“What’s the bend?” I asked.
“It’s a long bend in the river where the kids go to hang out and party.”
“Let’s go.”
We didn’t get farther than the living room where I had assumed that Bascom Wood was waiting and worrying. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere in the house either. I checked each room as Hector looked outside.
“Car’s gone,” Hector shouted out as I stalked through the short hall.
I glanced in each room. I didn’t do it thinking the councilman was hiding. It was a just-in-case exercise and a place-holding action.
“Where can we find these Machado guys?” I shouted the question from the bathroom.
“Probably up at Gun Hills,” Hector called back from the front room. When I joined him, he added, “Wood can’t be crazy enough to go up there.”
“Why?”
“Eladio and Simon Machado, that Gun Hills lodge—all the people around it are cartel.”
“Let’s go.”
“We can’t go up there. It’s out of city limits. That’s county.”
“Gutiérrez wants to leave it to feds. You want do drop it on the county sheriff. No wonder things are screwed in this town.”
“We have to follow rules.”
“I don’t. Let’s go.”
The screen door slapped closed again as we left the perfect house behind.
“Call in,” I told Hector once we were in my truck and on the way. “Send a car out to the bend looking for Baron and his girlfriend.”
“How do you know?” Hector asked me again when dispatch had a car on the way. “About Gutiérrez and the DEA. You could be wrong.”
“Yep,” I agreed. “I could be. But she said something that put the stopper in it for me.”
“What?”
“You know how people pick up language that lets you peg them. Like when someone says affirmative instead of yes, there’s a good chance they’re military. You hear a couple of hard guys talking about doing a bullet in the shoe—you know they’re cons. Right?”
“Sure. I guess so.”
“Gutiérrez said the Machados were on the DTO radar.”
“Yeah. I didn’t know what that meant.”
“A few minutes ago, you said Eladio Machado and the people up at the lodge are cartel.”
“What about it”
“People like you and me say ‘cartel.’ In the DEA they talk about drug-trafficking organizations. DTOs.”
Hector nodded and looked like he was thinking it over. “Okay,” he said. “It makes sense. But why is DEA putting someone on our force?”
“That’s the big question, isn’t it?”
I pulled up at the Gun Hills gate. “Which of the Machados is the big dog?”
“Simon is the dog. Eladio does the siccing,” Hector answered.
There was one guy in the little shack. At each side of the road beyond the entrance, another man was standing. They were partially hidden under the shade of clustered pinons and oaks. None of the men looked happy to see us. The one closest to the road had a hand inside his jacket.
If I hadn’t been dealing with guys like that every day for the last few years, I might have been intimidated. Pointing to the badge on my chest, I told the man in the shack, “Chief Tindall.”
“We know who you are,” the gatekeeper said. “What do you want?”
“I want to see Eladio Machado.”
He sneered. “Who says he wants to see you?” Then he raised his head and shouted over to the two roadside guards, “¡Mira! Este cabrón Policia viene con su verga en la mano para ver a Machado.” He said the asshole cop was here with his dick in his hand. They all laughed without mirth. The sound was hard and challenging.
“I imagine that’s for him to say, don’t you think?” I smiled to let him know I was just thinking of his best interests. Then I pushed the smile farther out on my face and asked, “¿O Usted tienes los bolas para deshacerse de mí? ¿Tal vez usted y sus amigos quieren seguir hablando de mi verga?” My Spanish sucks, but when I asked if he had the balls to get rid of me himself, he understood. Then when I said maybe the two of them would rather keep talking about my dick, he knew he was being insulted.
No one was laughing then. “Hey, cabrón—you know who you’re talking to?”
“You’re the help, amigo. Don’t pretend Machado isn’t holding your balls in his pocket.”
Discipline in the lower ranks is a great thing. I could push their buttons all day long, and they couldn’t do a thing on their own unless I tried to get past. Hector didn’t look quite as confident. He was staring straight ahead. Either he was trying to show he wasn’t connected to the ass at the wheel, or he was trying to appear unconcerned. What he managed was a creepy disassociation that only drew attention.
“¿Que pasa con tu punk?” the gatekeeper asked. What’s with your punk?
“He’s sick and pissed-off tired that you haven’t picked up the phone and called your jefé.” I pulled my phone and held it up for the guard to see. “Maybe I should call him myself. Think he’ll be bothered?”
The gatekeeper backed down, slowly. The other two eased back from the road, returning to the shade. The phone conversation was quick and mostly one-sided. The gatekeeper said a cop wanted to come in; then he listened grimly, staring past me while keeping his eye on Hector. Then, with obvious disappointment, he said, “Go up to the main building. Someone will meet you.”
I shot him a big screw-you grin.
He whipped his arm, pointing up the road, and shouted, “¡Vamonos! ¡Ahora mismo!”
We rolled past the gate with me still grinning. Then I turned and asked Hector, “What’s going on with you?”
He shook his head. If the action was for clearing or meaning, I couldn’t tell. Then he said, “Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong place. Maybe just the wrong culture.”
“What are you getting at?”
“That macho crap. You sling it as easy and ready as they do. Paris fit in too. He could wear machismo like a disguise. No one ever thought he wasn’t one of the guys.”
“And you?”
Another headshake. That time I took it as clearing. Like shaking away the image on an Etch-a-Sketch. “I never fit in.”
We pulled slowly into a long sweeping curve of impossibly smooth asphalt. It followed the landscaping around outcroppings of rock and groupings of mesquite and alligator junipers so we got a tour of the grounds before ever seeing the buildings. I had the feeling that Hector didn’t want to continue that conversation. Just to change the subject, I asked, “So what do you know about these guys?”
“Drugs, guns, whores, and the worst kinds of violence you can imagine. These are the guys the other families are afraid of.”
“Afraid? To me, fear never seemed to play a big part in these guys’ lives.”
“That’s business. La Familia de los Muerto is almost like a religion. They worship murder. Everything else just pays the bills.”
I took my foot off the gas and froze. We rolled into the last straight shot up the hill before the main building and crawled to a stop. Behind my rigid face, I cursed myself for an idiot and a fool. All around me were hints and connections that I hadn’t had sense enough to catch. I had patted myself on the back hard enough for figuring out a kid’s phone password. It had never occurred to me when Darian Stackhouse mentioned La Familia de los Muerto that they were here.
“Why’d you stop?”
“Because I’m an asshole,” I replied. “I not only don’t know what I’ve gotten into; I actually thought I was hiding.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either.” I pressed the gas pedal, taking my time approaching the hacienda-style building. Three armed men waited at the door.
“You should wait here,” I told Hector.
“That’s not a good idea.”
I shoved the lever over into park but left the engine idling.
The men watching us had automatic weapons. T
he guns were slung and hanging loose. There was nothing reassuring about their casual stances. They and their weapons were ready.
“Probably not,” I said, without looking at Hector. “There’s not a lot about this that’s been a good idea.”
“Yeah. But we’re in it together now.”
“No, we’re not. Because you don’t even know what you’re in.”
“Maybe you should tell me.”
“Not the time.” I pushed the door open. “Get behind the wheel. If someone comes and tells you to leave, don’t argue, and don’t ask questions.”
“Why would that happen?”
“That’s a question.” I tried to look confident—like maybe I was joking. I don’t think I pulled it off. “If I don’t come out, you can keep my truck.”
“You’re freaking me out a little bit here.”
I closed the door and spoke through the open window. “Might be good to be a bit on edge.”
“You think it’s that bad?”
“I don’t know. Probably not. But—”
“What?”
“Nothing. This is my fuck-up. I’ll do my best to keep you out of it.”
Hector had more to say. I didn’t give him the chance. When I started walking, the man beside the door opened it and then went through to wait on me. One of the men who still waited outside the door nodded and said, “Chief Tindall.” He had a Texas accent, not Mexican. “I’m Joaquin. Please come inside.”
I couldn’t help thinking, “Hell has a doorman.” But I went through. The gunman followed, and Joaquin came last.
We went down a long entryway that looked like it was made for a rustic Gatsby with a cowboy fixation. At the end was a pair of french doors. The leading man took up a station to the right. One of the men behind me took the left, and the one called Joaquin stayed at my back.
Someone stepped up behind the glass and opened the doors. It was the same man who had braced me at the bar. He had the kind of vicious smirk you see on mean kids caught torturing insects. His hands were still bandaged and swollen.
I don’t know why, but I glanced at the door handles. They were levers, not knobs. It struck me as a bit funny. Lucky for him. Thinking of him trying to twist a regular doorknob made me feel a little better. No matter what happened to me, I’d always have the pleasure of knowing I messed this guy’s life up.
“Voy a quitar esa sonrisa de tu cara y meterla en por el culo.” He told me he was going to take the smile off my face and stick it in my ass. His voice was low and rough. It was a movie-villain kind of snarl.
That made me feel even better. If they knew who I was or had plans for me, there wouldn’t be foreplay. That didn’t mean that they wouldn’t figure it out. For now, though, I was just another cop.
“Good luck with that,” I said. Then I asked, “Dime, ¿cómo te limpias el culo con esas manos bonitas?” How do you clean your ass with those pretty hands?
“Chingar su madre.” He pushed in close and held my eye, trying to make me back down. I’d never give him the satisfaction.
“Álvaro—” Joaquin warned him.
“Sí, Álvaro,” I said, keeping my gaze locked with his. “Escúchalo.” I told him to listen just as you would to an unruly child.
He broke first, glancing over my shoulder at Joaquin before telling me, “Your gun. Hand it over.”
“No.” Refusing wasn’t something I thought through. If I had, I probably would have turned it over. Once I said it, though, I wasn’t backtracking.
Álvaro held out a bandaged hand and waggled it at me. His fingers didn’t move.
“No,” I said again.
“You’re not going in armed. Estúpido chingadera.” He was right; I was a stupid fucker.
“I’m here in an official capacity. As a courtesy. Not on my knees asking for money. You can pass that along, and I can talk to the boss, or I’ll be going. Either way, I won’t be disarmed by you. Puta.” I put as much of my own sneer as I could into the last word calling him a bitch.
Even with his broken hands, I think he was ready to throw a punch. It didn’t get that far.
“Álvaro!” That time it was someone else shouting at him. I couldn’t see the man, but the voice gave me a chill. “Envíalo en,” it said: send him in. Sounds and voices connect with events in such a way that they can call back not just memory but all the feeling of a moment. The last time I had heard that voice, I had been certain I was going to die. It had said, “Hacerle desaparecer.” Make him disappear. Then fireworks had gone off in my head, and I had woken in the back seat of a car on my way to dig my own grave.
I don’t know how my face looked. Álvaro’s face looked like that of a boy interrupted while torturing insects—concerned about being caught but hopeful to get back to his activity soon. He gestured with his mummy hands, indicating that I should go into the room.
Three steps inside and I was face to face with the same man who had sent me to die in the desert. I looked behind me to see if anyone was waiting to crack my skull and bag me up again. Álvaro remained by the door. That didn’t calm my fear.
“You are the new sheriff,” the thin man said.
My heart shuddered on the next beat. I had expected—I didn’t know what I expected. Casual chat wasn’t what I was afraid of; that was certain. I was relived he didn’t offer a hand to shake. I doubted that I could have handled that.
“Chief,” I said. The word was reaction more than response. There was a vapor lock in my brain, and I was grabbing at any clear thought.
He raised a questioning eyebrow.
“I’m the chief of police in Lansdale. Sheriff is an elected county position.”
“But we are not in Lansdale.”
That was true. And I’m sure it was something that should have made a difference to me. It didn’t. But I didn’t have an answer to the statement either. “You’re Eladio Machado,” I said instead.
He raised his head and looked down a bent nose at me like he was working on a memory. Eladio Machado was a skeleton of a man. Everything but that broken and badly set nose was emaciated looking. The eye sockets above his nose were hollow. The orbs themselves were dark—not just shaded. The darkness was within them. His sclera was shot through with red. His brown irises were more shadow floating on blood.
“Have we met?”
Every hair on my body stood in a creeping march from the bottom of my spine up the back of my neck. The sensation became a tingling like crawling ants in my scalp. “No,” I lied.
Machado raised a bony finger and asked, “Are you sure?” When he ticked the air, his hand moved, but the ill-fitting suit he wore barely twitched. He was rattling in his own clothes. You look like someone…”
“I have—had—a brother who did business with families in Mexico.”
“Of course,” he said, nodding. His gaze didn’t let me off the hook.
There was a liquid sloshing sound, and ice clacked in a glass. I turned.
We weren’t alone. Sitting on a white leather couch was the same fancy-dressed man I had first seen with Bascom Wood. He was sipping from a highball glass and rattling it noisily. This time he was wearing a western suit in gray with a shirt and bandana in purple. His boots were lizard or snakeskin with long pointed toes. He was making a point of being noticed. At the same time, he refrained from noticing me or even Machado.
“You see,” Eladio said. “I have a brother as well. Perhaps you have met Simon. He takes care of many family interests in the Lansdale community.”
Simon continued to ignore me, and I decided to do the same. “Do you know Bascom Wood?” I asked Eladio. “He may be on his way here.”
“Why would the councilman come here?”
“He seems to think that you have something to do with the disappearance of his son.”
Eladio nodded again with his head up and looking down his nose. He didn’t appear surprised at all.
“Are you here to investigate his claim?”
“I’m here hoping to keep him fr
om kicking the wrong box of bees.”
That time he lowered his face and looked at me straight on. The corner of his mouth curled up in a cruel smirk.
“I think the kid is playing hooky,” I explained. “I don’t want Wood to get hurt for his worry.”
Ice rattled. No one said anything.
I turned to leave.
Before I made it to the door, Eladio said, “Chief.”
Álvaro put his wrapped right hand up to my chest. I slapped it away.
He didn’t scream. But he wanted to.
I turned around.
“I’m certain I remember your brother now.”
I pushed past Álvaro, who was still clutching his hand under his arm. No one stopped me or said anything as I headed to the truck.
Hector was waiting behind the wheel with the engine still idling. Without quite running, I crossed in front and got into the passenger seat.
“Go,” I told him.
“What happened?”
“Just go.”
He dropped the truck into drive, and we looped around a fountain and headed back the way we had come.
We didn’t talk as we cruised down the mirror-flat blacktop that carried us back to the gate. I didn’t talk, anyway. And I didn’t hear Hector if he did. I was rattled and scared and thinking that I was nowhere near as tough as I pretended to be.
When we reached the gate, it was standing open. The gatekeeper grinned and waved as we passed.
Where the club road gave way to county asphalt, there was a bump and change in quality of construction. From there it was just a few miles into town. Considering that Hector had picked up on my mood and pushed the truck well past the posted limit, it should have been a quick trip. It wasn’t.
Behind us, a black SUV with government plates came up dangerously fast.
Hector tromped the gas, and the truck downshifted into a burst of new speed. It was wasted effort. Ahead of us, another SUV, this one not new or shiny and bearing no plates, pulled out, taking up the center of the road.
We were forced to a stop.
“Wait here,” I told Hector.
“Again?”
I didn’t answer. I got out of the truck and walked back to wait at the bumper. Darian Stackhouse got out of the rear SUV.
“Tindall,” he hollered over as he slammed the driver’s side door. As he approached, he said, “You’re a major pain in my ass.”
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