by Manuel Ramos
“Wha-a-at?” Ice said. “We have to drill holes in ice that we’ll be standing on?”
“What’d you think?” I said. “People do it all the time up there. There’ll be others on the lake, fishing. What we’ll really be doing is watching for Luis and Contreras. We’ll be okay.”
Shoe spoke up again. “Jerome made a good point. We don’t have any equipment.”
I nodded. “I think that means we go up tomorrow, find one of the fishing equipment rental places, and get what we need. We spend the night, then head out to the lake early. Luis can tell us what time he expects to be in Frisco.”
Corrine moved towards me. “You should rent motel rooms now. You probably won’t get much, but you won’t need much, right?”
We all nodded.
“How will you pay for all this?”
They looked at me.
“Hell, I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe Luis?”
Corrine walked to the desk near the window. She pulled out her wallet and removed a credit card. She handed the card to me. “Here’s how I can help. Don’t use it for booze.”
30 [Luis]
gone is my youth
I look in the mirror every day
and let it tell me the truth
I headed to Frisco early on Saturday morning. The Denver sky was a pure blue canopy lit with sunshine and no clouds to block the view. Spring was working its way to Colorado, which meant the city stretched in warmth while the mountains huddled in a blizzard. And the next day, the reverse could be true.
The kindest thing Rosa said about what I planned to do was that I was an idiot. “An old man idiot,” were her exact words. She ordered me out of her house when I explained what was going on. I called her one more time before I hit the road, but she didn’t answer and I didn’t leave a message. Meanwhile, Gus and a few of his friends were well on their way with their part of the scheme. They worked with Batista. Ana waited at her house for word about how we were doing. We all agreed that a Denver cop didn’t need to be more involved than she already was.
I wore lined Carhartt jeans, boots and a sweater. I had a parka, gloves, scarf and a thermos of coffee. GPS—set for the storage outfit address. Cell phone—charged. All the tools were ready. I felt okay, considering that I was an old man idiot. “In the old days . . . ,” I started to tell myself. I stopped before I got carried away with too many what-used-to-be’s. I just hoped I was as prepared as I tried to show.
I also had my Walther PPK .380 in the glove box. I hadn’t fired it in years. It was clean, gleaming and loaded. I gambled it would work if I had to use it.
I made a production out of preparing to leave on the trip and then of loading my car with an obviously empty suitcase. When I was ready, I stood on my front steps, unfolded the map and stared at it for two minutes. I tried to be conspicuous, then I drove out of Denver, speed-limit slow.
I periodically looked in my rearview mirror for any sign that I was being followed, but the highway was so busy that I couldn’t say for sure. Several cars trailed me for miles up the steep grade of Floyd Hill. An accident near the exit to the Central City Parkway kept me stalled for a half-hour. My car idled but my heart pumped like a drunken drummer trying to solo. When traffic finally moved again, I’d chugged most of the coffee and realized I needed to find a restroom. Talk about an old man.
Construction work a few miles up the highway stalled me again. I felt pain from my distended bladder. When I accepted that I would have to wet my pants, the flagman released us and the tenmile line of cars moved forward. Around a bend I saw an exit with a gas station sign and I found relief. So far, the biggest threat had come from my own bodily functions.
By the time I made it through the Eisenhower tunnel, a thin blanket of snow covered the steep hills on the side of the highway. At first, the flakes were big and lazy, sparkling in the white sun against the water sky. I raced past Silverthorne and Dillon until the pretty snow changed into a thin curtain of ugly sleet. I slowed for Exit 203, followed the roundabout, past the Walmart, and eventually I was on Summit Boulevard, on the edge of Lake Dillon and the postcard-perfect town of Frisco.
I needed more coffee. At least, that’s how I rationalized my delay. I turned onto Main Street and found a coffee shop. I sat in the car for a few minutes after I parked. I thought about Rosa and whether she was right that I was an old idiot. I sat in the shop for thirty more minutes. I drank straight-up coffee without sugar, cream or anything else. I watched the snow fall and build up on the already icy streets. Thoughts of the dying María Contreras, a bleeding Rosa and a burning house played with my head.
The GPS took me to a business park only a hundred yards or so from the shore of Lake Dillon. I parked on pavement near a shop that offered snowmobile tours and rentals, turned off the motor and checked my surroundings. Gray and black clouds hung low across the mountains. A long squat brown building had a sign that said it was Alpine Storage and Security. There were maybe a half-dozen other cars in the parking lot, and a banged-up, faded pickup at the red doorway to the storage building. I calculated that the door was to the office, and from there a hallway must lead to the various storage units in the building. Maybe they were in the back, behind the building.
I carried the key to the unit that Gus found in María’s house when he searched it after she died. We’d finally figured out why the key was important.
I texted Gus: “I’m going in.” That’s when I saw that I’d missed calls from Gus while I thought about fate and luck in the coffee shop. The phone was buried in one of the deep pockets of my parka, smothered. Too late now, I thought.
I slipped on my gloves, wrapped the scarf around my neck, put the gun in the waistband of my pants, covered it with my sweater and left my car. I didn’t think I needed the parka. I felt like an old man idiot.
31 [Gus]
many fish bites if ya got good bait
The first part of our plan went off like clockwork. We made the trip up the mountains on Friday without incident. Five of us huddled in the rented Suburban: Jerome, Shoe, Ice, Batista, me. We’d arranged for rooms and the rental equipment for fishing. Some of the time, it felt like we were just a bunch of regular guys on our way to a weekend of beer and fishing. I expected country music on the radio. Then I’d see the cold stare of Batista in my rearview mirror and the rifles stretched across the laps of Shoe and Ice.
What we hadn’t counted on was a surprise late-winter snowstorm.
The guy at the fishing equipment place—Doc’s Fishing Supply—let me know that the weather didn’t look good for Saturday. His name tag said “Bennett.” He had everything we needed piled up on the floor of his shop.
“I understand if you boys want to cancel,” Bennett said.
He’d smiled too broadly when we noisily walked into his place of business, and that set off my radar. Maybe it was the accumulated tension of the ride and going over in my head the hundreds of details that could derail our plan, but I didn’t like Bennett from the minute I walked in his shop.
I pulled out my wallet. It held the cash we’d taken out of Corrine’s ATM card. “We’re good. We may not catch too many fish but we want the experience. Know what I mean?”
“Not saying anything about the fishing. More about whether you boys will freeze to death. It gets mighty cold out there on the lake when the wind blows and the snow hits like birdshot. You sure you want to do this?”
Inwardly, I smiled when he repeated the question everyone else had asked me. I didn’t like it that he kept calling us boys, but I had to let it pass. We didn’t want to attract more attention than we absolutely had to, and I figured a wrestling match between out-of-place city homies and a country ignoramus might bring on just such attention.
“Yeah, we’re sure.”
“Okay. Your funeral,” he said easily. “If a Wildlife Manager asks for your licenses, you have them, right?”
I nodded.
He rang up the bill. “You know how to use the ice auger? The poles? The heat
er? Any questions?”
Ice and Shoe picked up what they could and then wobbled out the door.
“Nah. Thanks,” I said. “If we got questions later, on the ice, I guess we can call you?”
The man laughed. “Sure. Give me a call. My number’s on your receipt. If you got any questions at all.” He sounded amused, like he was in on a joke where we were the punchlines.
I picked up a pole and fishing tackle. “Looks like a toy, don’t it?”
“Oh, it’s real. It’ll work. You know how to use it?”
I walked away. “I got it.”
I threw the stuff in the back of the van. “You hear that guy?” Ice said. “He thinks we’re gonna freeze.”
“Hope he doesn’t turn us in to the wardens or whoever it is that might check us out,” Shoe said. “We don’t need that hassle.”
We had licenses. We’d bought them online and carried proof of payment. But I agreed with Shoe. We wanted no interruptions, not even from a friendly game warden who was only curious about how our fishing luck was holding out.
We checked into the Ski Palace Motel and ate pizza and drank beer at Greco’s, a friendly enough mountain bar. Pitchers of beer chased sausage and pepperoni. The food, the motel and the rest of that cold night passed by in a blur of anxious thinking about the next day.
We woke up around six, found a coffee shop, chugged caffeine and then began our play.
The lake was a few minutes away in our van. I liked driving the Suburban. It was big and hefty, powerful. I was glad Corrine suggested it. She said we needed a real mountain car if we wanted to pull off our masquerade.
We didn’t expect Luis for another half-hour or so. We set up camp on the shore, put our equipment together, tested that the auger had juice and then began our hike on the ice. Batista carried the auger—basically a hand drill to cut holes in the ice for our lines—while the rest of us hauled the poles, bait, heaters and folding chairs. We picked a spot away from other fishermen and women, but about the same distance from the shore. The ice appeared okay, although when I first stepped on the ice, I heard growling and squeaking. I jumped back on the shore.
“That’s just the ice freezing more,” Jerome said. “Means the ice is safe.”
I didn’t know where Jerome picked up his fishing knowledge, but the guy usually knew a little about anything and everything. He led the way and drilled holes while the rest of us jumped at each sound and tried to not think about the frigid water under our feet and the whipping snow blowing in our faces. I called Luis. No answer. I assumed he was busy driving.
When at last we were ready to actually fish, I looked at my watch and realized that we had been on the ice an hour and ten minutes. I looked over at the storage building, sitting against a backdrop of mountains covered in snow and clouds, but didn’t see anything that wasn’t there when we arrived. But I also knew that I hadn’t kept my full attention on the building.
I called Luis. No answer again.
I walked over to Batista, who sat in one of the chairs, facing toward the shore and the building.
“You see anything?” I asked.
“No. But, there was some time when we first got here that I didn’t have full eyes on the place. And now, with the snow, it’s difficult to see much. I don’t think anyone came or went, but if someone entered from the back, we’d never know it. Is there a back door?”
I kneeled down on the ice next to him. “There’s a double door that allows access to the storage units from the back—for bigger items like a table or a couch. But you have to go through the front door to get the guy to open the back door.”
Batista shrugged. “How do you know this?”
“I checked out Alpine Storage, on the Internet. I looked at everything about this place, this town, on a computer. Even saw pictures of the units. And the guy who’s usually working at the units. His name’s Lionel Gussler. Looks a little like the mountain man in Doc’s place.”
“But it’s not impossible that someone could come up from behind and be let in through the back doors, and we wouldn’t have seen him?”
I nodded. “Not impossible, no. Contreras could have phoned Gussler and had him open the back doors without ever coming through the front.”
“Móntez is late. Have you heard from him?”
“No. I’m worried. I called him but no answer. Maybe I should go check on him.”
That was the minute when the panic hit. We’d been on the ice longer than we expected. Luis was late and he hadn’t called or answered his phone. Sam could be in the storage business waiting for Luis. Batista stood up.
“I’m going over there,” he said. “Puede que sea demasiado tarde.” Yeah, we could be too late.
I was about to join him when we saw the State Wildlife Division truck driving along the shore. The truck’s headlights were on. It stopped on the shore near us. Batista walked away from me to the shore, but not towards the truck.
“Here comes a warden,” I said to the others. “Keep cool.”
I turned my attention to the game warden who jogged straight for me.
“Hello there,” the warden said. “Kind of snowy for fishing, ain’t it?” He waved his hand at the other fishing parties. They were all packing up, calling it a day.
“Yeah, we thought we’d give it a shot. Guess we’ll head home.”
The warden stood in front of me. He looked over our equipment. “Bennett Smiley over at Doc’s told me you guys might be in trouble. Said you didn’t look like you were really prepared for the weather. Asked if I’d check. You okay?”
That damn Bennett.
“Yeah, sure. But you’re right. We should head in.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Batista, who had reached the edge of the lake. “Your friend seems to have already left.”
“Yeah. He got cold. He’s gonna sit in the truck while we get the gear.”
“You guys have any luck?” He nodded at Ice, Shoe and Jerome.
My phone went off. It was a text from Luis. I peered over the warden’s shoulder and saw Luis’ car parked in the parking lot. I didn’t see Batista.
“Uh, nothing really. We just threw in our lines.” I made a move like I wanted to get on with packing up.
“I’d like to see your license.”
My mouth tightened and I almost told him to go to hell.
“Sure, no problem.” I reached for my wallet in the inside pocket of the heavy coat Corrine had bought me for the trip. I wasn’t doing anything illegal, but the warden affected me the same as happened whenever I encountered any law enforcement officer. LEOs and I didn’t mix. I felt guilty just talking to a cop, any kind of cop, and that included Ana.
“Gus! Gus!” Batista shouted from somewhere on the shore.
A gunshot echoed from the shore, past us and across the lake. We all ducked in reflex, including the warden. Three dark figures struggled in the distance. The warden looked at them, then at me. He unsnapped his holster flap and pulled his weapon. I ran to Batista. The warden followed behind me. He didn’t holler for me to stop, so I kept running.
Batista and two men were rolling on the snow, fists flying. Two large handguns lay on the frozen ground. I grabbed one of the men and yanked him off Batista. He looked surprised, threw a punch, missed. I leaned back on my heels and hit him in the face. He fell back on the ground.
The warden shoved his gun into the back of the man sitting on Batista. The man held up his hands. The man I’d punched also lifted his hands.
Batista lay on the ground, bleeding from a wound on the side of his neck. My boots squished through a mix of red snow and mud.
“We have to get him to a hospital,” I shouted at the warden. I rushed my words. “Federal officer. Mexico.” I pointed at the storage building. “Fugitive.”
We heard another shot, this one from inside the building. I waved my hand at Batista and then at the warden. I ran to the building.
32 [Luis]
send lawyers, guns and money
th
e shit has hit the fan
The sleet hit when I opened the car door. The wind cut through me as I realized the difference between snowfall in the city and the mountains. I pushed against the wind. I walked the several yards to the red door, regretting that I hadn’t taken the time to put on my heavier coat.
I opened the door. I stepped into a small office with a metal desk, a crooked chair and a lumpy divan in front of the desk. No one was in the office.
I looked at the key—#143 was etched in the metal.
I walked past the desk into a well-lit hallway that stretched the length of the building. The hallway was clear. Doors lined up on both sides of the hallway. The limited space between the doors meant that the units had to be small. The first door to my left had metallic numbers attached to it: #100. I walked until I came to #143, about halfway down the hall. The white metal door opened when I used the key. I switched on a light. An empty cardboard box about the size of a fifty-inch TV screen sat in the middle of the narrow room.
I heard something behind me, a door opening. Too late, I turned.
The bartender from the Roundhouse Bar stood in front of me. Contreras’ right hand held a handgun, a revolver with a snub nose. His left hand grabbed me and threw me against the wall.
“Where is it?” he shouted.
Behind him I could see the open door to the unit across the hall, and on the floor of the unit the crumpled body of a bearded man. I assumed he was the security company’s man.
“What?” I said.
He slapped me with his empty hand and my head snapped to the left. I bit my tongue and tasted blood.
“The money. You know what I want.”
“I don’t . . .” Before I could finish he hit me with the gun. He let go of me and I fell back into the narrow storage unit and against the box. The box flew across the concrete floor.
The gun opened a cut above my ear. I struggled against dizziness.
Contreras reached down to pick me up. I kicked at his knee and he twisted to the floor. I kicked again, at the gun, and smashed his fingers. He dropped the pistol. I dove for it but he kicked it away, then slugged me. I felt like I was about to pass out. I rolled across the floor and pulled my gun from my pants. I aimed it at him, hoping he would stop. He rushed at me. I wasn’t breathing. My heart banged against my chest. The gun felt weightless in my hand.