Dead Man's Badge

by Robert E. Dunn

  “Leather soles and a riding heel. At least you won’t be running on the street. Might be hard on the ankles, though.”

  “You’re crazy. You can’t do this.”

  “Tell me something.”

  Joaquin shut up. The wild, wounded-animal look remained in his eyes.

  “Did anyone ever once say that about Gutiérrez?”

  “What?”

  “You can’t do this.” I pushed the free end of the rope through his belt and fixed the hook over it. “Ready to run?”

  In the truck, I looked at the rearview mirror. Joaquin was scrambling up onto the bumper and trying to climb into the bed of the truck. I dropped the transmission into gear and hit the gas. He flipped backward, and his feet kicked to the sky as the truck lurched forward.

  I yelled out the window, “Better get up quick. It’s time to go.”

  He probably didn’t make it up to his feet. I didn’t wait at all before letting the truck amble on. I couldn’t see him, so I knew he wasn’t running.

  After a few feet, I stopped and shouted out, “Better get up and ready. This next one won’t be slow.”

  Joaquin could have been a dust devil. When he popped up, the dirt shook from his clothes and swirled in the breeze. “What do you want?” He screamed the question.

  “I want you to run.” I pressed the gas pedal and kept speeding up. I didn’t stop until he fell.

  Joaquin rolled to the side where I could see him and then stayed on his knees. “I give up,” he shouted at me.

  “I don’t,” I said out the window and then pulled my foot from the brake. The truck rolled.

  Joaquin stood on shaky legs. He trotted.

  It was easy to tell when he was getting tired. The rope lost its slack and jerked him at the waist. Each time it happened, it took longer for him to catch up and get the tension out of the line.

  “That’s only jogging,” I called back. “Let’s get to the running.” I sped up. He made it a few stumbling steps and then went down again. I stopped. “Are you getting it yet?” I shouted out the window. “You understand that you’re not on the cop side anymore?”

  “You can’t.” He screamed the words as he scrambled back to his feet.

  I touched the gas, and the line popped tight. Joaquin was jerked facedown into the dirt.

  I didn’t drag him far or over cactus, but I wanted him certain that I would.

  “I can,” I shouted back to him. “The only question is, do you believe I will?”

  He didn’t answer. I got out and went to the rear bumper of the truck. Joaquin was lying in the dirt, panting like a fat dog in July. Fresh blood stained the dirt on his face where his nose had gotten bloody.

  “Yeah, you get it now, don’t you?” I asked, standing over him. “You’re not a cop. You’re not a fed. You’re a piece-of-shit criminal. And you’re not dealing with a police chief. This is between us, criminal to criminal. ¿Lo entiendes?” I spat some grit from my mouth. “Yeah, you understand.”

  We had a long talk.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The officers of the Lansdale Police Department arrived at the tunnel site first. Hector was in charge. I’d asked him to bring everyone available, and he had said, “Try to keep us away.” I could have kissed him for that.

  The construction workers were surprised to see so many cops show up all at once. No one put up a fuss when they were told the workday was over. After that, Stackhouse and his crew showed up. They took position by the contractor’s trailer. The Machado brothers, both of them, along with a dozen armed men, arrived next. Buick was with them. They set up closest to where the workers had parked their trucks and vans.

  I arrived with Joaquin tied into the bed of the truck about five minutes after noon. I wasn’t the last. I stayed in the red truck with my windows down talking to Joaquin until I saw the last car drive up and park between two police cruisers.

  “Looks like it’s time,” I said to Joaquin.

  He had nothing to say. That was fine. I was tired of hearing him anyway. Pulling him from the truck, I let him drop like a sack of potatoes to the ground.

  The feds and the criminals watched him rise on wobbling Bambi legs without a word. When he was up and moving in front of me, I pointed over at Stackhouse and then at the Machados. They each moved to meet us where the plastic tarps gaped in front of the tunnel. Buick came but stayed a few steps behind Eladio.

  “You got us here,” Stackhouse was the first to talk. “What’s it all about?”

  “Doesn’t anyone want to know about how poor Joaquin is doing?” I asked.

  No one did.

  “You talk a lot,” Simon Machado said. “You make big noises, and you get people killed.” He stared at me, sucking his teeth, waiting for a reaction. When I didn’t say anything, he added, “We’re tired of it.”

  “Me too,” I said. “That’s why it’s almost over.”

  “I am very curious about this,” Eladio Machado said. His voice sounded like old bones grating. “What is it you think is almost over? I’m yet to see an ending.”

  “You will.”

  “I think everyone’s sick of your bullshit,” Stackhouse said. “You wanted to talk. Let’s get it over with.”

  “Fine. Here’s the sad truth. This”—I gestured to the tunnel opening, then the bank, and then in a broad circle that I hoped indicated everything around—“all of this is over. It stops, and all your big deals”—I looked at Stackhouse—“to control the drug trades, to siphon off the cash, to keep Mexico under the American thumb.” I turned to the Machados. “And your deal. The exclusive franchise to import drugs, to bank and launder cash—” I stopped talking, wanting the fact that I knew the big picture to sink in. Then I said, “All of it. Over.”

  Agent Darian Stackhouse was the first to find his voice. “I don’t give a flat fuck what you think you know but—”

  “Betrayal,” I said, cutting him off. “Bad deals and betrayal. That’s how wars are started.”

  “You have said this before,” Eladio Machado mused. “I think you are trying to stir a pot that is not as hot as you think. ¿No es verdad?”

  “Let’s work it out,” I said. “Way I see it, there are two parts at issue. One.” I held up a finger and then pointed it at Stackhouse. “The failure of your project to control the drug trade and profit from it.”

  “You have no idea what the Homeland Security Act will allow me to do to someone like you.” Stackhouse sounded as though he was already imagining breaking me on a rack.

  “You’re right,” I answered. “I don’t.” I turned to where the last car had pulled in and waved at the occupants. Mr. and Mrs. Toomey got out. Mr. Toomey came to join us.

  “Here you go,” Mr. Toomey said, handing me a sheaf of papers. “It’s all taken care of.”

  I took the pages and separated the two copies and then handed one over to Stackhouse.

  “What’s this?”

  “This is notification of annexation.”

  “What the hell?”

  “Yep. Bureaucracy can be our friend. The City of Lansdale has annexed the land from the city limits to the far side of the Gun Hills Hunting Lodge and Private Club. All of the properties within the new city limits are subject to building inspection for codes violations and tax assessment.”

  “You can’t do this.” Stackhouse didn’t sound as sure of himself.

  “We just did.”

  “It’ll never hold up in court.”

  “Who cares?” I gestured around the work site. “Do you want all of this laid out in court? Do the people you’re working for?” I gave a quick look to Mr. Toomey, and he walked back to his car.

  Eladio Machado laughed. I think it was a laugh. It sounded more like wind blowing dry leaves. “Do you think we will simply let this old man stroll through our grounds looking for things to use against us?”

  “No,” I said. “I think you’re going to be busy.”

  “With what?”

  “Payback.”

 
Buick spoke. “You don’t have to do this. Not any of it.”

  I looked at my father. “I don’t blame you, Buick.”

  “For what?”

  “Anything. From here on out.”

  He looked around at the gathered men. “I’m interested in seeing how long that is.”

  “The payback is for number two.” I held up my fingers again and waved them at the Machado brothers. “The failure of La Familia to protect itself from becoming the DEA’s whipping boy for when this whole thing blows up.”

  “Eladio is right, I think,” Simon said through his constant sneer. “You stir and you stir waiting for the pot to boil. I think maybe you forgot to light the fire, eh?”

  To Eladio, I said, “I’m assuming you know Buick is working for these guys every bit as much as you.”

  Simon didn’t seem to appreciate being snubbed. He spread his suit jacket and put his hands on his hips. The gesture put the nickel-plated revolver on display. He answered the question. “Your father is a go-between. He has been useful.”

  “But a man, even a man working both sides, has to be more on one side than the other. Am I right?”

  “What are you doing?” Buick asked. He spoke slowly.

  Simon shifted his gaze to look at Buick. There was new suspicion.

  “My father is a bad man. But I just realized that he’s only bad. Not evil. Not a monster.” I turned and spoke directly to Buick. “You tried to get me to take money, to get on the payroll.”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t look around. My father stared at me, waiting.

  “Whose payroll?” I asked him.

  His eyes shifted quickly toward Stackhouse.

  I followed his look and said, “I thought so.”

  “You’re just making a bigger mess, boy.” Buick told me. “What do you hope to get out of it?”

  “You can’t stay now,” I answered him. “You’re out of La Familia no matter what. You can get away.”

  “You can too. Walk away. We’ll go together.”

  I didn’t say anything to that. Buick seemed to understand. He patted at his pockets, finding one of the cheap cheroots, and then stuck it, unlit, into his mouth. “Yeah,” he said, agreeing with my silence. He turned and walked back to stand beside one of the SOT vehicles.

  “Is there a real point to all this?” Stackhouse jumped in. “Or are we waiting around for you to work out more of your daddy issues?”

  “Well, yeah.” I addressed Eladio again. “I’ve got a point. And it has to do with trust. And who you let into the family.”

  “I’m listening,” he answered for himself, the words rasping out.

  “There was a man. You lost track of him a couple of weeks back. Always seemed to be laughing. His name was Cesar Barcia.”

  “It’s time you stopped talking.” Stackhouse’s voice was low and cold.

  I ignored him and told Eladio, “Ask Agent Stackhouse why he’s worried.”

  Eladio turned his attention to Stackhouse. Simon inched his hand closer to the pearl grips of his revolver.

  When no one said anything, I went on. “Barcia was DEA.”

  “Accusations are easy, and you toss them out like rubbers at a whorehouse.” Stackhouse challenged me. “I say he wasn’t a cop. At least not one of mine.”

  “You remember the last time you saw him?” I asked Eladio. “You sent him yourself to kill my brother, Longview. I’ve been wondering, was that about sending a message to Buick or about taking over the Guzman Cartel?”

  “Both,” Simon answered. His sneer showed tobacco-stained teeth.

  “Cesar Barcia is the man who cleared out that house and left your men dead.”

  “Bullshi—”

  Eladio stopped Stackhouse by raising a hand. I noticed that Simon’s hand was on his fancy pistol.

  “I would like to hear this,” Eladio Machado said. His voice had a new life to it.

  “Barcia lost his badge, and it was in the house, wasn’t it?” I was talking to the Machado brothers, but each of them was focused on Agent Stackhouse. “Think he did it alone? The way I hear it, that house was shot up bad. How much did they get away with? A little over a million, right?”

  “These are dangerous accusations,” Eladio said.

  “Yeah. That pot’s ready to be stirred now, isn’t it?”

  “You have more?”

  “Buick was working both sides, but everyone knew it. The real breach of trust was for Agent Stackhouse to have a snitch—someone you trusted within La Familia, wasn’t it?”

  Since we had been standing there, Joaquin had stared silently at the ground. He’d heard enough. He looked up at me and said flatly, “You’re a motherfucker.”

  “What if they had two snitches in place?” I asked. “People you trust, working for the DEA. And it’s not about reporting your crimes. It’s all about setting you up for the fall if things go wrong.”

  “Who?” Eladio’s voice was creaky as an old door but full of anger.

  “Joaquin here is free to go. I’m not holding him for anything. It’ll be interesting to see who he runs to, don’t you think?”

  Joaquin shouldered past me and bolted for Stackhouse.

  Fast as an old-time gunfighter, Simon Machado pulled his shining revolver and started firing.

  We all scattered like dandelion fluff in a hurricane, except for Joaquin. He fell hard with three bullets in his back.

  TWENTY-SIX

  That’s how wars start. And I was fine letting it happen. When the shooting started, I ducked back and held my hands up to the Lansdale police, shouting, “Hold your fire.”

  They showed remarkable restraint. Officer Sunny pulled other cops together around the Toomey’s car for protection. Hector rushed forward to join me and kept his shotgun ready as we retreated to the line of police cruisers.

  The SOT and La Familia held nothing back. Stackhouse’s men moved into the fray laying down suppressing fire and then advancing in teams. Their weapons were full military versions, and they were trained.

  La Familia fighters were not as skilled, but they were motivated. One started up a car and moved it in to cover Simon as he half carried Eladio.

  Stackhouse shot the driver of the car. La Familia fighters ignored the dead driver as they formed up in two groups. One screened the escape of Simon and Eladio. At least three of them died doing so. The other group set up behind the car and kept up a brutal spray of streaking bullets.

  I heard the blast of a shotgun and caught sight of Connors, the treasury agent on the right side of the SOT line. He fired, and another man advanced. I saw Connors nod to his teammate once he was set. The other man fired, and Connors advanced. He only made it a couple of feet before his throat blossomed with red. The treasury agent thrashed on the ground only a moment before he was gone.

  Behind the blocking car, another vehicle rolled back, throwing up a dirty cloud on the bare ground. Some of the SOT fired blindly at it for a moment before giving up. Several La Familia men broke cover to get between the car escaping with the Machado brothers and the SOT. They all died.

  A new wave of return fire crashed against asphalt and body armor. That time it engulfed us. Bullets popped holes in the sheet metal of the Lansdale police cruiser. Glass from shattered windows rained on us and scattered like shiny teeth on the ground. The cops shot back. For a few furious moments it was us on the side of the SOT, fighting the cartel forces. It would have felt good if I wasn’t worried about my officers.

  One of the SOT rolled a grenade under the car La Familia was using for cover. I saw it skitter and hop to a stop. One of the cartel men reached for it. It was only a flash-bang, but it went off in his hand. A blinding charge of yellow light and disorienting noise burst from under the vehicle.

  Bart Ganz, the big DEA agent I knew from the pool table, broke left, darting behind a van to come out on the open flank of the men remaining behind the car. He pinned the men down while the rest of the SOT finished the job. No one surrendered.

  Simon a
nd Eladio got away. But they were almost the only members of La Familia to do so. Stackhouse lost Connors and two other men who were wounded.

  When the last gunshot sounded, Darian Stackhouse turned to march across the lot. He strode straight up to me and centered his weapon on my heart from about five feet. Behind me, the weapons of cops raised. They were all aimed at him.

  Slowly, probably much slower than he expected, the other members of the SOT approached behind Stackhouse. Their weapons were ready but held down. Still, it seemed like Stackhouse was determined to have his revenge—at least until Buick walked between the cops and SOT. He moved right up beside Stackhouse and raised a nickel-plated .357 under his chin.

  “You may be willing to take the chance that cops won’t shoot you down,” Buick said. Stackhouse’s jaw flicked up, trying to get away from the weapon under it. “Are you willing to take that chance with me?”

  He wasn’t. Stackhouse lowered his gun and stepped slowly away from the one my father held. As he rejoined his team, she shouted over, “It’s your mess. You clean it up.” The SOT took their dead man and wounded and piled into the SUVs. They left.

  “Where do you think they’re going?” I asked.

  “Nowhere,” Buick said. “They will be right here until something changes.”

  “You don’t think something has changed?”

  “Some people are dead. Some plans are screwed up. Nothing has changed.”

  “It will,” I said. “Until then, come with me.” I took my father over to where Hector was pulling blankets from the back of a cruiser to cover bodies. “Hector, meet my father. Paris’s father.”

  Hector’s eyes widened with surprise and questions that I didn’t let him ask.

  To Buick, I said, “This is Hector Alazraqui. He was the only person at Paris’s funeral.”

  They shook hands but said nothing. It was as if there were a fragile, invisible wall between them each feared to breach with questions.

  “We need to break into teams,” I said to my father. “Hector here is in charge of the shooting scene—evidence and getting bodies to the morgue. Something you have a lot of experience with.”

  Buick puffed up. “I do,” he agreed, talking to Hector. “Would you take a little help?”