Killing Cortez

by A. L. DeNova

  JC had confidence he could find a way to travel one hundred miles back to his car and complete the delivery. He feared that the hours of delay were costly.

  He needed to unscramble his thoughts. In careful letters, he wrote four roman numerals and next to each number, a title:

  I Carmen | II JC | III Competitor | IV Forget

  In Category I, was Carmen, abandoned by the side of the road. She would be fine as she was locked in that car, and she would hitch a ride back to town and be fine. JC understood that going back to Carmen and the Chevelle meant going back to the Family. It meant completing the job he had started.

  Category II, presented the concept that he could retrieve that abandoned car and pursue what he had always dreamed of, but the opportunity had just never presented itself until now: smuggle for himself. He could distribute that load, and just fade into another part of the U.S., young, rich, and anonymous. Category III meant working for the competition. This option had always been alluring to him, because his family was so overbearing. His uncle, his father always underrated him, devalued him, and emasculated him. He was a man, not a boy, he could be more than a courier. If someone would give him half a chance, he could show his true skills.

  The Competition might protect him from this mishap, but it was far from certain.

  The final, and least appealing choice, would be to Forget and then abandon everything. To walk out of this motel and walk away: from the drugs, from Carmen, from his family, from the competition, from the money, and from the cartel. He could reboot his entire life and disappear into the United States.

  His mind was numb with too much thinking. It was just too early. He need more sleep and he did not like sleeping alone. He always slept better touching a naked breast. It was hard to spend a night without Carmen. He missed her body last night as she was always a good lay.

  He looked into the small medicine cabinet mirror in the bathroom. He stared at his exhausted reflection and reviewed his options. He realized that any of the four choices could be a dead end. The cartel would find him here and his death would be certain if he lingered in the motel bed. He could not head back to Mexico after last night. It was Russian Roulette. He had to spin the cylinder and pray.

  Reluctantly, JC glanced at his gold Rolex. He was fortunate that Kiki and the other alien smugglers had not seen it in the dim light of the rendezvous. It was now 6:33 a.m. It was also the same time 100 miles south, just north of the international boundary between the United States and the Republic of Mexico, where that Chevelle was parked alongside the road in Tecate. It seemed like a century ago that he left his home.

  He had to check out of that motel. He had to call Uncle Ramon and get back to Tecate, get the car, get the cocaine and deliver the load. Carmen would be fine, she was a cat. She was flexible with her body and her mind. She would land on her feet. It was his life on the line. It was his future that was in jeopardy.

  JC again, looked at his unshaved face. He was proud of his heavy stubble, pure Spanish that was for sure. His eyes were set off by the red streaks. He stroked his chin and his prominent cheek bones. He turned on the bathroom light and checked his right front pocket and found the wad of money from his cash payment for driving the pollos.

  He grabbed the motel key dangling on the edge of the bed table and tossed it on the imperfectly bleached off-white and spotted bedspread. He pulled on his designer jeans and slipped on his running shoes.

  With his grooming imperfect but complete, JC left the “Do Not Disturb” placard on the door knob of the room and softly closed the door. He walked forward without looking and careened directly in a large, chunky woman with a cleaning service uniform and a cleaning cart.

  “Lo siento, I’m sorry,” JC reflexively uttered in both languages.

  The woman, accustomed to collisions, messes, and mishaps of all sorts said only “No problema.”

  “Yes,” JC said, and to himself, “if only.”

  For a reason he would never answer, JC dropped off the motel key at the front desk and headed up Katella Boulevard, joining the pedestrian stream heading towards the Happiest Place on Earth.

  JC was not happy nor headed towards the amusement park, at least not until he recovered the mammoth load of cocaine that had disappeared on his watch. Death could come easily now and at any time. He walked down the sidewalk, scanning the businesses. He looked for a pay phone with a booth to make a private telephone call. He had reviewed the options and made the first choice, to return to Carmen, the cocaine, the Chevelle, and hopefully to the good graces of his family.

  As terrible as it would be to make that call, he knew he had to pull up his big boy pants and face the situation like a man.

  He pulled his aviator sunglasses from the breast pocket of his shirt, as the sun rose in the morning sky. He looked at his Rolex a second time. He squinted at the bright sunshine. The sun in Anaheim was not as brilliant as the same sun in Tijuana. In the bright sunshine, he watched families walking towards the theme park. The roadway was choked with cars, and JC coughed on the carbon-monoxide as he walked quickly on the pavement. He was quietly terrified. His entire life, he had meticulously calculated value, price, and image. The price of the Rolex, designer jeans, stunning Carmen, and ultimately the price of cocaine.

  He had to tell Ramon some version of the truth. JC had always delivered until now. His own work had made the cartel millions. JC had been chosen to make the crossing. This past history was the reason Ramon made the commitment to the gang in L.A. Now that past record must buy him time.

  JC knew Ramon had contacts everywhere. Ramon was old. He was rich and ruthless when it came to money. The longer he walked down the crowded sidewalk, the more JC realized he had no choice but to call Ramon. He could not escape the long reach of the lawless. Ramon would find him. When Ramon found him, the retribution would be slow and would end with a closed casket funeral.

  After walking a few blocks with these thoughts careening through his psyche, JC remembered he had missed dinner and breakfast. Walking past diners and taco shops, JC smelled the familiar aroma of coffee at the Pancake House. The smiling teenage hostess helped him change a five-dollar bill for a pocketful of quarters. JC then sat himself down at the counter without removing his sunglasses. He chose a seat near the door and ordered coffee and a large stack of Iowa corn pancakes. He left his jacket at the counter seat, mouthing the words “pay phone.” The weary waitress pointed around the counter to the right.

  JC waltzed around a corner into a narrow hallway, and saw the empty phone booth. He picked up the receiver, and as an afterthought pulled the accordion door shut for privacy. He dialed “0-1-1” the country code for Mexico, the same time zone, but really a separate reality. Click, click, click. The mechanical saccharine voice, distant, yet authoritative demanded payment upfront. Caught in the clutches of a ruthless monopoly, JC paid this ransom in quarters.

  Each coin was acknowledged with a ‘ding’ and the payoff was the ringtone of Mexico, followed by “Bueno?” the voice answered in Spanish.

  JC said in Spanish, “Uncle?”

  The conversation continued in Spanish. “Who is this?” “It’s JC,” he said.

  After a pause, came the response, “It’s about time,” Ramon said, in an eerily even tone. “Tell me, are you with the product?” JC leaned down, put his right hand to his face and said, “Uncle, wait, it’s complicated. I just need some time to make it right.”

  Ramon said, “JC, we have a delivery schedule. Where are you calling from?”

  JC said, “A pay phone in L.A. Look, Carmen is with the car. We had a flat, she does not know about the load.”

  Ramon said, “Bueno, look, El Chiño wants the product yesterday. It’s not just me, it’s everything and everyone. You understand. I do not want to hear from you until you tell me El Chiño has delivery. There is no time. El Chiño will find you. You do not want that, Juan Carlos.”

  JC said, “Yes, uncle.”

  Uncle Ramon in the same even tone continued,
“Call me later today, when El Chiño has the delivery. Go with God.”

  JC hung up the black receiver of the pay phone, and opened the glass accordion door of the telephone booth. The phone rang and the demanding mechanical voice ordered additional payment. JC dug into the pockets of his designer jeans and gave Ma Bell every last cent but still came up short. What Ramon did not say, clarified JC’s confusion. He had to find that Chevelle, before El Chiño found him. There was no alternative.

  Still in the phone booth, he opened his wallet, and counted all the bills, and found that he had $17.00. This was enough money for a bus ticket to Camp Pendleton that would get him at least back to San Diego County but still far away from Tecate. He exited the phone booth and walked back to his seat at the counter. He saturated his waiting pile of corn pancakes with the sticky contents labeled “syrup” that the pale waitress had set before him. He ate every last bite and licked the dark, sweet, dripping mess on the fork, just as he had done last week with Carmen.

  JC knew that he did his best thinking at meals, usually over conversation. Well he had a conversation of sorts with Uncle Ramon. He pulled out the Dreamland Motel Pen he had snagged and scribbled on the napkin a rough plan. It was a “to do” list for the day. He wrote: * steal a car * drive to Tecate * find Chevelle * Call tio. JC was now a man with a plan and he had direction. He folded the napkin carefully and placed it in the rear pocket. He drained the mug of generously sweetened black coffee. Cognizant of all he could not guess, JC placed a $10 and a $5 bill on the counter, and caught the eye of the pale waitress, who mouthed a “Thank you.” He knew if he had more time, he could have gotten more than lip service. JC then exited through the rear doors of the restaurant leading to the parking lot.

  He sauntered through the parking lot, hunting for a car with an open window. He located a gold AMC Spirit with an open window near the rear of the lot. He looked around and observed the lot had no people, just cars.

  He approached the little gold car and pulled open the vertical door lock on the passenger door. He found wires under the ignition. He cut those wires with his folding Buck knife and soon the engine was humming. The gas needle showed close to a full tank of gas. “That should be enough,” JC said in prayer. He peeled out of the parking lot directly onto Katella, and then straight south on the interstate towards home.

  12

  A Sailor in a Cage

  Jo opened the door of her convertible and then ran around the long hood to open the door for Carmen. Drama or oversight? Carmen voted for drama. It was an easy race because Carmen was in no hurry. She never was. She took life as it came. The pleasures and the vicious violence punctuated daily life with trouble.

  Carmen counted every blessing. This made the good times and the passion more potent because she knew men and women could die for a footfall or trespass. Or on a whim. In Tijuana, it was a daily affair. She saw bodies shot down intentionally and more terribly at random. Early in the day as she set out the pastries at her family bakery, she saw the dead bodies hauled away with the morning trash.

  Carmen did not care for chance so she made sure to summon an inviting smile when the murderers stopped by for a sweet cup of Mexican hot chocolate. She knew a smile could make a difference. Carmen understood that the federal prosecutor could provide an entry to other opportunities as well. The first thing she permitted Jo to open tonight was the passenger door.

  With deliberate moves Carmen slid across the bench seat and smiled her perfected grin up at Jo. Jo returned the same electric look she saw in the diner that morning. The prosecutor’s light blue eyes penetrated even in the limited light of the car. Carmen reached up and flicked on the vanity light in the car to apply a deeper coat of blood red lipstick. Jo was soon beside her absorbing the reality of the exquisite stranger riding next to her. Jo quivered inside wanting to smear that newly applied lipstick in places unseen. She gunned the engine, and directed her desire to the night’s amusements. Jo hoped to be painted in red tonight. Carmen refused to ease the tension and remained perfectly silent.

  Always following the rules, Jo did not turn her head and kept her eyes on the road. She looked straight ahead but her mind was very much on Carmen. Jo spoke to the road ahead and not her sole passenger. “It is just a few miles away, the club. They have great dance music. It’s usually a lot of fun.”

  “I like fun,” Carmen said with emphasis on the first word. Jo opened her mouth to take the bait. Oh yeah, she was hooked.

  “That’s our first shared interest. I like fun too,” said Jo.

  The two women drove on, Jo thrilling to the throb of the car’s power and Carmen’s coolness. The power of the engine vibrated through the car as Jo pulled up to a dark and crowded parking lot amidst a row of World War II era two story grey metal warehouses.

  “It’s a warehouse on the outside, but it’s Sodom and Gomorrah inside.” Carmen just stared, not understanding the biblical allusion. “It’s a place in the Bible,” Jo said.

  “I go to church, but I never read it. That’s what priests are for.”

  “Exactly,” said Jo, as she opened Carmen’s car door, extending a hand to help her out of the low seat in her scarlet stilettos.

  Carmen stared at Jo, “I’ve got way too much experience to get help,” Carmen said.

  “I’m amazed that you can manage to dance in them but I guess I must pay the cover first to see that thrill,” Jo said. Carmen did not respond but answered with her actions, rising slowly from the car, careful not to take Jo’s hand or touch her in any way. Jo perspired in the cool night. She led the way to the club.

  Rosie and the other women were waiting at the entrance. Flashing in red neon, were the words, of both warning and temptation, DEFCON 2.

  “Good news, Jo the big lawyer is paying the cover for all of us,” said Rosie, who continued, “Right, Jo?”

  In response, with Carmen looking on, Jo whipped her slim wallet from the front jean pocket, and lightly removed three twenty dollar bills, the cover for all of her friends.

  The door check, a husky fortyish woman with a smoker’s cough and dark circles under her eyes said flatly “Sometimes, it’s good to know a lawyer.”

  Rosie elbowed by Carmen to be the first to enter the club. Jo and Carmen followed into the thud of booming bass electronic house dance music.

  Jo quickly weaved through the ground floor and reached for Carmen with a strong grip and onto a dance floor filled with fit, slim, shirtless men dancing together. She did not pause to move to the driving rhythm but pulled Carmen towards a winding metal staircase that led to an industrial looking second floor.

  Carmen allowed Jo to pull her up the winding staircase. The new American acquaintance had a physical strength she had first overlooked. Jo kept a tight hold on the gorgeous Carmen, knowing that even in this crowded club, the lovely Latina stood out. Jo did not let up until they reached the destination at a table near a railing that overlooked the dance floor. Jo motioned with her hand that she was retrieving drinks and returned with two Mexican beers.

  “To new friends,” Jo toasted, and swallowed a heart full of effervescence.

  The blaring music made conversation possible only through shouting. The visual symphony of writhing homosexual couples mesmerized Carmen. She stared in horror. At the same time, she was amused to see men as sex objects, for once. To communicate this thought, Carmen shouted, “There are some really cute men here!”

  Jo replied “Yes, but the women are even hotter,” and she looked straight at Carmen. Carmen felt heat spread across her face. Carmen did not know if it was shame, arousal, terror or the packed club. Carmen went to church every Sunday. She liked dating JC, until he abandoned on the side of the road.

  When Carmen first met Jo, she seemed to be “all business.”

  A few hours later, Carmen did not really know what to think about Jo, and her group of surfing friends. She could not think straight, not with that Chevelle, packed with God knew how much cocaine, and Jo the Assistant United States Attorney br
eathing down her neck.

  Carmen looked around the club and her eyes fell on two men shirtless and perspiring, pierced through the nipples, writhing and groaning and deeply French kissing in a not sufficiently dark corner. Carmen tried to look away, disgusted. But she looked again at them from her second-story perch, and was weirdly fascinated. Carmen took another sip of beer and she turned back again, to observe the pierced men, going at in the corner. Her eyes widened as she a man grinding himself down on another man’s leg.

  Moments later, Carmen’s eyes trailed a large chunky woman in baggy pants, and an oversized baseball T-shirt swaying with a woman on the dance floor. She followed the couple with her eyes and witnessed the woman in the hat palming and squeezing the other woman’s breasts on the dance floor. Carmen shuddered and tried to shut down her arousal.

  Jo looked directly at Carmen and said: “Never been to a gay bar before, Carmen?”

  Carmen shook her head no; it was the truth. A bit too earnestly, Carmen volunteered “I am a good Catholic girl, this is a sin.” Jo stared at her beer bottle and took a cue from her pounding heart.

  Jo walked around the table, until she was less than inch away. Carmen could smell the mixture of Jo, botanical soap and good perfume.

  Jo touched Carmen’s left hand, without a ring, and softly said, “I’m Catholic too. Love is a good thing, Carmen. Love, as we have been taught is always the answer.”

  Before either woman could say a thing, a waiter approached them in tight jean shorts, displaying tanned and muscular legs, work boots and snowy socks. He asked, “Some drinks ladies?”

  Jo said without hesitation, “Two tequilas, for a start,” gesturing two with her left index and middle finger.

  “How do you know I like tequila, how do you know I am even old enough to drink,” Carmen said.

  Jo said immediately, “Your name gives away the answer to the first question. And I checked your driver’s license at the impound lot today, when you showed it to Diego.”