Halfway Down the Stairs

by Gary A Braunbeck

  “I’ve explained it twice already.”

  “This is my first time with this number and I’m a little anxious. Besides, I’m driving and if you don’t tell me I’ll make you walk back.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “No, I won’t—but it sure sounded full of conviction, didn’t it?”

  “Not even a little.” Humberto smiled. He liked Patch a lot. A full-blooded Irishman with the prerequisite red hair, green eyes, and mean temper, Michael Joseph McCarthy stood a little under five-five, every ounce of it tight muscle. Patch had worked as a radio technician for a few years before getting his broadcaster’s license. He soon found the strict regulations of the FCC a little too rigid for his tastes so he quit radio, invested his money in state-of-the-art mobile broadcasting equipment, and set up a pirate radio station in the back of a bread van he’d bought for five hundred dollars and change. He traveled for a while from state to state, spewing out rock’n’roll and energetic, ultra-lunatic fringe politics to anyone who picked up his signal. When the FCC began to clamp down on his one-man operation he emptied his banks accounts, declared himself an expatriate, and made it down Mexico way. He took gleeful pride in being able to cruise the border and broadcast to the lower states—not to mention fuck up the Border Patrol’s broadcasts to aid Humberto and his cohorts in slipping illegals over the border, or snap a few juicy pictures to blackmail American businessmen who patronized the local whorehouses. Minor stuff, really.

  But if they pulled off the Fool’s Errand today, they would no longer be fayuqueros—little smugglers; they would move up into the ranks of pezgordo, the fat fish whose reputation commanded respect amongst the bandoleros and other contrabandista.

  They would be Big Time after today.

  “It’ll happen like this,” said Humberto. “Ruben takes him a box of pencils and hands him a note from me telling him to break open as many of the pencils at random as he wants. Inside each pencil is a Banco de Mexico note—a ten, twenty, or a fifty. He relaxes a little because my note tells him this is how the full amount will be delivered to him so he can get the money through customs. He’ll be instructed to give Ruben half of the agreed upon amount. When he meets me in the bar, I give him a salesman’s sample case filled with boxes of pencils. The top row of boxes are filled with just pencils—in case customs gets nosey. So he takes a couple of boxes from the second row and breaks open another five or ten pencils. Again, he finds Banco de Mexico notes inside. This will satisfy him, he’ll give me the rest of the cash, and I’ll give him a card with the name and private phone number of his contact at a bank in New York.”

  “What if he wants to call the number to make sure it’s legit?”

  “He sure as hell won’t do it on this side of the border. His plane ticket was purchased in New York. His plane landed in and leaves from El Paso, so as far as anyone knows that’s where he was today. If he makes the call he’ll do it from the airport, and by then it’ll be too late. We’re talking about a guy who took a goddamn tour bus from the airport to here instead of renting a car! This is a man who does not want to leave any traces.”

  “I take it the bank number’s a phoney?”

  “Well, duh. Two points for the Mick.”

  “And the pencils ...?”

  “There’s about nine thousand dollars’ worth of notes in the top row. The rest are just pencils.”

  “Helluva way to find out there’s a lot of lead in Mexico.”

  They both laughed.

  Then Ruben came over and climbed into Humberto’s lap. Humberto put his arm around the boy, who rested his head against Humberto’s shoulder.

  “Seems like an awfully nice kid,” said Patch. “Does this make you a daddy?”

  “There’re worse fates I can think of.”

  Humberto reached under his seat and pulled out his flute. Ruben was nervous—he could sense that from the boy—and Humberto’s playing always made him feel better.

  The music he played was sad, like Ruben himself, yet comforting; proud, yet humble; glorious, yet pathetically aged. It was the soul of Mexico, the sound of a hundred acoustic guitars whispering soft tales of ill-fated lovers, a hundred children raising up their thin voices to the holy Virgen at mass, and countless brass horns in smoky bars calling, Come, sit down with us and drink some, tell us the story of your life, make yourself at home and do not worry, for you are welcome here.

  Humberto finished playing. Ruben was fast asleep. Stroking the boy’s hair, Humberto whispered a prayer that his father used to say every night: “Sleep, oh my soul, sleep. Rest in the age-old cradle of hope and do not be afraid. You can trust in sleep as you would your home. You can lay your sorrow at its feet and rest your head on its bosom. Sleep, and do not grieve. For there will come a morning of great joy and it will find you sleeping the sleep of the Just, the sleep without sorrow, in a cradle guided by the hand of God.”

  “Do you know any happy songs?” whispered Patch.

  “I do a mean rendition of ‘My Generation’ but I didn’t feel it was appropriate.”

  “Watch it; that was almost a joke.”

  Humberto reached up and removed one of the gold chains from around his neck. Attached to it was a tarnished medal Humberto’s father had once given him: St. Christopher, made in a time before the Catholic Church raised its pulpit of sanctimony a few feet higher and made him Mr. Christopher.

  He gently hung the necklace and medal around Ruben’s neck, then jostled him awake. “It’s time.” He then gave Ruben everything he would need and told him, “Fifteen minutes, then I want to see you back here, right?”

  Ruben nodded his head and gave a smile that Humberto believed was put there by angels, then pushed open the rear doors of the van, jumped out, and made his way down the street toward the hotel, one hand clasping the medal all the way.

  Humberto considered, as he’d done at least a hundred times since waking up, calling Ruben back and going in his place, but the whole idea was to assault the target with as many different faces as possible; that way he’d never know who was going to turn up next, or who might be watching, or who might be just outside the door or around the corner. It kept them nervous—and this guy had already seen Humberto and Patch; a third face was necessary if the target was to be kept in a state of constant anxiety.

  “Don’t worry,” said Patch, putting a hand on Humberto’s shoulder. “We got it covered. You want me to follow him?”

  “We can’t chance the guy spotting either of us a second time, not this soon.”

  “Well, then, stop worrying. You said the stars were favorable last night.”

  “Who’s worried?” said Humberto, then whispered to Ruben’s retreating back, “may God go with you and keep you from harm.”

  * * *

  At sixteen minutes and counting Humberto grabbed his shoulder bag from under the seat, unzipped it, reached in, and pulled out a Colt Commander 9mm Parabellum with a nine-round magazine and modified silencer attachment. He shoved it in the back of his pants and covered it with the tail of his jacket, then checked to make sure the switchblade and its sheath were still strapped firmly to his ankle.

  “Do you think that’s necessary?” said Patch. “He’s only a minute-and-a-half late.”

  Humberto said nothing. Years of experience had taught him to assume the worst when someone was late. He couldn’t allow himself to get emotional right now. He took a deep breath and waited another sixty seconds, just in case Patch was right and he was overreacting, waited until Ruben was nearly four minutes late.

  They weren’t all that far from the hotel.

  Four minutes meant something was wrong.

  Four minutes meant it was time to move.

  He reached into his right jacket pocket and touched the coil of piano wire nestled there. In his left jacket pocket was a set of brass knuckles. If it turned out he needed any more protection than what he was carrying—

  —no time. “Five minutes, Patch. I’m not back, go to the hotel, room 407. Bring
a weapon.” He kicked open the doors, jumped out of the van, and hit the pavement running. They were four blocks away from the target’s hotel; he should get there in sixty seconds, ninety at most. He didn’t worry about the odd glances people gave him as he hammered past them; the police rarely cruised this area during the daytime, choosing to concentrate more on the center of town where the bailadoras and drug dealers transacted their business.

  Always there was business.

  He broke through a crowd of tourists, took a shortcut through an alley, and was rounding the corner of the hotel’s street when a patrullas—a police patrol unit—whipped in front of him and came to a stop. Before the dust had settled both doors were open and two Mexican officers were on either side of him, grabbing his arms, shoving him into the back seat, and slamming the doors.

  He looked and saw there were no inside door handles back here—but there was also no partition between the back and front seats; in Mexico, few police cars had them.

  In the time it took for the two cops to get back in and shut their doors, Humberto measured his options—and none of them were very pleasant. He just hoped these two were only trying to put a little mordida on him before sending him on his way. Graft was second nature here.

  The cop who wasn’t driving—a trim, well-groomed man of forty with a perfect golden complexion—spoke without turning to face him. “Miguel Jarraro, we have received a complaint about you from a Mr. Petey. He claims you have some money which belongs to him.”

  “No.”

  Without saying a word the cop whirled around and smashed Humberto in the face with a club designed for just that purpose. Humberto felt his nose pulp as the blood burst forth and splattered on his shirt, sending him face-down to the floor.

  The cop reached back and grabbed him by the hair, pulling him to his knees. “Do not lie to me, Mr. Jarraro. Your Mr. Petey provided us with mucho information about you.” He turned toward his partner. “I think we maybe need to take him for a little interrogation. Give him a taste of la chicharra.”

  Humberto felt himself go rigid. Mexican police were infamous for using electric cattle prods to torture their prisoners when the mood struck them—and when it involved mordida, the mood was always upon them.

  “You guys always this melodramatic? I’m surprised your partner isn’t twirling the end of his mustache.”

  Both officers laughed.

  “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I don’t know any Mr. Petey?”

  “No.”

  The other cop put the car in gear and drove the patrullas through the streets, past the hotel, and into an alleyway a few blocks down.

  “Understand our position,” said the well-groomed cop. “Tourists are very important to us and we can’t afford to have them leave with a bad impression. It’s important that we keep good relations with our friends across the border, especially now that their young president has sent so much business our way. When people encounter a ladròn such as you, it doesn’t bode well for the rest of us.”

  The unit came to a full stop. Humberto swallowed, tasting the coppery blood as it trickled down his throat.

  This was more than just putting the bite on him; these guys seemed serious. That made them dangerous. If this were the case, Humberto was in deep. And there wasn’t time for that.

  Only one way to find out.

  “Look, I apologize if I gave this Mr. Petey such a bad impression. Isn’t there some way we can get around all this? A ... fine of some sort?”

  The cop’s face was a slab of granite. “How much of a fine are we talking about?”

  “Say a thousand dollars American.”

  “Each or to divide between us?”

  “Each.” He hoped this would settle the matter. For a moment back at the van he’d considered leaving the envelope containing the ten thousand dollars “Mr. Petey” had given to him; now he was grateful he hadn’t.

  The cop climbed out of the unit, opened Humberto’s door, and helped him out. For a frenzied second Humberto feared the cop might search him—or worse, handcuff him—but he didn’t.

  He simply slammed the business end of the club into Humberto’s stomach, dropping him to the ground.

  “Fucking pig! How dare you attempt to bribe me!”

  Humberto winced from the pain. This was no show, the guy was for real. Amazing as it seemed, there were some people this close to the border who could not be bought. For one second while the pain rushed through him Humberto actually respected the cop who stood over him; the man had principles in a place where principles were worthless. He probably even slept well at night. Good for him.

  The cop swung down and cracked the club between Humberto’s shoulders, knocking him face down in the dirt. As soon as he hit the ground, Humberto heard the cop unbuckle his holster.

  He allowed the pain to whip-curl in his guts like a snake attacking a field mouse.

  He blinked against the dust and the mud and thought of Ruben’s smile, then took a deep and painful breath, knowing what had to be done.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered as the cop unholstered his gun.

  Everything happened very fast this close to the border, especially violence. If you understood violence, if you lived with it, breathed it, slept with the threat of it always crouching at your bedside, then you knew it wasn’t something poetic or glorious, that the flow of blood was ugly and painful and swift and degrading. One-on-one violence was the swiftest of all, for when it happened there was always one person who would be unprepared in the first few crucial seconds while something reptilian seized the brain of their opponent and sucked all of their survival instincts forward, transforming an otherwise rational human being into a whirling dervish of brutality.

  In three rapid, smooth, sharp movements Humberto pulled out the Colt, flipped over onto his back, and with one shot—snip!—blew off half the cop’s gun hand and sent him down screaming. The driver came around the side of the unit carrying a sawed-off shotgun and was just in time to see his partner’s hand turned into tomato paste. Humberto was up on his knees by now and threw himself forward, knocking the driver off-balance and yanking the shotgun from his grip with one hand while plowing off another round—snip!—into the guy’s knee with the other. The driver crumpled into a heap, clutching at his shattered kneecap, his face contorted and red with agony. Shoving the Colt into his side jacket pocket, Humberto whipped the sawed-off around and came down hard, slamming the butt into the driver’s balls with all the force he could muster. The driver bellowed inhumanely and Humberto cracked the butt of the shotgun against the man’s mouth, shattering his teeth and turning his lips into two wormy strands of putty, then spun around and threw the shotgun deep into the alley and caught sight of the other cop scuttling around, his ruined hand a smoldering mass of muscle and cartilage and jagged bone. The guy was reaching with his remaining hand for his pistol that lay only a few feet to the side. Humberto staggered forward and swung out a leg and kicked the guy in the ribs once, twice, three times, until he heard something crack down there, and as he was getting ready to kick the guy a fourth time the cop came up on his knees and grabbed Humberto by the balls, sending barbed-wire tendrils of pain spiderwebbing through his groin; as Humberto began to crumple down the cop started pulling himself up and just when it looked like the balance of power was going to seriously shift Humberto brought his knee up into the cop’s chin, knocking his head backward and forcing him to let go. The cop spun around and Humberto grabbed the piano wire from his pocket and in a blink had it around the guy’s throat, pulling it tight, spattering the alley floor with ribbons of arterial spray as the cop’s arms flailed wildly, his one hand balling into a fist and pounding against Humberto’s arm, which only made the wire dig in deeper but then the cop’s legs started kicking back against Humberto’s ankles, finally tripping him but that was bad for the cop because when Humberto went back he yanked hard on the wire and felt it slice all the way back until it caught on the cop’s spinal cord and that was th
at. The blood fountained out of the wound as the cop thrashed and kicked and flailed in one last repulsive seizure before he finally died. Humberto kicked back and pushed himself away from the body, then flipped around to his knees and got on his feet just as the other cop, thick strings of blood slopping from his former mouth, managed to squirm onto his side and unholster his pistol and aim it right at Humberto’s chest, so Humberto pulled out the Colt once and did the only thing his now-reptilian brain would allow him to do, and that was shoot straight out—snip!—at the driver’s face. The first bullet blew in his cheekbone. The second one sheared part of his jaw away. The third one blew his head apart like an M-80 inside a pumpkin, scattering wet red pieces of meat and skull over the trashcans behind him.

  Humberto staggered around like a drunkard for a moment, the Colt hanging from his grip, the pain from his nose and shoulders and stomach and balls meeting in the center of his chest, and he knew that he couldn’t drop, if he dropped he wouldn’t be able to get up too soon and Ruben needed him, four minutes meant something was wrong but they were looking at a good nine minutes now, which meant twenty-four minutes altogether, and his vision was blurry and that wouldn’t do, he had to make it right, so he shoved the Colt in his pocket and grabbed onto his nose with his fingers, kneading through the pulp until he felt the bone, latched onto it with his thumb and index finger, snapped it to the left and felt the bone skid, then grind back into place. A small shriek escaped him as the serpent let go of his brain and scurried back into the darkness, allowing the pain to overtake him—but Humberto Farais would not allow it, nor would he allow himself time to regret what he’d had to do to the police officers. Regret would come later.

  He stumbled out of the alley, got his bearings, then bolted in the direction of the hotel. He had never run so fast in his life, legs pounding with race-horse fury as he rounded corners, jumped over curbs, vaulted garbage, and shoved past the throngs of people who took little notice of the bloodied, broken man who was providing another common piece of street theatre for their squalid surroundings.