Dead South (A Bryson Wilde Thriller / Read in Any Order)

by R. J. Jagger

  Wilde wasn’t impressed.

  “Leave Dent alone. Just lay low like I keep telling you to do.”

  Ten minutes later he was behind the wheel of the pickup with the front end pointed south and Jori-Rey slid over next to him on the seat.

  Within a mile the town disappeared.

  They were back in the middle of nowhere, heading deeper and deeper into it.

  Wilde’s gut churned.

  They’d make El Paso by the end of the day.

  He couldn’t put off not having a plan for much longer.

  He needed to figure out what to do.

  “You’re thinking,” Jori-Rey said.

  “Can you light me a smoke?”

  “Sure.”

  Wilde dragged on it until it was half gone and said, “I don’t think you should pretend to be Sudden Dance.”

  “Wilde, we’ve been over this—”

  “I know but Sudden Dance lived with the guy day in and day out for years and couldn’t crack where he stashed the daughter,” he said. “The chance of the new Sudden Dance doing better is zero.”

  She frowned.

  He had a point.

  “There’s something else,” Wilde said. “I keep picturing you in bed with him. I don’t like what I see.”

  “I’m not going to let him touch me if that’s what you’re talking about.”

  “How will you stop it?”

  “I’ll figure something out. Don’t worry about it. Just be around, be my backup.” She paused and added, “You’re going to need to blend in. We got to get you out of that suit. Are you going to meet with that lawyer in El Paso?”

  He blew smoke.

  “It’s a catch-22,” he said. “If I do, I should be able to get some information out of him. He’ll see my face though. That’s the rub.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said. “We’ll get some photos of someone else and put them in the briefcase. Then we’ll have it dropped off by a cabbie or something like that. Then we’ll head across the river and see what happens.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “Have you got something better?”

  “Yeah, anything. How about you hole up at a hotel and I’ll handle it?”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I will.”

  She cocked her head.

  “You’ll never get anywhere,” she said. “You might be able to kill Rojo if you get real lucky but that’s about it. That won’t get me Maria.”

  Wilde went to argue.

  No words came out.

  “We’ll see.”

  “We have to get in close to him,” she said. “I can do that in the first ten seconds. You couldn’t do it in a hundred years.”

  “Like I said, we’ll see.”

  “There’s nothing to see,” she said. “The only question at this point is how do we get photos of someone else to put in the briefcase? He’ll have to be someone who looks at least something like you. He’ll have to be a gringo.”

  “Cute.”

  “Get used to it,” she said. “That’s what you’re going to be as soon as we cross the Rio.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m a little scared. You’ll have my back, right?”

  He returned the squeeze.

  “I like your front better, but yes.”

  The miles clicked off.

  The scenery unfolded scene after scene, then in a rut with more and more of the same as the horizon line got farther and flatter and every sage got to be the same size and color.

  The truck occasionally protested with a stutter or a click but never to the point of shutting itself down. Wilde didn’t trust it but had to concede it was actually getting the job done.

  Blondie.

  With any luck she’d been towed by now and not tricked into rotting at the side of the road.

  He couldn’t get the image out of his mind, the image of Jori-Rey in bed with some violent, self-absorbed jerk. If the guy forced himself on her, he would view it as merely taking what was his. He wouldn’t view it as something worse. For that reason, Wilde couldn’t kill him, not for that act alone in any event. He’d want to but he wouldn’t be able to justify it.

  Or could he?

  He narrowed his eyes.

  Jori-Rey felt good at his side.

  She felt right.

  She felt like air in his lungs.

  A mile later she tossed a butt out the window and said, “I need to use the facilities.”

  Wilde drifted to a stop but left the engine running.

  Jori-Rey headed for a bush.

  “Be right back,” she said.

  “Watch for snakes.”

  A light breeze slithered through the air.

  A hawk floated on a thermal.

  The land was flat.

  The horizon was far.

  The sun beat down with the force of a thousand maniac matches.

  Wilde wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

  Something caught his eye, a distant movement. A vehicle was coming from behind, a long ways off, five miles or more, nothing more than a dot at this point but heading this way.

  His chest tightened.

  “Hurry up,” he shouted.

  33

  Day Eight

  August 10, 1952

  Saturday Night

  It was after dark when they came up on El Paso. Two miles out of town Jori-Rey said, “Pull over for a minute, will you?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m scared. I’m not sure I like our plan anymore.”

  Wilde drifted to the side of the road and killed the engine. Jori-Rey pulled him to the center of the bench, pulled her skirt up and straddled his lap. Her face was close. Her chest pressed against his.

  “I’m sorry, Wilde.”

  “About what?”

  “I can’t do it,” she said. “I can’t save you. I’m too scared. I’m afraid Rojo will kill me. I know that’s the best way to get him off your back—to make him think Sudden Dance is still alive—but I don’t think I can go through with it.”

  “Good.”

  “You’re not disappointed?”

  “I never wanted you to do it in the first place,” he said.

  “Maybe I’ll be able to do it tomorrow,” she said. “Right now though, just the thought terrifies me.”

  “No, not tomorrow. Not ever.”

  They made love; slow, rocking love.

  Nothing had ever felt better.

  Nothing ever would.

  The new plan emerged quickly. They decided to bypass the El Paso lawyer Lester Trench, at least for now, and head straight into Paso del Norte, which was the continuation of El Paso except on the Mexican side of the Rio.

  El Paso was tame, comparatively speaking.

  Paso del Norte was the Yin to that Yang, replete with lowly pleasures manifested in bars, music, brothels, casinos, sin and the occasional sound of a fist landing on a face; a magnet for Americans who needed to escape from their brown bag lives, if even for just a few hours or days or weeks.

  Crossing the border was easy.

  It was nothing more than getting waved through.

  Come on in.

  Screw our women.

  Drink our Tequila.

  Give us your money.

  Jori-Rey wore sunglasses and kept her head down. No one gave her a second glance.

  They checked into a hotel at the end of the strip, a rat-under-the-bed place called El Bonita, with Wilde registering solo and signing no register because there wasn’t one, and then sneaking Jori-Rey in the back way.

  He hunted down food and whiskey, brought it back and paced as he ate.

  “So what’s Rojo look like? Do you know?”

  The woman fumbled through her purse and pulled out a photo.

  “Jori-Rey mailed this to me. It’s two years old.”

  Wilde studied it.

  He didn’t like what he saw.

  The man had a rough, attractive face, framed in t
hick black hair that fell to his shoulders. His shirt was open, displaying a carved taut chest designed for Friday night fights. It was filled with tattoos, the most prominent of which was a woman straddling a snake. The head coiled up next to hers, looking out, with fangs glaring. The woman’s face was familiar.

  “Is that Sudden Dance?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the snake I assume is supposed to be him?”

  “Yes. He’s protecting her.”

  “From what?”

  “I don’t know. You, I guess.”

  Wilde changed into the clothes they picked up earlier; dungarees, black boots and a black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He roughed his hair up and let it flop down. Then he set a book of matches on fire, lit two cigarettes, handed one to Jori-Rey, and rolled the pack into his right sleeve.

  “You stay here. Do not under any circumstances venture out.”

  He didn’t have to say why.

  Someone might think she was Sudden Dance. The word could spread to Rojo.

  She gave him a kiss.

  “You look nice. Don’t go breaking any hearts.”

  “Never.”

  “If I’m sleeping when you come back, wake me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “Promise me again.”

  He downed what was left in his whiskey glass and squeezed her long and tight.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll wake you.”

  “Don’t forget.”

  Then he was gone.

  34

  Day Eight

  August 10, 1952

  Saturday Night

  Dens of decadence lined the strip, loud, pulsing and crowded, hollering with drunken abandon and drumming the warm, muggy night with an edgy beat. Signs flashed; Casino, Bar, Rooms-For-Rent, Live Band, Pool Tables, Happy Hour. Bodies roamed, packing the streets. Painted women hunted prey, strutting their honey and working their come-ons; Wilde waved them off, one after another.

  Most said, “Three dollar.”

  One dark haired beauty in a short red dress gave him a long look up and down, felt his bicep, put her arms around his neck, laid a lipstick kiss on his lips and said, “Free for you.”

  “Another time.”

  “How about now?”

  “I have to meet a man about a horse.”

  “Forget the horse. There are more fun things to ride.”

  He smiled.

  “Next time.”

  It was Saturday night.

  The game was on.

  The devil was here.

  So was Rojo.

  Wilde wandered in and out of joints. Lots of men looked like Rojo but weren’t, not when he got close and gave them a good peripheral look. He didn’t give up. He kept hunting. What he would do when he found the man, he wasn’t sure. The first step was to find him, to get a good look at him and figure out what he was up against.

  He was on the street figuring out his next move when arms wrapped around his stomach from behind. He turned to find the red dress.

  “Still free,” she said.

  He studied her.

  Then he grabbed her hand and said, “Let me buy you a drink.”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you ever heard of a man named Rojo?”

  “Yeah. I don’t like him.”

  “Where does he drink?”

  Her eyes flicked up the street and landed on a flashing green sign, El Dog Tequila.

  “Up that way.”

  Wilde pulled a ten out of his wallet and handed it to her. “I don’t want you to lose money while you’re with me. Is this good for an hour or two?”

  She studied it.

  “You don’t want sex?”

  “No, just hang on my arm.”

  She stuffed the bill in her bra and rubbed her stomach on his.

  “My name is Rio.”

  “Joe,” Wilde said.

  El Dog Tequila was a dog all right, a loud, packed, wild, drunken dog. The women were wanton, the men were rough and the light was dark. A band on a low stage at the far end cranked out inebriated notes and sang in Mexican. They weren’t bad except for the drummer, who was an affront to every beat known to man.

  Wilde pushed to the bar with Rio behind, her hand on his belt to keep from getting separated.

  He kept a peripheral eye out for Rojo but didn’t scout the room.

  He didn’t want to look like he was looking for someone.

  Rio rubbed her chest on him and hung close.

  She smelled nice.

  A brown bottle in Wilde’s hand and a double shot of Tequila in Rio’s, they pushed through the crowd towards the band, where the cause of the problem became apparent. The drummer was drunk, sloppy drunk, barely able to stay on the throne. Halfway through the song the inevitable happened.

  He fell off.

  The rest of the band played for a few bars, waiting for him to get up.

  It didn’t happen.

  The music stopped.

  The singer poured beer on the man’s face and got a reaction, but not much, not enough to even make the guy open his eyes. He curled into a ball; that was it.

  Wilde had a crazy thought, told himself not to do it but couldn’t stop. He handed the beer to Rio, headed over and picked the drumsticks off the floor, then took a position at the kit.

  He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and dangled it from his lips. He twirled the sticks and said, “Let’s go.”

  They stared at him.

  Then the singer howled and turned to the crowd.

  Wilde beat the sticks together four times and then the music exploded on the one beat. He didn’t know the song but figured the pattern out good enough to lay in the fills at the right time and to change from the hi-hats to the ride where he should. At the end the bass player gave him a cue and they all ended together, remarkably clean.

  The crowd howled.

  Rio came over, planted a sloppy kiss on his face and handed him a fresh beer. He took a long swallow, set it on the floor and looked at the bass player. The man nodded his head four times indicating the tempo, which was slightly faster than the last song.

  Wilde beat the sticks.

  The music took off.

  Five songs later Wilde spotted what he came here to spot, Rojo, cutting through the crowd and casting an inquisitive eye at Wilde—a gringo he’d never seen before, playing with the house band. Their eyes locked, just for a fraction of a second, and then broke away as if two tornados colliding.

  The man was bigger than Wilde, six-three or four, and meatier too.

  His arms were pythons.

  His face was strong and manly.

  Two women flanked him, beautiful women, nicely dressed, moving with him as one.

  Three men followed behind.

  They looked like killers on a leash.

  Wilde stayed with the band until the dog closed, not wanting to leave them dry and high. Then he walked a seriously intoxicated Rio to her place—a cheap, one-room flat—got her tucked in, planted a kiss on her cheek, left a second ten on kitchen counter, and headed for home, The Bonita.

  If I’m sleeping when you come back, wake me.

  Okay.

  Promise.

  I promise.

  Promise me again.

  When Wilde got to the hotel, something was wrong. The door wasn’t closed all the way; almost but not quite. It wasn’t latched.

  He pushed it in with his foot.

  The lights were off. The on-now, off-now, blinking of the hotel sign brought the room in and out of a soft blue focus.

  Everything looked normal.

  He stepped in and closed the door.

  “Jori-Rey.”

  No one answered.

  Then an eerie rattling sound came from the bed.

  He flicked on the lights.

  What he saw jolted every fiber of his body.

  35

  Day Eight

  August 10, 1952

 
; Saturday Night

  On the bed was a rattlesnake tethered to a hatchet. A thin leather cord was wrapped around the snake’s body several times and then tied off. The other end was fixed to the hatchet, with three or four feet of separation.

  Jori-Rey wasn’t in the bed, under it, in the closet or in the bathroom.

  She was utterly and absolutely gone.

  The briefcase was gone.

  So was the gun.

  Wilde approached the bed.

  The snake was coiled, bobbing its head in a death trance and shaking its tail to a demonic beat. Its cold lifeless eyes stared into Wilde’s soul with an evil intent.

  Blood was on the pillow, not a lot but enough to jack an image into Wilde’s brain, an image of Jori-Rey fast asleep and then waking when someone entered the room, at first thinking it was Wilde, then realizing it was a stranger with hurt in his eyes. Before she could even sit up the blow came, it came hard, it came with a force that made colors explode in her head before it sucked her into darkness.

  Rojo!

  This was his sick little work.

  Wilde’s chest pounded.

  What to do?

  What to do?

  What to do?

  He couldn’t concentrate, not with the viper the way it was. He pinned the snake’s head under a pillow and kept it immobile while he untied the cord from the body. Then he sandwiched it in the pillow, carried it out behind the hotel far enough into the wild to where it wouldn’t be a bother and let it go.

  Then he headed to Rio’s in the truck, with the hatchet on the seat next to him and a smoke wedged overly tight in his mouth.

  The woman was asleep and not wanting to respond to the pounding, not until it got too loud and too long to ignore. She opened the door, saw it was Wilde and put him in a tight hug.

  Wilde pulled her inside and closed the door.

  He showed her the hatchet and said, “This was in my hotel room when I got back, tied to a rattlesnake.”

  The woman’s face etched with fear.

  “Rojo,” she said. “He’s a hatchet man. That’s his favorite way to kill people. He’s been doing it since he was fourteen; at least that’s the rumor. He does it slow. He chops off this and chops off that. It’s sick, sick stuff.”