Angel Baby

by RICHARD LANGE

  “Then we don’t have a problem,” Thacker says. No sense in playing dumb anymore.

  “I’m after the girl,” the guy says.

  “The girl? In the car?”

  “Somebody wants her back in Mexico.”

  Thacker sucks at his teeth, trying to work up some saliva. He’s wasting time here and giving the pair in the Beamer a big head start. If he wants a second shot at the money, he needs to get moving. So he takes a chance. Rising to his full height, he sets his pistol on the hood of the truck and lifts his hands.

  “It’s too fucking hot for this,” he says. “Come on out, and let’s put our heads together.”

  Nothing but the wind. An empty plastic jug bounces past, riding the gusts. Then a big, angry-looking Mexican suddenly climbs out of the ditch and steps to the edge of the road. Shaved head, mahogany skin, tattoos covering both arms and boiling up out of the neck of his T-shirt. Some shithead gangster. The guy holds his gun at his side, pointed at the ground, but a quick bend of the elbow…

  “Are we gonna have a showdown or a conversation?” Thacker says.

  The Mex hesitates for a second, then lays the gun in the dirt at his feet. Thacker walks around the front of the truck to stand facing him in the road.

  “I’ve got water, if you want some,” he says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

  The Mex approaches slowly, each step birthing a dusty sprite that’s instantly whirled away. He’s got some Indian blood in him, and his scowl looks to have been carved out of flinty red stone. When he’s halfway across the road, Thacker opens the door of the truck to get a bottle of water. The guy sprints the last few feet and barrels into him, pinning him against the Dodge with a sweaty forearm across his throat.

  “So you know, I don’t need a gun to kill you,” he says.

  Thacker gestures downward with his eyes so that the Mex notices the just-sprung switchblade aimed at his belly.

  “Back at you,” he says.

  The Mex lets up on his windpipe and retreats a couple of steps. He’s still scowling, but Thacker is sure enough he made his point that he takes a moment to shove the tails of his uniform shirt back into his pants and get himself squared away before leaning into the truck and bringing out the water. The Mex accepts the bottle with no change in expression and downs half of it in a series of deep gulps. Thacker drinks the rest, swishing the last bit and spitting.

  “You know this road?” the Mex asks him.

  “It ends in a set of railroad tracks about a mile on,” Thacker replies.

  “That’s where they’ll get out and run for it,” the Mex says.

  “Is that what you think’s gonna happen?”

  “If the girl figures out who sent me, it is.”

  “You mean Freddy?” Thacker says.

  The Mex scoffs at him. “No, man, not fucking Freddy.”

  Thacker squeezes the empty water bottle three times, and the sound bounces around the narrow canyon. He’s waiting for the Mex to put all the pieces together and come up with the obvious next move, but the guy continues to stand as still as a statue, eye-fucking him with his meanest jailhouse glare. They’ll never get anywhere like this.

  “You know,” he says, “every second we hang here, they’re getting farther away. How about we hop in the truck and chase them down? The girl’s yours, the money’s mine.”

  The Mex considers the suggestion. “And the dude, the driver?” he says. “If I take him out, are you gonna have a problem with it?”

  “Should I?” Thacker says.

  “Aren’t you a cop?”

  For one weird instant Thacker feels as hollow as a dead steer he came upon the other day, a sun-bleached hide stretched taut over a cage of bones. The wind races through his emptiness like it did through the carcass, the moan it makes coming dangerously close to thickening into a message. He shrugs and clears his throat.

  “Not today,” he says to the Mex.

  The Mex smirks at this response and starts back across the road.

  “I’m getting my gun,” he says.

  Thacker retrieves his P2000 off the hood of the truck, then slides behind the wheel and sticks the pistol in the door’s storage well. The Mex climbs in on the passenger side and fumbles with the seat belt.

  “Vamos,” Thacker says.

  He rolls down his window and notices that his side mirror is broken. The bitch got off a lucky shot, and he worries that might not be the only one, but everything sounds fine under the hood as they head down-canyon.

  They creep along at 10 mph, rocks popping under the tires. The Mex sits with his gun in his lap and fingers a fresh scrape on his elbow. The canyon swings to the east, then straightens out for a bit, the sun so high now that the ravine is full of light. Thacker puts on his shades, Oakleys, a once-upon-a-time Christmas gift from his sons, before they turned against him.

  They startle a few coyotes when they round another bend, send them scrabbling up the canyon wall. The landscape begins to flatten out. As Thacker recalls, the ravine isn’t much more than a sandy ditch by the time the road reaches the rail bed.

  “There,” the Mex says. The BMW is stopped up ahead, angled toward the eastern wall. Thacker mashes on the brakes and reaches for his gun.

  “Go easy,” the fat man says. “They could be holed up anywhere along here.”

  Jerónimo gives him a look. When did he become the shot caller? Jerónimo teamed with him because it seemed like two guns might be better than one for now, but if this pendejo thinks he’s in charge, he’s got another thing coming.

  To prove it, Jerónimo steps out of the truck into the heat and glare and wind and walks alone toward the car, which is about fifty yards down the road. He holds the Smith & Wesson at arm’s length in front of him, pointed at the vehicle.

  “Wait, now, wait!” the fat man calls after him.

  Jerónimo looks over his shoulder. The cop is out of the truck, fumbling with his hat and using his open door as cover. He raises the mic of the truck’s PA system to his lips. A loud squeal makes Jerónimo wince, then fatso’s voice is everywhere.

  “You. In the silver BMW. Step out of the vehicle with your hands in the air.”

  The words buzz around the canyon like angry insects, but there’s no response. Jerónimo resumes his approach to the car. He eases up to it and moves slowly alongside, from back to front, eyes alert for any movement. The click, clack, click of rocks tumbling down the canyon wall stops him cold. He crouches and scans the steep slope, his gaze tracking the barrel of his gun.

  “You see something?” the fat man yells. He was halfway to the BMW when the rocks fell but now backtracks to the truck and his hiding place behind the door.

  Jerónimo ignores him, intent on the craggy scarp. He half expects Luz or the white boy to lean over the edge and open fire. After a few seconds, though, his caution begins to embarrass him, and he stands and lowers his weapon.

  “All clear?” the fat man calls.

  Jerónimo tosses off a wave in his direction and inspects the BMW more closely. Two tires are flat and a couple of windows are shot out. Fluid the color of blood has leaked from the engine and run in a thin stream down the road to puddle around a fist-size stone, stranding a big green beetle.

  Inside the car, blue bits of broken safety glass sparkle like spilled gems. Jerónimo picks up a spent shell casing and sniffs it. The gunpowder smell reminds him of the Fourth of July when he was a kid. Piccolo Petes, Crackling Cactuses, War Drum Fountains.

  The fat man rolls up in his truck and leaves the engine running when he hops out. He takes the casing from Jerónimo and bounces it in his palm. “A .45,” he says. “They aren’t messing around.” He bends to peer inside the car. “The money?”

  “They must’ve taken it with them,” Jerónimo says.

  “Well, shit,” the fat man says. “Looks like we’re gonna have to work a little harder then.”

  He lowers himself to one knee next to the driver’s-side door and peers intently at the ground, sifting san
d through his fingers.

  “Let me see the bottom of your shoe,” he says to Jerónimo.

  Jerónimo lifts his foot, shows him the sole of his prison-issue sneaker. The fat man nods and stands with a grunt, then walks to the other side of the car. He kneels again, head down like he’s praying, and, after a few seconds of concentration, reaches out and draws a circle in the dirt.

  “Some decent prints here,” he says. He stands and looks at the canyon wall from under the bill of his cap. “As far as I can tell, they went straight up.”

  Jerónimo tucks the Smith & Wesson into his waistband. If they climbed, he’s climbing. He walks to the wall and begins picking his way up the steep slope.

  “Where you going?” the fat man says.

  “After them,” Jerónimo says.

  “That’s great, but listen for a second.”

  “They’re getting away.”

  “One second, okay?”

  Jerónimo looks down at the fat man, who walks over to stand at the base of the cliff.

  “How’s this sound,” he says. “You go up and see what you can see, and I’ll make sure they didn’t come back down to the road farther along.”

  “Do what you want,” Jerónimo says.

  “You got a phone?”

  “Why?”

  The fat man pulls his phone from his pocket. “Give me the number, and I’ll call if I see anything.”

  Jerónimo’s first instinct is to tell the cabrón to go on and get the fuck out of here, but there’s actually some sense to his plan, it being a way to be in two places at once, so he steadies himself on the wall and fumbles for the phone El Príncipe gave him.

  “It’s new,” he calls down to the fat man. “I don’t know the number.”

  “Call me then,” the fat man says and slowly recites his digits so Jerónimo can key them in. When the dude’s phone rings, he holds it up and says, “We’re good to go.”

  Jerónimo resumes his climb as the truck drives away. It’s harder than it looked like it was going to be. A rock he’s using as a handhold pulls free from the wall, almost toppling him, and seemingly stable ledges crumble when he puts his weight on them so that he slips down the slope until some sturdier outcropping stops his slide. Climb, you motherfucker, he whispers to himself. Climb, climb, climb.

  When he finally gets to the top, there’s sand in his shoes, in his teeth, in his ears. He wipes the sweat out of his eyes with his T-shirt and blinks at the brittle dun-drab sweep laid out before him. Boulders; stubby, twisted oaks; dry grass. Buzzards circle in the bleached sky, and a snagged, shredded shirt flutters on a barbed-wire fence.

  Inspired by the fat man, Jerónimo crouches to look for prints, but the ground is too hard to hold an impression. Luz and the white boy could be anywhere out here, or they could have already found an escape route and be on their way to L.A. He surveys the area once more, a shading hand across his brow, then digs in his pocket for the address he got from Luz’s mother, makes sure it’s still there.

  His phone rings as he picks his way down the wall, descending into the canyon again.

  “Nothing over this way,” the fat man says.

  “Nothing here either,” Jerónimo says.

  “I’m on my way back,” the fat man says. “I’ll pick you up.”

  Jerónimo doesn’t wait for him. When he reaches bottom, he walks back up the road to the Explorer, the neck of his T-shirt pulled up over his nose and mouth to keep out the blowing dust. This dead end has taken up too much of the day. The most important thing now is to beat Luz to her aunt’s house. He’s not exactly sure what he’ll do when he gets there, but he has money and a gun, and that’s a good start.

  The fat man pulls up behind him and taps the horn. “Get in,” he yells out the window.

  It’s tough fighting the wind, and the Explorer is still a half mile away, so Jerónimo drops back and climbs into the truck.

  “They booked, huh?” the fat man says.

  Jerónimo shrugs. He doesn’t want to give too much away to a crooked cop. But the fat man doesn’t back down.

  “Do you know where they’re headed?” he says.

  “Just drop me at my truck,” Jerónimo says.

  “What? I thought we had a good thing going.”

  “Don’t be corny, man. I’m not playing.”

  The fat man exhales loudly and slips a finger behind the lens of his sunglasses to rub his eye. He’s silent for a minute, then says out of nowhere, “You know you need my help.”

  Jerónimo stares out the windshield, doesn’t even blink.

  “Do I?” he says.

  “Think about your next move, whatever it is,” the fat man says. “What’s going to get you farther?” He points at the tattoos on Jerónimo’s neck and arms. “This shit?” he says, then taps the badge pinned to his own chest. “Or this?”

  The fucker’s pulling rank, saying, “You’re down there, and I’m up here.” He thinks everybody’s afraid of what he’s afraid of, that his world is the only one there is. Typical cop. Learned everything he knows off TV. Jerónimo’s been running circles around fools like him forever. He draws his gun with a flourish, like a lawyer brandishing courtroom proof.

  “How about this?” he says.

  “Please,” the fat man says. “You’re smarter than that.”

  They pass the site of the shootout and round the bend in the canyon to pull up beside the Explorer. Jerónimo opens the door and hops out as soon as the truck stops. He’s had enough talk. He walks to the Explorer and starts to get in, but then notices that the left front tire is flat. Part of him panics, the other part refuses to. He steps to the back of the vehicle and bends over to check underneath for a spare. Nothing there. The first option that comes to mind is the one he goes with. He turns to face the Dodge, gun in hand.

  The fat man has seen the flat too, and anticipated Jerónimo’s move. He’s already out of the truck, already crouched behind the door, already has his pistol pointed at Jerónimo’s head.

  “Here we go again,” the fat man says.

  Jerónimo feels like an idiot for letting the bastard get the jump on him.

  “I need your truck,” he says.

  “Well, I need the money that bitch is carrying,” the fat man says. “So what are we gonna do?”

  “I bet you’ve got an idea.”

  “Just the same one I had before,” the fat man says. “I’ll drive you where you need to go and put myself at your disposal. Use me. Use my uniform, my gun, my ugly white face. I can talk to bad guys for you, I can talk to cops. You need a plate run, I can do that. You need me to put the fear of God into someone, I can do that too.”

  Jerónimo grinds his teeth, thinking it over. He can shoot it out with the asshole, may the best man win, or he can take him up on his offer. A partner on this might not be a bad thing, at least for now. He can always get rid of him later if it doesn’t work out. What’s important is catching up to Luz as quickly as possible, getting her back to TJ, and freeing his family. He can’t let his pride screw that up.

  He lowers his gun but continues to stare into the fat man’s eyes like he can see all the way through to his thoughts.

  “What’s your problem?” he asks him.

  “What do you mean?” the fat man replies.

  “Why do you need this money so bad that you’re willing to rob motherfuckers in order to get it?”

  “You go first,” the fat man says.

  “What?”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “Fuck that,” Jerónimo says. “You got to read me my rights first.”

  The fat man’s face hardens. He doesn’t like getting the runaround, the big, bad cop.

  “I suck at blackjack,” he finally says. “How about that?”

  Jerónimo grins, can’t help himself.

  “So we on or what?” the fat man says.

  Jerónimo shoves his gun in his waistband. The fat man holsters his piece and steps out from behind the door of the truck.
<
br />   “The girl has a kid in L.A., a daughter,” Jerónimo says.

  “And you think she’ll try to get to her?” the fat man says.

  “That’s what I’ve been told.”

  “Let’s hit the road then,” the fat man says. “I’ll have you there in three hours.”

  Jerónimo returns to the Explorer and gathers up the money and the jug of water and bag of bolillos he bought in Tecate, then walks over to the Dodge. The wind catches the door when he opens it, would bend the hinges back if he wasn’t holding it.

  “We’ll pick up a tire on the way back,” the fat man says as Jerónimo settles into the passenger seat.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Jerónimo says. “Just get going.”

  They head for the mouth of the canyon. Jerónimo tries not to think about the long drive ahead, about Irma and the kids, about El Príncipe. The job is the job, and the circumstances that led him here don’t matter. Get. That. Girl. He sends her a message, wherever she is, sends it on the wind, through the telephone lines, trying to break her spirit from afar: No sense running. No sense hiding. You know I’m going to find you.

  14

  LUZ CAN’T BELIEVE IT. THEY’VE BEEN RUNNING FOR MAYBE THIRTY seconds, and Malone already wants to stop.

  “To see…to see…if they’re following,” he pants.

  He drops to his stomach next to some coyote bush and motions for her to do the same. Reluctantly, she stretches out beside him in a narrow patch of winking shade. Licking her dry lips, she scans the plain for pursuers. She can see all the way back to the canyon. Boulders and chaparral bake in the heat, and a shimmering quicksilver mirage reflects the sky like a pool of standing water. Malone’s breathing gradually slows. He stinks of liquor and sweat.

  Five tense minutes pass. A buzz, an electric sizzle, fills the air. Cicadas. The sound tickles the back of Luz’s brain, makes her wish she could scratch it somehow. She’s about to get up and start running again when she sees movement at the lip of the canyon. A man appears, the tattooed one from before. He stands staring in their direction with hawkish intensity.