South of Evil

by Brian Dunford

  Curtis was moving before he heard the next collision. It was the sound of more stone breaking. He chose the pick. Curtis pushed himself into a corner and aimed for the cracks in the floor. He dug the pick into the ground and pulled.

  They dug and they picked, and when there was just a big pile of dirt and broken rock, Curtis used the shovel. Virgil sat down and caught his breath, but Curtis was possessed. He hauled dirt out of the little room until he realized it was a waste. Then he just threw it. Dirt piled up in the little bathroom. Virgil kicked it out of the doorway. Curtis found himself on his knees, clawing from the ground a rock the size of a bowling ball.

  Curtis didn’t tire. He didn’t notice that he had dirt on his face or in his hair. He didn’t notice that he had dug a pit to his knees. He didn’t notice that Virgil had stopped helping.

  “Curtis!” Virgil said sharply.

  Curtis looked up surprised.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m digging.”

  “It’s not here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look how deep you are.”

  He looked. The pit was now almost to his pockets. It was halfway to his thighs. It was an ugly pit in a tiny room and surrounded by jagged concrete.

  “It’s not here,” Virgil said. He was trying to reason.

  “It’s here somewhere,” said Curtis.

  There was a trigger in Curtis’ mind that he even he didn’t understand. He climbed out of the pit and started toward the girl. He picked the hammer up off the floor.

  “Donde esta el dinero?” he said to her. He swung the hammer and it crashed into the plaster wall. The girl put her hands over her head. Curtis pulled it out with intentional carelessness. He made an even greater mess of the wall. He pulled more away with his hands. There was only stone of the other side. He swung again somewhere else. Then he started on the other walls. He swung the hammer and didn’t stop until one whole wall of the basement wore a wild, crooked grin.

  Virgil and the girl stood next to one another. They both looked frightened.

  “He said he needed men who could work concrete,” was all Curtis could say. It didn’t make sense to anyone else, but he was thinking aloud. He scanned the room. He looked beyond it. He thought he heard Virgil speaking, but he ignored it. He ignored the searing, burning sensation in his shoulders. He ignored the pain in his hands.

  “Concrete,” he said.

  He started to the bulkhead. Curtis didn’t pause, striking the wall in stride. He swung and swung again with the hammer, until chunks of rock fell to the ground and dry brown dirt poured on to his feet. He swung until the air filled with dust. He swung until his arms burned and blood raced through his torso. Then he dug deeper and swung some more.

  One side was gone. He reached into the hole and dragged dirt free. He reached and pulled and felt around in the dark, and when he came back with nothing, he set his sights on the other side.

  “Curtis, let’s get back in the car.”

  He couldn’t swing it so hard to his right. He felt like his arms weren’t working the way they were supposed to work. He couldn’t swing side to side, but he could swing up and down. He unlocked the bulkhead.

  “Curtis, let’s go home. Now.”

  The cold air struck him. It was refreshing. He felt sweat drying on him instantly. He hadn’t realized that it had been a cold night. He thought it had been warm.

  “Ask her in Spanish if she wants to come with us.” Virgil was on the stairs now.

  “I think you should move back.”

  Virgil was off the stairs, level with Curtis, closing distance between them.

  “Curtis, I need you to listen to me. Tell this girl we will not hurt her. Ask her if she wants to leave with us. I want to do the right thing here.”

  The right thing. Curtis thought about an answer. He heard a distinct noise not far away. He’d heard it before, but couldn’t place it. Virgil had heard it too, because he spun around nervously. A part of his brain found a faint memory that recognized the sound of a shotgun chambering a round.

  “Basta!” a voice shouted.

  Curtis was struck in the face by a beam of light. It caught him every bit as off guard as an actual punch. He put his hand to his face. He saw Virgil spin and reach for the gun on his belt. More voices rang out from all around him. They were harsh and foreign. A man came into view, and he was pointing a gun at them.

  His clothes were dark. Curtis saw something familiar. There was a soft twinkling over his heart. It was where his badge was catching the light.

  Others joined, and they began shouting in earnest. “Muestrame tu manos!” one shouted over another. Virgil put his hands over his head, and he didn’t speak Spanish.

  Curtis reached into his pocket.

  “Get your hands up,” yelled Virgil, his own hands held high.

  He could see the figures rushing toward him. He quickly held up his credentials.

  “Soy policia Americana!” he called out to the group. He had his other hand held high displaying his credentials.

  Curtis saw an officer approach from his left. He held a shotgun in both hands. The officer had a slightly American look to him, though he had a bad haircut and buck teeth. Curtis thought for a moment that the officer was about to turn and walk away, that the problem was solved and there would be no more need to explain who they were or what they were doing here. He didn’t turn away though. He was gaining momentum. He brought the butt of the shotgun up suddenly and smashed it into Curtis’ nose.

  Curtis came to on the ground. His nervous system was running wild, and his mind was just beginning to make sense of what had happened when a huge mass of man appeared over him. The mass of man spoke English.

  “Not down here, you’re not,” said Jefe.

  ***

  Eduardo jerked awake. He was in a car next to Strauss. Outside, it was dark, but the lights were lit, and there was movement inside a café.

  “There is one more thing I thought you should know,” said Strauss.

  Eduardo looked around the car. He did not see the money that he had given to Strauss, and it wasn’t in his hands.

  “There is a man in Mexico who very much wants to kill you,” said Strauss.

  Chapter Eight

  Juan Two Saints – Monterrey, MX

  The American didn’t look like a cop to Juan. He had blood pouring out of his nose. It had to be broken. He didn’t look like a man who needed to be put down as hard as he had been, but that was Dejo’s style. Juan had noticed the man’s glasses and put them back on his head.

  The other man looked like a fighter, but he wasn’t fighting. His hands were chained up behind his back. He looked resigned to his fate.

  Juan reached into the American’s pants. He felt money and saw a roll of bills. He looked up to see Dejo watching him. Juan put it in his pocket and was disgusted with himself. He reached again and felt a chain. It was a religious pendant of Saint Michael. Dejo wasn’t looking. Juan shoved it back into the American’s pocket, thinking he might need it.

  “Get these two out of here,” said Jefe impatiently.

  Juan Two Saints was watching the Americans as they drove away in the back of the police car. He wondered if they would ever be seen again. He turned, and Jefe was gone. Then he saw light pouring out of the bulkhead. He was about to go down the stairs when he noticed another house on the property had its lights on too.

  “We’re attracting attention,” he told Jefe when he found him in the cellar.

  “So what?” said the big man. He was distracted. Dejo was with him, and there was a young woman on the ground. She looked scared. She was beautiful. Suddenly, Juan Two Saints felt scared too.

  Jefe’s attention was on a little room under the stairs. Dirt was piled ankle high and a deep pit had been dug just past the door. Jefe’s attention was on the walls.

  “Ever build a house, Juan Two Saints?”

  “No, Jefe.”

  “Know what I know about buildi
ng houses?”

  “What?”

  “Less than you. But I know just enough to know that this isn’t usually how one builds a wall.”

  Juan was curious. He leaned to where Jefe was standing. He could smell him, all sweat and bad food. Juan’s eyes stung. Plaster and dust drifted through the air. Inside the wall were rows of cinderblocks.

  “Was something valuable kept in here?”

  Jefe sniffed. He turned his attention to the girl on the floor.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  His huge body lumbered across the basement floor until it came to a stop and towered over her. Sweat ran down Jefe’s back in a dark river. Juan thought about the woman who had been with the smuggler.

  Jefe held out his hand. It was almost gentlemanly. The girl looked to the ground and looked back up in surprise. She put her hand in his hopefully.

  “What were these boys looking for in there?” he asked in English.

  She didn’t respond. Jefe watched the woman. He turned her hand in his, with care, studying it, and studying her. She had dust and dirt on her, but Juan could see her nails. They were a glowing red. Her skin was soft and pale. Her hair was thick and had body. Someone had cared for this woman.

  Jefe shook her hand away with clear disgust.

  “Want me to talk to her, Jefe?” Dejo asked. He sounded eager.

  “No,” said the boss. “We won’t learn anything from this…senorita.”

  The girl looked at the floor.

  Jefe’s footsteps pounded slowly up the stairs of the house. Dejo nudged him. His mind swam with terrible thoughts of what Dejo might suggest, but Dejo was handing him money.

  “What is this?”

  The girl could see all of it. Dejo was too dumb or too reckless to care.

  “The American had it on him. I took a cut off the top.”

  The girl watched them. Juan felt naked. He took it and shoved it into his pocket.

  “What did you do to your hand?” Dejo asked as Juan walked away.

  “Nothing,” Juan muttered as he stepped into the air. He felt dirty. He saw the little house in the distance. The lights were on still. An old man stood at the edge of the field, watching.

  ***

  “Do you know a man by the name of Ordo Beltran?” asked Strauss.

  Of course he did. Strauss knew he did.

  “What do you know about him?” Strauss asked.

  “He is with the Zetas.”

  “Have you done business with him in the past?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Very well then.”

  “I want to know something,” said Eduardo. Strauss nodded.

  “Why do you ask questions when you already know the answer?”

  Strauss seemed to think about it. When he answered, all he said was, “Old habit.”

  Eduardo wondered what Colon would have said about old habits, or any habits at all.

  “What do you know about him?” Eduardo asked.

  “I know he’s middle management and was promoted by attrition. I know he has been assigned the task of taking Nuevo Leon for the Zetas. I know he has hired muscle. And I know he has been paid to kill you.”

  “Paid?”

  “Asked? It is a business arrangement. One day, the man will himself be asked to return the favor. It seems someone thinks you are a liability.”

  “Where did they get that idea?” Eduardo asked.

  Strauss did not care for the implication.

  “You entered into an agreement with me, Mister Mendes, and I can assure you of the utmost confidence. In fact, aside from a guarantee that the work will be completed, that is all we have to our names.”

  “Where I come from, your name doesn’t mean much,” said Eduardo.

  “Where I come from, it means everything,” said Strauss.

  Strauss left the truck without another word. Eduardo could see him at the counter through the window. As he thought of more questions he wished Strauss had asked, he found his new cell phone in his hand. He looked down and saw his fingers dialing the numbers. They dialed from memory.

  “Who is this?” said the man on the phone.

  “Eduardo Mendes.”

  The voice on the phone laughed. “What a coincidence,” said Ordo. “I am going to kill Eduardo Mendes.”

  “Maybe we could make a deal?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Do you know that my girlfriend was killed as well?”

  “You will be reunited soon.”

  “Do the facts matter to you at all?”

  “No. Tell you what. Why don’t you make this easy on yourself? Why don’t you tell me where you are and I will come find you. That way, when I get there, I will shoot you in the face and then tear your body apart, instead of the other way around like I was told to do. It can be our little secret.”

  “Why don’t I tell you exactly where I am and we can talk about it?”

  “Have it any way you like, Eduardo.”

  “I am in Monterrey.”

  He heard laughter on the phone.

  “Is this really Eduardo Mendes?”

  “Of course it is. Why?”

  “The Mendes I knew didn’t have the balls to come to Mexico. Never mind to Leon. And never in a million years would a coward like him come to Monterrey.”

  Eduardo looked around the landscape. He saw freight trucks whipping past in the distance. That must be the highway. He saw Strauss coming through the door. Steam rose from the cup in his hand.

  “The mountains are behind me and to my left. The city is in front of me. I do not know the town, but I do know how to answer my phone. Call me when you are here.”

  Ordo Beltran seemed to think about the offer for a moment. Strauss climbed into the driver’s seat. For a man whose face didn’t show much, he looked alarmed when he saw Eduardo on the phone.

  “The Eduardo Mendes I know is clever. If you are trying to be clever, don’t. I made a promise to a man.”

  “When we’re done doing business, you’ll be having him killed for me,” said Eduardo. He hung up. He could feel the eyes of Strauss boring into him.

  “Tell me you did not just call Ordo Beltran.”

  ***

  Juan Two Saints walked silently through his little house. It was too early for him to be home, but he didn’t want to be where he was headed.

  He checked on the boys. They were where he expected: in bed and on the floor. They made their sleeping sounds. He could have stayed there all night, just listening to them.

  He crept past his own room. If he opened the door, she would hear, so he kept it shut. She snored a little. She denied it. She would curse him for saying it. That didn’t mean she didn’t snore. He stood and listened for a while.

  Then he built a fire in the cast iron stove. It wasn’t especially cold, but he lit it and waited until the top of the little door glowed orange.

  Juan Two Saints sat on the floor with his legs crossed, just as his boys did. He unwrapped the bandage on his hand. It was still sore, and the skin looked tender. He let it breathe. With his other hand, Juan Two Saints touched the handle on the stove. It was warm but not hot. When he pulled it open, he felt the heat on his face. He fished in his pocket for the money that Dejo had handed him. He hadn’t so much as counted it. It disgusted him. So he made himself count it.

  It wasn’t much. Little bites, as Jefe would say. There was a time when he would give the little bites to his wife. He found himself growing angry as he watched his boys eat, knowing how the food got there. He tried giving his little bites to the church. He found himself drifting into anger while the priest spoke.

  He took the bills and threw them into the stove. Whenever he gave his little bites to the fire, he always felt better. Not much, but a little. He began to recite the Hail Mary in whispers. The flames grew taller and brighter as they devoured the money. He watched the bills shrivel and turn black.

  “Pray for our sinners,” he said so quietly that no one would hear it, and he stuck
his hand into the stove.

  ***

  “Would you mind telling me what you were thinking when you called Ordo Beltran?” Strauss asked.

  “My mother had a rule for the staff in our house. They didn’t ask questions.”

  “I am not your butler, Mister Mendes.”

  “I came here to finish a job that you couldn’t handle. I expected you to have a team in place. I find it’s just you. No offense, but I think we need more men.”

  “We have all the men we need.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “And what will you do when Ordo decides to kill you?”

  “I am going to talk him out of it.”

  “You don’t know him very well, do you?”

  “I know him well enough. I’ve paid you to find out where these men are. Why don’t you focus on that?”

  “I already know where these men are,” said Strauss.

  “You’re joking.”

  “They are being held in a police station a few miles from here.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You were busy making speeches.”

  Eduardo looked out the window.

  “Have they been arrested?”

  “It seems so.”

  “How do we get them out?”

  “Why do you want them out?”

  “So I can kill them.”

  “As you say, Mister Mendes.”

  He had never expected it to be so fast, or so easy. He found himself sneaking glances at Strauss, who either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Eduardo wondered how deep his loyalties ran.

  “I asked you to do something else for me, didn’t I?” Eduardo asked.

  “You did.”

  “Did you get it?”

  There was long pause before Strauss spoke.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Give me the goddamn number.”

  Strauss handed him a slip of paper. On it was the address and phone number of an apartment where a man could have sex with a child. Felipe was scrawled at the top.

  “Is Felipe the boy or is he the man who sells him.”

  “Felipe is the man,” Strauss said wearily.

  Eduardo slid the paper into his coat pocket and smiled.

  ***