The Bones of Wolfe

by James Carlos Blake

  Did you shoot the violator? I ask.

  Of course. What good is an order that is not enforced? Now let’s go have some fun.

  We pass the stairway to the second floor and enter the party room and the reverberant blast of music issuing from large floor speakers at either end of a dais holding a DJ table. The dance floor takes up most of the center of the room and is packed with couples rocking out. Some of the partiers are at tables flanking the perimeter of the floor, drinking, laughing, conversing in shouts; some are at the bar along the back wall. Everyone’s dressed as casually as Chubasco—guys and girls both. He tells us the girls usually prefer to wear their sexiest dresses, but they live in a dormitory at the far end of the courtyard and didn’t want to get their party clothes wet in the storm.

  The high windows brighten with a quivering pale glare of lightning. The thunder that follows is audible through the party noise.

  Getting mean out there, Frank says.

  No problem, Chubasco says. We have generators as big as trucks all over the place. Their fuel’s piped from storage tanks way outside the compound. There’s no way in hell a tanker truck can get up here, of course, so every now and then we send a bunch of SUVs to Loreto to fill up with gas and then transfer most of it to the storage tanks when they get back.

  He exchanges quips with partiers as we cut around the dance floor and over to the bar. He orders a shot of gold tequila, so we do the same. To friendship! he says. We clink glasses and down the shots, then switch to bottles of beer. I spy Romero out on the dance floor, then follow Chubasco’s gaze toward the far end of the room, where Puño and another guy at a table are waving him over.

  Scout around, Chubasco says to us. Check out the girls. Do some dancing, have some fun. If you want to get laid, take one upstairs. The second floor is just for that. Nothing but bedrooms and a crew of maids to keep them clean and tidy all through the party. Now I have to go see about a few things.

  He goes off to join Puño at the far table.

  We stand with our backs to the bar, sipping our beer and casually scanning the dance floor and tables in search of Kitty—and work up a rough-draft escape plan, trying to keep to the basic rule that simple is best. We’ll have to move soon and fast, while the storm can still give us cover but before it’s too strong to drive through. Because hot-wiring a vehicle in the dark can be a bitch, Frank praises Gallo for having given me a spare key to the Expedition. What we need to know are the locations of all the building’s outer doors and we’re hoping the girl can tell us. If we try to leave by way of the lobby and front door—unaccompanied by Chubasco and with Kitty in tow—there are sure to be people who will want to know where we’re going, and the jig, as they say, will be up.

  Maybe she’s not here, I say, low-voiced and sticking to Spanish because the sound of English might attract the curiosity of others nearby. Could be he didn’t bring her and she’s still in Ensenada.

  Why would he leave her in Ensenada?

  I don’t know. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t.

  We scan some more. No sight of her.

  And then there she is. Not twenty feet off to our right. Among a bunch of dancers near the periphery of the floor. In running shoes and snug faded jeans and a purple T-shirt, slinging her hips and pumping her arms to the thumping beat, bopping with a long-haired Indian-looking dude she doesn’t even glance at. She could be dancing by herself. The guy doesn’t take his eyes off her.

  When the number ends the Indian says something to her and jerks his head toward the bar. She says something in turn and does that little bounce-in-place move some girls do when they’re entreating. He gives her an irked look and summons her with a hand flick.

  He wants a drink, she wants to dance some more, I say, pushing off the bar.

  Move, Frank says, deferring to me because I’m the better dancer of the two of us.

  As I work my way through the tables flanking the floor, the Indian beckons her more forcefully, clearly angry now, and the DJ puts on a slow-dance tune. She makes a face and flaps her arms in resignation and starts toward him, but I intercept her as she comes off the floor.

  Pardon me, miss. May I have this dance?

  She stares at me blankly for a second, then returns my smile and says, Yeah, sure. She takes my hand with both of hers and draws me onto the floor.

  Hey, you!

  I turn and set myself as the Indian starts toward me. Then Rojo Romero steps between us, stopping him short.

  She’s with me, the Indian says to him. We were about to have a drink when this prick—

  Enough, Vicente, Romero tells him. You know the rules. She can dance or drink with anybody she wants to, she can go upstairs with anybody she wants to. You don’t like it, too bad. Go cool off.

  The Indian gives me a “Fuck you” hand sign and stalks away. The couples dancing nearest to us are grinning at the diversion.

  Enjoy yourself, Romero says to me, and returns to his dance partner.

  I cut a look at Chubasco’s table. If he noticed the wrangle, he’s already lost interest and is conversing with Puño. I take Kitty in my arms, and as we start dancing I tell her my name’s Rudy and she smiles back and says she’s Gatita. The slow dance is a timely break. It’s softer music and we don’t have to yell to hear each other.

  Listen and don’t stop smiling, I say to her. I’m one of Rayo San Luna’s partners.

  Her eyes go wide. Rayo! she says. My God! Is she all right? I was so worried she—

  Easy, girl. Smile. And keep your voice down. Rayo’s fine. She talked to the movie people and they’re very excited you want the job. We’re gonna take you to them.

  You mean the job that pays twenty thousand dollars?

  That’s the one. But Rayo said Chubasco probably won’t let you go, so we’re not gonna ask him. I’m here with our partner Franco. Rayo’s waiting for us in Loreto and we’re taking you to her tonight.

  Tonight?

  Yes. Smile and don’t ask questions, just answer. Do you know this building pretty good? Yeah, I guess. Yeah.

  What other exits are there besides the front door?

  She says there’s a side door at both of the far ends of the building and two other doors in the back, a wide one for big stuff like furniture and the kitchen’s rear door.

  Keep that smile going, I say. Besides the main staircase, are there other stairs between the two floors?

  Yeah, there’s a couple of little stairwells at either end of the second floor that connect to the side doors downstairs, she says. Some of us sometimes use them to leave a party and get back to the dormitory when it’s real late and you don’t want to go down the main staircase again, because you don’t want to run into even one more guy who wants to take you upstairs. There’s a little lavatory next to each of the stairwells, you see, and when you finish with the guy you’re with, you tell him you have to pee real bad and you’ll see him downstairs. You go to the lavatory door and look back to make sure he’s gone, then you quick go down the stairwell and out the exit and hurry over to the dorm.

  Is there a doctor in the compound?

  Doctor González. Him and his nurse live in the clinic at the corner of the courtyard, right next to our dormitory. Why? What’s he—?

  Are the parking stalls on the same side of the building as your dormitory?

  Yeah. On that side. She tips her head in the direction she means.

  Perfect, I say. Now we need a girl for Franco so we can all four go upstairs at the same time. Some friend of yours. All you tell her is you’re going up with a special guest of Chuy’s you just met and that a friend of mine has been admiring her and would like to take her upstairs.

  She looks around, then smiles wide and waves. That’s Lupita, she says, and points her out.

  It’s the buzz-cut girl we saw at the mall. She’s at a table with some people and waves back at Kitty and includes me in her smile. She’s in jeans and a black buccaneer blouse with a thin red scarf around the collar.

  The nu
mber ends. I tell her to get Lupita and meet us at the bar. Then I hustle back to Frank and fill him in fast.

  The girls soon appear and Kitty introduces Lupita and I introduce Frank, and he and Lupita exchange grins. As we head for the door, our arms around the girls, Frank and I take a gander at the far table where Chubasco and Puño are looking our way. Frank pumps his fist high in a gesture of good-time camaraderie, and when the girls look over to see who he’s looking at, I tell them to blow Chubasco a kiss. They do. Chubasco smiles and raises a fist in response.

  Then we’re out of the party room and ascending the big staircase, and I quickly tell Kitty what we’re going to do.

  The second-floor landing is at the center of a softly lighted hallway, the clamor of the party somewhat muffled up here by the rain’s overhead pounding. At the ends of the hallway are the doorless thresholds to the stairwells. We’re greeted by a woman Kitty addresses as Griselda and whose duty is to direct arriving couples to a room or line them up on the landing in ready turns as rooms become available. There’s only one room ready at the moment, she says, and because Kitty and I preceded Frank and Lupita onto the landing, we get it. Number seven, she tells Kitty, who says, Thanks. As she starts to lead me to it, I grab my stomach and hunch over with a loud moan. She puts her arms around me, asking, What is it, sweetheart, what? Frank and Lupita come up and help her hold me up. Griselda rushes over and asks what’s wrong.

  Rudy just all of a sudden feels sick, Kitty says. I better get him to the lavatory before he throws up.

  God, yes! Griselda says. Don’t let him do it out here. Come, come!

  She leads us to the lavatory at the end of the hall, but before we reach the door I slump against Frank and moan louder. Jeeesus! My gut!

  He doesn’t need to throw up, he needs a doctor, Kitty says. We better quick get him to González.

  Griselda agrees, and Kitty says they can get me out of the building a lot easier by way of the stairwell than having to go through the crowd in the lobby. Yes, yes, Griselda says, and flaps a hand at us to hurry.

  We go into the dimly lit landing and out of hallway view, then scurry down the stairs to the exit, Kitty behind me, then Frank, holding Lupita by an arm. Hey, Lupita says, he’s not sick! What going on? Frank tells her to shut up. At the bottom of the stairwell he sits her down on a step and tears her scarf into two strips. He uses one to tie her hands behind her and around a baluster, then gags her with the other, placing it between her tongue and top teeth. She’s wide-eyed and weeping. He kisses her on the nose and tells her not to worry, somebody will be along very soon and set her free.

  We rush out into a darker night and stronger storm than when we arrived. No thunder and lightning now, just a ferocious wind and whipping rain that stings my face. In seconds we’re soaked. The vehicle stalls are scarcely discernible as we advance on them, shielding our eyes with our hands, our heads bent into the storm. Kitty totters and falls to one knee and I snatch her upright by the back of her jeans. She clings tight to my arm as we stagger toward the section of stalls where we saw the Expedition get parked.

  It doesn’t take long to find it. Frank says he’ll drive and I give him the key. When the door opens the interior roof light comes on and I break it with my pistol barrel. Then I go around to the rear of the vehicle and shatter the taillights as well. I tell Kitty to get on the floor behind our seats and curl up into a ball as tight as she can, then cover her with Rayo’s windbreaker.

  Franks backs us out of the stall, turns on the wipers but leaves our lights off, then slowly advances through the storm. We go around the far side of the courtyard fountain, guided by the hazy light of the lampposts. There’s no sign of anyone else out here. When we see that the big building’s front doors under the porte cochere have been shut against the wind, Frank switches on the headlights and turns us toward the murky light of the front gate’s guard shack.

  As we approach the gate we can see the two guys at the shack window, watching us. Frank flicks the brights on and off three times. We’re hoping the let-us-in signal also works for an exit. He pulls up a few feet from the gate and in the glow of the light above the shack door, the Expedition rocking in the pummeling wind. The gates don’t open. Through the window we see one of the guards put on a raincoat and pull the hood over his head.

  “Stay low and small, girl, and don’t move,” I say.

  The raincoat guy comes out, a hand in his pocket, Frank lowers the window a little, admitting a hard spray of rain, and says, What’s the hell’s the holdup?

  Need to give me your pass! the guard says shouting to be heard in the shrilling wind.

  Pass? Frank says. Chuy didn’t say anything about a pass when we said so long! Hey, we’re the guys who just brought your chief a load of guns! Open the fucking gate if you want to keep your job!

  We know who you are! the guard says. But nobody goes through without a pass! That’s the order!

  I lean over in front of Frank so the guard can see me better and to keep his attention from drifting rearward and possibly spotting Kitty. Hey, man, I say, we know you’re just doing your job! That’s fine! Let me call Puño on your line phone and he’ll clear us!

  Before he can say anything more I scramble out my door and start around the front of the Expedition, leaning into the wind, a forearm at my brow against the rain. I intend to disarm them as soon as we’re in the shack and I’m sure Frank knows it. But the guard raises a hand at me and says, I’ll make the call! Get back in the vehicle!

  I halt and shrug and say, Yeah, yeah, all right! and take a step back, and the second he turns to the door I rush up and grab him in a bear hug from behind, pinning his arms to his sides, and start tugging him backward toward the gate. He writhes and bucks and tries to hit me with the back of his head, yelling, You’re fucked, man! You’re so fucked! At the gate I sling him around hard and ram him headfirst into the bars. He hits them with an audible crack and goes limp and I let him drop—then flinch at the sound of a gunshot and pull the Beretta as I spin around and see Frank standing outside the Expedition with his pistol pointed at the shack window. He darts to the door and ducks down as he opens it. Then stands up and goes in and I follow.

  The guard’s on the floor, faceup, eyes open, a neat little red-black hole just above his brow, his head in a spreading pool of blood. There’s a big patch of blood on the wall opposite the window. The phone receiver’s lying beside him, and even through the din of the storm we can hear an unintelligible tinny voice shouting from the earpiece. Frank reaches down and yanks the line out of the wall. “As soon as you grabbed the other guy this one was on the horn,” he says. “Had time enough to give an alert before I could pop him. Be a war party here in a minute.”

  Another phone on a table across the room begins ringing in short bursts.

  “Move the other one out of the way,” Frank says. “No need to run over him.”

  I scoot out as he goes to the gate operation panel.

  The gates draw apart as I drag the guard clear of them. He issues no sound, makes no movement. The phrase dead weight comes to mind, and I resist the inclination to check for a pulse. Frank hastens out and slides behind the wheel. I hop into the other side and he guns us through the gate. Kitty’s sitting up now and hugging herself, her eyes huge. The rear window is a watery glare against the shack lights. Then we’re into a wide curve and there’s nothing behind us but darkness. Frank takes off the money bag and hands it to me. “Bothers my driving,” he says. I hang it across my chest.

  “Who are you guys?” Kitty says. “You’re not like any movie people I ever met.”

  “Like I said, we’re friends of Rayo,” I say. “That makes us friends of yours. Everything’s cool, kid. We’re on our way to her.”

  “Don’t call me kid!”

  “Forgive me. I meant to say everything’s cool, my lady.”

  She laughs along with us. Good sign.

  My watch reads 11:16.

  EL CHUBASCO

  The dance floor is sti
ll thronged and the traffic of couples to and from the second floor continues. Romero joins Chubasco’s table and says the storm is now officially a category one hurricane with winds of seventy-six miles an hour and expected to intensify.

  Who cares? Puño says. This party’s stormproof.

  Now the supervisor of the Finca’s telephone switchboard crew pushes through the crowd around the chief’s table. He leans down close to Chubasco and tells him of a call an operator received from one of the gate guards a few minutes ago to report that the two Sangrero gunrunners had driven up to the gate and demanded to be let out, and when a guard refused because they didn’t have a pass, one of them began to assault him. The operator then heard a gunshot and the guard on the phone went silent. The operator kept asking what was happening, but the guard made no reply and then the connection was broken. The operator tried a backup connection to another phone in the shack and it rang and rang, but there was no answer. He then told the supervisor about the call and the supervisor sent a runner to the gate. The runner called from the shack’s backup phone to report the gate was wide open and both guards dead.

  Fucking whoresons! Chubasco howls, lunging to his feet. He tells Puño to dispatch replacement guards to the front gate and have pursuit crews with satellite phones ready to go right now. He directs Romero to the range room to fetch a pair of MP5s, two strap bags of extra magazines, and a set of earplugs. He tells someone else to bring him a waterproof jacket. Within minutes a pursuit party of three big-cab pickup trucks—three men in each cab, rack lights on each roof—roars out the front gate and past the replacement guards. The dead guards will be kept in the kitchen’s meat locker until the weather permits their burial in the graveyard behind the compound.