The driver shook his head. “I don’t know.”
The ex-Mossad guard removed two handguns from a case on the floor of the backseat.
“Pull over then,” Ernesto said. “Let’s make this quick. I have another flight.”
There were too many criminal organizations battling for too little territory, everybody scrambling for market share, trying to earn a peso however they could. Whomever the people in the Camaro worked for, they had obviously spotted a rich-looking target, an armored SUV, and decided to follow for a while, probably calling ahead to set up a hijacking. The Suburban was worth a great deal of money. Wealthy kidnapping victims perhaps even more.
Poor fools, Ernesto thought as his vehicle pulled into the parking lot of a vacant warehouse.
The Camaro stopped behind them at an angle, and the young man in the passenger seat got out, approaching the Suburban.
Ernesto didn’t wait. He exited, too, his guard following.
The young man stopped. Arms crossed, an insolent smirk on his face.
“Who do you work for?” Ernesto said.
“What’s in the truck?” The young man spat on the ground. “You travel this road, you have to pay a toll to us.”
“Your boss.” Ernesto pointed at the man. “Who is he?”
“What do you care, maricón?” The young man spat again. “Just pay the fucking toll.”
Ernesto ignored the insult against his sexual orientation. He said, “Do you work for that imbecile, el Camello?” A pretty safe bet. The Camel was the leader of one of the larger criminal organizations, an outfit that controlled this part of Tijuana.
The smirk slid off the man’s face, and he reached under his shirt. One did not slander the leader like that.
Ernesto snapped his fingers, held out his hand. The Israeli guard placed one of the guns in his palm.
“Do you not know who I am?” Ernesto said.
The man paused, a pistol half drawn from his waistband, a fearful look in his eyes. His partner, the driver of the Camaro, got out but made no move toward his friend, a confused expression on his face.
“Did they not give you a list of license plates and a description of vehicles to avoid?” Ernesto said.
The man looked puzzled, vaguely apprehensive. He eased the gun back in his waistband.
Ernesto tossed a business card on the ground. “Go ahead. Pick it up.”
The man did as requested. He read the card, began to whimper. The driver got back in the car.
“I am so s-sorry, Señor Manzanares.” The man crossed himself. “Please forgive me.”
Ernesto shot him in the knee.
The man screamed, fell to the asphalt.
Ernesto handed the gun back to his guard. He walked over to where the thug lay. He looked down at him and said, “I wonder how far you can get on one leg before el Camello finds you.”
The man clutched his bleeding knee and wept.
Ernesto sauntered back to the Suburban.
The rest of his journey was uneventful.
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR -
At five o’clock on the day two unarmed cartel soldiers had been killed with Piper’s gun, I parked in the side lot of a used bookstore near Live Oak Street and Skillman in Old East Dallas. The bookstore was next to a Luby’s cafeteria, a Unitarian church, and a place where you could sell your blood for cash. Across the street was an Irish pub and a Vietnamese restaurant.
The neighborhood was an ethnic stew—urban, part hipster, part senior citizen, part homeless—easy to blend in. The bookstore was our rendezvous point.
Even though the apartment at the Cheyenne was most likely untraceable to us, the smart move was to avoid that locale for the time being. What money I had was in my pocket along with my badge and cell phone, which had my contacts, employment info, and the like. Nothing was left in the apartment that I wouldn’t mind losing.
The bookstore was in an old building made from weathered Austin stone, a series of small rooms filled with paperbacks and worn carpet.
I found Piper in the erotica section, alone. She was sitting in an easy chair, reading a paperback edition of a Robert Crais detective novel.
“Took you long enough.” She closed the book.
“What happened?” I picked up a worn copy of The Sensuous Woman.
“The smoke bomb went off, I ran to the warehouse,” she said. “Only it was full of guys in blue windbreakers.”
I nodded.
“There was a fire exit on the side. We missed it when we came in. The girl and I went out that way.”
“What happened to her?”
Piper closed her eyes, and a wave of fatigue washed across her face.
“The girl? Well, she didn’t think much of escaping with me. Packs a mean right hook.”
“Ouch.”
“It was brushy on that side of the building.” She sighed. “I lost her. My phone got broken, too.”
A young man in dreadlocks and a Che Guevara T-shirt came into the room. He looked around for a moment and then left.
“There were about a zillion guys in windbreakers out there.” Piper hugged herself. “I ran down the alley and hid. Made my way here on foot for a while and then caught a cab.”
“The windbreakers were DEA contractors, Paynelowe’s people.” I filled her in on what had gone down from my end. Told her about the interview with the Dallas homicide detectives and the name of the woman, Eva Ramirez. Relayed the information about the fifty-thousand-dollar bounty and the trial in West Texas of the cartel bigwig.
“So this woman is the only person who can clear us of killing those two hoods?” Piper said. “Clear me, since it was my gun the crazy dude used.”
I nodded.
“And we lost the shipment and all that money?”
“Yep.” I sat down in the chair next to hers.
“We’re screwed eight ways to Sunday.” She rubbed her eyes.
“That we are.”
Neither of us spoke for a few moments. Then Piper said, “This morning, I got an email about the Tucson office needing Border Patrol agents.” She frequented the message boards and Internet sites people like us used to find work. “Two-fifty a day plus a discount at Holiday Inn.” She paused. “Come with me, Jon. Let’s get out of Texas for a while.”
The Dallas Police would inevitably put out a nationwide APB for us over the two dead thugs. But we both had second, almost-legitimate IDs that would let us work as contractors. For a while.
“Let’s think this through,” I said. “Running away won’t fix anything.”
“It’ll fix it for a while,” she said. “Maybe you and I could find something different by then. Maybe the witness, this Eva whatever, will turn up.”
“I don’t know.” I frowned. “You ever been to Arizona in the summer?”
She didn’t speak. She pressed her lips together, a jumble of emotions sweeping across her face.
“Going away together to see all the kids you sponsored.” I shook my head. “That was one thing. But we need to clear this mess up before we just run off to Arizona.”
“So it’s okay to run off with me when the times are good?” She arched an eyebrow. “But when the going gets a little rough, you need to think about it?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Am I that damaged?” She shook her head. “You won’t even commit in order get out of the crosshairs?” A long pause. “I’m gonna catch a Greyhound day after tomorrow.”
“It’s not you. There’s just—” I stopped, no more words to come that would make sense.
She stood and left. I followed. A handful of customers browsed in the front of the store. We walked past the cashier’s stand, and no one paid us any mind.
Outside, we paused on the front steps as the heat and humidity swirled around us.
“The Tahoe’s around on the side.” I pointed. “Let’s get some food and find a place to—” I stopped talking as a pale yellow Bentley pulled into the space facing us, and a man with a buzz c
ut and a bushy Fu Manchu mustache jumped out of the passenger side.
Tommy, Sinclair’s flunky.
He held a pistol pressed against his thigh, out of view from most passersby. He surveyed the parking lot and then tapped the window of the $200,000 car.
Sinclair hefted his bulk from behind the wheel of the Bentley.
“How could you screw up something that easy?” The fat man propped his elbows up on the door frame and roof. “I practically drew you a map.”
“The warehouse,” I said. “What was your angle on that anyway?”
“Take down a shipment of stolen pills, all you had to do.” He rolled his eyes. “You’re DEA agents for Pete’s sake. That’s what you do, ain’t it?”
I didn’t say anything. This wasn’t about pills or other contraband.
“Get in the backseat.” Tommy pointed to the ultraexpensive auto with his free hand.
“How did you find us?” Piper asked.
“We’re the po-lice,” Tommy said. “Now get in the car.”
Across the street, the parking lot of the Luby’s was full of Dallas PD vehicles, early dinner for the evening shift.
We were armed, but Tommy had the drop on us and there didn’t seem much sense in starting a gun battle on a busy public thoroughfare. Besides, the car was air-conditioned.
Piper and I got in the rear.
Sinclair got behind the wheel. Tommy sat in the passenger side and aimed the pistol at me between the two front seats.
Sinclair sighed and turned the AC to high. “Jon, if there was an Olympic Dumbass Team, you’d be captain.”
“Nice car,” I said. “Is ‘Baby Diarrhea Yellow’ a custom color, or did they have one on the lot?”
“You have done a whole lot in one day,” he said. “You have pissed off an entire Mexican drug cartel, me, and the DEA.”
Tommy chuckled.
“And that, my little friend, is a spicy enchilada.” He put his hands on the wheel, drummed his fingers. The sunlight glinted off the diamond-crusted Rolex on his wrist. “Oh, and let’s not forget the district attorney who’s gonna indict you over those two dead hoods.”
“We didn’t kill anybody,” Piper said. “Unfortunately.”
“Jon, your daddy and me go way back.” Sinclair ignored her. “We stood down a bunch of Bandidos on the county line this one time. He saved my bacon, truth be told.”
The Bandidos were a motorcycle gang, a Texas version of Hell’s Angels.
“Your daddy was good police,” Sinclair said. “You were too, so they tell me, before you went postal on that fed.”
I didn’t reply.
“So that’s the only reason you and me are having a civil conversation right now.”
“You don’t give a damn about the shipment.” I decided to state the obvious. “You’re after the witness. Eva Ramirez.”
“Bingo.” He touched his nose. “And now, because you screwed up, she is on the loose somewhere in our fair city.”
“Not to worry,” I said. “Pretty sure those Paynelowe guys are gonna find her.”
Neither Sinclair nor the goon spoke. The atmosphere in the car grew chilly.
Piper looked at me and shrugged.
“That would be bad, Jon.” Sinclair’s tone was soft, hard to hear. “Very, very bad.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You’re gonna find her, Jon. You’re gonna use your federal badge and track her down, and then you’re gonna call Tommy, so we can come get her. We clear on that?”
“Is now a good time to talk about payment for this little service?” Piper said. “I’m thinking a hundred K. Jon, what’s your number?”
Sinclair shifted his gaze to my partner. “You remind me of a stripper I used to know. She thought she was funny, too. Had a big time when I had to cut her down to size.”
Tommy chuckled.
“As I was saying.” Sinclair turned back to me. “You find her and then call me.”
“Piper’s got a point,” I said. “What’s in it for us?”
Sinclair didn’t respond. The back of his neck grew red.
“She’s the only person who can clear us for killing those two guys,” I said.
“A video tape,” Tommy said. “We get her, and we’ll let her do a video that says you two weren’t involved.”
Sinclair clenched the wheel, knuckles white. After a few moments he nodded.
“You’ve got a day or so before the DA issues a warrant,” Tommy said. “So you better make good time.”
“If I knew where your old man was.” Sinclair spoke in a whisper. “I’d spell it out just for him about how important it is that you cooperate with me on this issue. You get my meaning?”
I weighed my options, which spanned the gamut from zero to nothing.
“And don’t think about going to the US Marshals or the DA with her neither. Or that prissy boss of yours, Phil DeGroot.” Sinclair shook his head. “I got eyes and ears everywhere.”
Piper and I looked at each other but didn’t say anything.
Sinclair popped the locks. “Now get the hell out of my car.”
They watched Jon and Piper walk around the side of the building to where their government-issued Tahoe was parked.
Sinclair was still behind the wheel, staring at the two people he’d just threatened.
Tommy said, “They’re gonna find her and run straight to Phil DeGroot.”
Sinclair nodded.
“What should we do?” Tommy asked. “Can’t get any of our people involved.”
“We get a hold of DeGroot,” Sinclair said. “Explain how he really needs to cooperate.”
Tommy’s cell was sitting on the console. It rang, an out-of-state area code, Maryland.
“Who are these people that keep calling?” Tommy punched the End button. “Wish you’d get a cell phone like everybody else.”
Sinclair stifled a smart-ass reply. The anger he’d felt for Jon Cantrell dissipated, replaced by fear. The number was associated with Hawkins. Nothing good could come from Hawkins right now.
“That call’s about some other stuff I’ve been working on. None of your business.” Sinclair licked his lips. “Bunch of goddamn Yankees.”
“They’re actually not Yankees in Maryland,” Tommy said. “I think that was considered a border state during the Civil War.”
“When the fuck did you go to college?” Sinclair wiped his sweaty palms on his pants.
Tommy didn’t say anything. He rocked slightly in his seat, frowning.
“Something else on your mind, Einstein?” Sinclair slammed the transmission into reverse.
“DeGroot is a federal agent. A real one.” Tommy buckled his seat belt. “We can’t be messing with a real live fed.”
Sinclair accelerated. “We ain’t got no choice.”
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE -
Piper and I got in the Tahoe and left the bookstore parking lot.
Neither of us spoke. Piper used my cell phone to check for messages about the Tucson job.
I headed toward the city center. We needed more information and we needed it fast.
Downtown Dallas had once been thriving, luxury hotels and Victorian buildings interspersed with the occasional brothel and gambling den. The vice went underground at the turn of the last century, after which came the flight to suburbia that left the concrete canyons barren, populated by the dregs of society—the bums and drunks and junkies—and the lawyers who fed off the work from the courthouse.
Now tastes had changed, and most of the area was fashionable, an up-and-coming residential neighborhood full of loft apartments, expensive restaurants, and nightclubs.
And one holdover from another era, a place called the Main Street Dash, the kind of bar Dean Martin might have visited if he wanted to go slumming. The establishment wasn’t actually on Main Street, but on a side alley a few blocks from city hall and the freeway, next to a soup kitchen and a boarded-up pawnshop.
I parked across the street near where an obese wom
an in torn hose and a miniskirt leaned against a building. Piper and I got out.
A neon sign flickered over the entryway to the bar, but the D had burned out totally, as had a portion of the H, so if you didn’t look too closely it appeared to read MAIN STREET ASS.
I opened the door, and we stepped into the Dash.
Monday evening, the dinner hour, and the place was nearly full, most of the crowd in their fifties or beyond, or maybe just appearing to be that age due to a lot of city miles.
The patrons were a mix of blue and white collars, all of them bleary-eyed, hard-core yet functional drunks. A couple of uniformed cops worked on mugs of beer and shots. A handful of people looked like they’d recently been paroled after serving twenty to life.
In the middle was a horseshoe bar, tended by a peroxide blond old enough to be Dolly Parton’s mother. Faded shag carpet covered the walls, dotted with framed photos of B-list celebrities from the sixties.
I let my eyes adjust to the dim lights and my ears to the laughter and clinking glasses.
An old Marvin Gaye song played on the jukebox, “Let’s Get It On.”
The cops ignored us.
I leaned on the bar, spoke to Dolly Parton. “Is Milo around?”
Piper flanked out, moving to the far side of the room.
“What do you want with Mister Miller?” She peeled a piece of nicotine gum.
I badged her.
She nodded once, stuck the gum in her mouth, and picked up a phone.
I walked to the other side of the horseshoe, sat down near Piper, a barstool between us.
Two minutes later, the door leading to the back opened and a man with scraggly red hair and matching beard stepped into the room.
Milo Miller was built like the kid always picked last for dodgeball, short and scrawny.
The cops sat up a little straighter. Dolly poured a little quicker. The ex-cons backed away.
Except to those who knew him, Milo Miller was about as threatening as a lamppost.
I knew him very well, and I was fearful.
The last time we’d met in person he’d been dressed like Vanilla Ice, but less tasteful.
Now he wore the garb of a Hasidic Jew, black suit with matching wide-brimmed fedora, white shirt, no tie. Curly sideburns and thick glasses with heavy black frames.
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