sign in the window that he couldn’t read and a bank. The bank? Was the Diablo Blanco crazy? Ángel wasn’t a bank robber.
“The bank? You think we are going to rob the bank?”
Jimmie Joe doubled over with laughter at his own question.
“No, no, no. Not the bank—next door—the little building. Get in the truck, I’ll show you.”
Turning to look over his shoulder as he put the truck in reverse, Ángel noticed the left taillight glowing brightly as it reflected in a store window.
“Shine the headlights on that store with the writing on the window. Go ahead, put the bright lights on.”
Ángel looked up and down the street. It would be stupid to be noticed flashing high beams into a storefront. A cop might take notice of what they were doing. He said nothing, knowing that Jimmie would only beat him down for questioning anything the he said.
“See,” laughed Jimmie Joe. “Read that window.”
The whitewashed sign in the window came into view. Ángel stared at the words and the reflected white spots from his headlights.
MORENCI RODEO AND PIONEER MINING DAYS
OCTOBER 25TH AND 26TH
21
As Kate headed toward the door on her way to the Garcías’ place, Helen handed her a pair of day old phone messages. She apologetically explained to Deputy Steele that the messages had been accidentally stuck to the bottom of a file.
“Sheriff Hanks is on his way out to Felipe Madrigal’s property. He said you would know what it was all about.”
Both of the pink message slips had brief notes. The first read, ‘Please call Eskadi Black Robes’. The second note was just as direct. ‘Please call Josh Diamond’. Deputy Steele surmised Josh had decided after all to take the county up on paying his hospital bills and was calling her about the paperwork. Eskadi’s was likely personal. She decided to handle them after she took a little trip out to the Garcías’ to see if she could glean any more information.
As Sheriff Hanks approached the home of Felipe Madrigal, bright morning sunshine streamed over the top of the Peloncillo Mountain range sending short shadows over the peaceful landscape surrounding the run down adobe house that the jailed man called home.
A low groan escaped from the old windmill. Unlike earlier, Zeb was not there to bring in a suspected killer, yet his body tensed. For a brief second his mind shot back to a day at the Mexican border. He, Josh Diamond, and the now dead Darren Wendt were on routine patrol on that fateful day of Darren’s death. For another, longer moment, he thought of Doreen and the loss of her husband and son. His mind began to spin with all the things in
life that could go wrong and too often did. Then quickly, he remembered that he was on home turf, his turf, Graham County, and for all intents and purposes this was his own back yard. He breathed a few easy breaths when suddenly an ominous foreboding came over him. Could this be the day he breathed his last breath? He had received a bulletin from his old border patrol commanding officer on this new thing called PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. He had read it briefly and tossed it in the waste basket. Now he was having second thoughts about what he had read. “Don’t be an asshole,” he told himself. “Just be smart. Nothing to worry about. Stay calm.”
In the low arroyo behind the house, an otherworldly presence seemed to beg for communication. Ears piqued, he stilled himself and listened. After a moment he shook his head knowing the present moment called for logical, rational thought, not superstition and fear. Sheriff Hanks breathed more easily as the old man’s fire pit and a garbage dump caught his eye. They seemed too close to the house until he remembered Felipe Madrigal’s limp and the difficulty with which he walked. Closer inspection revealed neat stacks of tin cans, glass bottles and miscellaneous unburnable items. The yard itself was full of junk and these neat stacks seemed out of place. They were probably for recycling. Maybe the old man made a few bucks this way?
Plentiful coyote, raccoon and skunk tracks lead to and away from the trash pit. He imagined the kind old man to have befriended the local critters. He assumed Felipe Madrigal suffered the fated malady of many old people, too much time, too little to do.
In the yard a skeleton of a rusted backhoe, some old machinery tires, flattened junk metal and a broken down chair were strewn about. It was a mess which likely made perfect sense to the owner. Zeb drew back from the thoughts in his head. He was beginning to feel a little too much compassion for someone who might have killed his deputy. He reminded himself yet again to stay focused and do his job.
Parked by the rustling mesquite tree was Felipe Madrigal’s truck. The tire iron still propped up the hood. Approaching the truck cautiously he peeked at the engine, half expecting to find a bird’s nest or perhaps a sleeping rattlesnake. At first glance the metal parts told him nothing. When he looked closer, he saw a detached wire. It led to where a distributor cap should be. He was no expert on car engines, but he knew vaguely what he was looking at. The sheriff stepped back and noticed both back tires were flat. He thought back to how the old man had described his disabled vehicle. He did not say his tires were flat. He had said his car was broken. He had said nothing about flat tires. Sheriff Hanks bent down near the rear wheels. The shade from the mesquite tree made it difficult to get a clear view. Casually running his finger along the tire’s edge he felt an indentation surrounded by an unnatural rough edge. Closer examination revealed the tire had been slashed. A quick walk to the other side of the truck easily revealed that tire had also been slashed. A mostly bald spare tire sitting in the bed of the truck was also flat. It was obvious someone, perhaps Felipe himself, had wanted to make sure the truck wasn’t going anywhere.
Sheriff Hanks walked to the house. He slowly poked his head inside and entered. The interior of the house was unkempt like that of an old man without a wife. In the small kitchen on the counter next to the sink sat a propane stove with an ancient coffee percolator on one burner and a much used, burn-encrusted fry pan on the other. At the back of the sink sat a water glass, a bottle of aspirin and a half-empty prescription bottle of nitroglycerin tablets with the instructions - TAKE AS NEEDED FOR ANGINA. He slipped the medication in his pocket. His prisoner might need it. Next to the coffeepot was a caned chair. Its sagging and partially torn seat spoke of many lonesome hours its owner spent staring out a partially open window. The image of an old man sitting, sipping coffee, fumbling with the bottle cap on the aspirin, placing a pill in his palm, quivering as he reached for the water glass carried the feeling of isolation, loneliness.
Through the window he had a clear line of vision to the north toward the road. The old man had taken the time to remove anything that might interfere with a straight on view of the county road. Delbert had mentioned there was hardly any traffic on this road. The old man probably did not want to miss the rare car or truck that happened by.
The second room of the house was dark. Both front windows were boarded up from the inside. A small commode and sink stood in one corner. A curtain hanging from the ceiling partially hid them. Felipe Madrigal was either very modest or thoughtful of the rare guest. Who might his visitors be? A closer look revealed cobwebs and layered dirt where the curtain abutted the wall. Felipe used little of his small space.
A dilapidated easy chair with an ancient brass floor lamp sat in the corner. The sheriff pulled the cord. The flickering light from a loose bulb revealed a stack of magazines, some of them twenty years old. As he leaned forward to tighten the bulb his foot brushed against a rusting coffee can filled with cigarette butts and ashes.
On an end table next to the lamp sat a dial phone, some yellowing, framed photographs and a clock radio. One looked to be a young Felipe Madrigal in a suit standing next to a delicate looking dark skinned Mexican or Indian woman in an ornate wedding dress. It was similar to the one Felipe carried in his billfold. Another picture was a baby in a bonnet being held by the woman in the wedding dress. Still another was a child in what looked to be a first communion dress. The fourth picture in the progression showed the same girl in a cap and gown--a high school graduation photo. Unframed and sitting on the desk was the picture of a fair skinned, long-haired boy, who looked either, or perhaps both, Mexican and Apache. The sheriff also noted the boy was rather feminine in his characteristics. He also wore a cap and gown, but looked to be only thirteen or fourteen years old. Beneath the young man’s photo were some faded newspaper clippings, yellowed with age. They had been precisely cut from the Eastern Arizona Courier. One was a picture of an unnamed old man and a boy fishing. The other two were unreadable, coffee-stained police reports.
Sheriff Hanks turned on the radio and sat in the old man’s chair. His big frame sank deeply into its broken seat as the radio played music from a Tucson Spanish speaking station. For the first time all day he felt at ease, incredibly calm. It was obvious that Felipe Madrigal was dirt poor but within that poverty he had every material thing he needed…or so it seemed. Sheriff Hanks’ mind began to drift.
22
“Sheriff Hanks. Are you there?”
Deputy Steele’s voice coming through his two-way radio took the sheriff away from his pondering of Felipe Madrigal. He snapped to attention quickly, knowing that perhaps Kate had found out something new from the Garcías.
“I’m here.”
“Find anything interesting?” asked Kate.
“I think I have a better feel for Mr. Madrigal. But as far as evidence goes I have found nothing that I can piece together at the moment. But I do have a question for you.”
“Yes?”
“Remember when Mr. Madrigal called to have us come and pick him up?”
“Yes,” said Kate. “He said his truck was broken.”
“That’s how I remember it too. Would you consider two flat tires a broken truck?”
“No. I would call them flat tires. A broken truck would indicate something mechanical to me.”
“Well he’s got two flat tires and a flat spare on his truck. It looks like they have been flattened on purpose. But I believe Felipe Madrigal was telling the truth. This truck is broken. Somebody yanked the wires to the distributor cap and removed the cap itself,” said Zeb. “This thing couldn’t run if it wanted to. Somebody saw to it that Felipe’s truck was staying put.”
Zeb thought of the meek, gamy-legged Mr. Madrigal sitting in the jail cell looking forlorn and lost. He was either far more cunning than he let on or he was hiding some deep, dark secret in his soul.
“Did Mr. García remember anything new when you talked with him?” Zeb asked.
“Yes sir, he did. He said it was Mrs. García’s tea leaf reading that helped him remember some
thing. But I think it was the dead body they found in his truck that jogged his memory,” said Deputy Steele.
“What did he recall?”
“Mr. García remembered a young Mexican male stopping by the house a couple of days before his truck was stolen. The young man was having car trouble a few miles up the road. His radiator hose was leaking. Mr. García gave him a bucket of water and a lift back to his car. He even helped him put some duct tape on the leaky hose.”
“What made Mr. García suspicious?” asked Sheriff Hanks.
“Two things. First, he said the young man went on and on about his Chevy LUV. He asked him all sorts of questions about it. Mr. García didn’t think much about it at first because everyone who sees it asks about it. You could really tell how much he loved his truck," said Deputy Steele.
“He certainly did.”
“When they got the overheated car running, Mr. García headed back home. He looked in the rear view mirror and waved, you know, friendly like. The young man waved back. Then, when Mr. García went to adjust his rear view mirror, he saw something odd.”
“Yes, go on,” said Sheriff Hanks.
“He saw something run out of the bushes toward the car. At first Mr. García thought it might have been an animal, a coyote he supposed. He slowed down and took a look over his shoulder. He couldn’t see clearly because of all the dust that had been roiled up by the other car taking off down the road. But Mr. García swore he saw two people in the little car. He pulled over to see what the deal was, but when he did, the driver of the other car made a fast U turn and headed off the other way. I guess he just sort of forgot about it until today when I was talking with him.”
“Did he say what kind of car the young man was driving?” asked Sheriff Hanks.