South of Evil

by Brian Dunford

  It was a cement building with no windows. It had been painted once when it was built, then allowed to fade and peel. There were many cars, but none of them were police cars. Eduardo saw a man in a uniform sitting on one. He was young and looked very bored.

  “They have an officer watching their own cars in their own parking lot?”

  “Yes,” said Strauss.

  Eduardo’s phone began to ring. He looked at the number. He realized that Strauss was looking too. They both knew who it was.

  “I do not recommend this.”

  Eduardo answered it anyway.

  “You are either very brave or very stupid,” said Ordo Beltran.

  “I am very rich. You can be rich too. How does that sound?”

  “I am always looking for more money.”

  “We should talk.”

  “I better like what you have to say.”

  “You can’t afford not to.”

  “Where are you?”

  “You realize I am not alone.”

  “I don’t give a fuck who you’re with. Where are you?”

  Eduardo covered the receiver with his hand. He looked to Strauss.

  “Where should we meet him?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Pick a good place.”

  “Good for what?”

  “For not getting killed.”

  “You picked the wrong country, Mister Mendes.”

  Strauss saw only agitation on the young man’s face. He let it boil for a moment.

  “There is a bar called La Hermosa Pasado. It is in an alley off Corrando. Tell him to meet us there.” Eduardo repeated it into the phone. Ordo asked who he was with.

  “None of your business,” said Eduardo as he hung up the phone.

  The garage door began to open. Two headlights came to life. A police car rolled slowly out of the garage. It took its place in line behind one that had just sped into the parking lot. An enormous man in a police uniform stepped out of the garage. The front of his belt was hidden by his belly. The cars waited for him. Eduardo could see that there were two officers in each car, but the car that had just left the garage had two men in the back as well. Police didn’t ride in the back.

  He knew who was in that car.

  What he felt now was compulsion. He felt compelled to put his hand on the door handle. He felt compelled to pull it open. He stepped into the street with a numbness, and he must have been overwhelmed by the blood rushing into his ears, because he never heard Strauss telling him to stop.

  He wanted to run, but he walked. He walked slowly and carefully in his black suit in the middle of the street so the cars couldn’t move. An officer jumped from the car and drew a gun. Eduardo held his hands up and out from his slim frame. He kept walking. Then he smiled.

  Walter Curtis was in the back of the car. Now his hands were behind his back.

  Curtis had dried blood on his face. He wore a ridiculous yellow Hawaiian shirt. He wore a white undershirt under that, and it had been soaked in blood. His clothes, however, could not compete with the look of fear on Curtis’ face.

  It was more than Eduardo could have hoped.

  “Special Agent Curtis. Here is something maybe no one has told you before. I’m going to have you released from prison. Then I am going to have you stabbed in the belly. I’m going to let you bleed to death in a dumpster behind a whorehouse where American men go to fuck little boys. When people hear that, and believe me, I’ll make sure they hear it, everyone who has ever known you, even your own family, is going to be glad that you’re dead.”

  With that, he walked away, overwhelmed and afraid and very proud of himself. Strauss was out of the truck, and knew something was wrong. Eduardo supposed he had impressed the man, but as he approached, he realized that Strauss was not looking at him at all. He was looking through him. He turned and saw the fat man. He was watching them with a look that straddled anger and amused curiosity.

  “Who is that?” he asked Strauss.

  “Get back in the truck,” Strauss said quietly.

  ***

  Virgil didn’t speak a word of Spanish, but he understood quickly who Jefe was. Some jumped when he barked, while others left as he entered, but everyone moved.

  He could see the cells, but they weren’t in them. Not yet. They were seated on a metal bench that was bolted to the wall in a concrete holding area. It was like every other cell Virgil had ever seen. It smelled of shit and sweat and hopelessness.

  The chairs the cops sat in were old and wooden. They creaked. They were uneven. The paint on the walls was chipped. There were heavy metal desks with little bunnies of dust around their legs. Most of the men who worked here looked much like the furniture.

  “This is a retirement home,” Virgil whispered to himself. This was a local police station. The cops here were old men. If they had ever cared, they had stopped long ago. There were a few young faces, but they were painfully young. Young faces were impressionable.

  He heard the voices from the office again. There were loud throaty gargles, and then a soft whine that followed. After a while, the little whine seemed less like weakness, and more like passive stubbornness.

  A small man bounded from the office. He had steadfastly refused to look at them when they had been brought into the station. He did now though. He was a slim little man, and very neat. He had a mustache and thinning hair. His chest was overflowing with medals, but he looked to Virgil like a man who had never done an honest day’s work in his life. The little comandante looked at them and huffed with resignation. Then he crisply put his hat on his head and walked out the door.

  A young clerk in the opposite corner was typing a report on an old-fashioned typewriter. He didn’t know how to type, Virgil guessed, by the long pause between each single metallic slap. A truck went by the windows. Metallic slap. There was laughter on the street. Metallic slap. The phone rang, and the very nervous cop picked it up quickly. Then he slammed it down, grabbed his hat up off the desk, and left the room in a hurry.

  Jefe came out of the office. He sauntered slowly. Virgil could hear the big man’s footsteps as the old floor bent under him.

  Two other officers stayed. The one who looked decent stood when Jefe entered. He looked apprehensive. The one who had crushed his nose looked even meaner in the light. Slowly, Jefe sat down in front of them. The nails and wood groaned.

  The big man smiled.

  “Call me Jefe,” he said. He had a grin on his fat, stubbly face. “Which one of you is a federal agent?” Jefe asked.

  He had Curtis’ credentials. It didn’t appear to mean much at the moment.

  “I am,” said Curtis.

  “FBI?” asked Jefe with his eyebrows raised.

  “IRS,” said Virgil.

  “A tax collector,” said Jefe.

  Curtis didn’t answer him.

  “Tell me this, Special Agent Walter Curtis,” Jefe began. “How does one become a special agent with the Internal Revenue Service?”

  “I just applied,” he said.

  “I mean, was it your lifelong dream to arrest people for not paying their taxes?”

  The mean cop snickered. Jefe looked annoyed and turned his head to the slightest degree. The look disappeared, and so did the snicker.

  “They were hiring when I needed a job,” said Curtis.

  “Good answer,” Jefe said, and he sounded sincere. “I take it you boys haven’t slept much since we met.”

  It wasn’t exactly a question.

  “I’d like to find you some place to get cleaned up and sleep. Someplace you can relax and not be chained to the wall. Have some hot food. How’s that sound to you?”

  Neither of them moved, but all of those things sounded wonderful. They didn’t move because they didn’t believe him.

  “Before we can do that, we have some things to talk about. How long we talk is entirely up to you. Do we understand each other?”

  Virgil looked at the floor. He was looking at the big man’s belly. He was look
ing at the suffering chair legs. He was looking everywhere but in his eyes. He felt those eyes now. They were calm and demanding. They were waiting for him. He nodded.

  “Agent Curtis,” Jefe said, capturing his attention. “When did you cross the border?”

  “Yesterday,” squeaked Curtis. His voice was hoarse, and his mouth and throat were dry.

  “Yesterday,” he said in a louder voice.

  Jefe waved, and Juan Two Saints approached, grabbing a bottle of water from the nearest desk. The bottle was half empty. An unknown person had been drinking from it, but that didn’t matter. The cop held it to Curtis’ mouth, and he drank gladly.

  “Better?” asked Jefe.

  “Thank you,” said Curtis.

  “I’m human,” said Jefe.

  Virgil turned and saw how badly Curtis was sweating. The dried blood on his face was liquefying and beginning to run down his face and into his mouth.

  “Agent Curtis, what made you go to the country house last night?”

  “I was told by a source that there was evidence buried in the walls. I thought that if I attempted to get a search warrant in Mexico, the cartels would be tipped off and they would move it.”

  Jefe seemed to believe it.

  “What sort of evidence?”

  “Financial transactions. I’m an accountant.”

  “An accountant?” Jefe smiled.

  “That’s what I do for the IRS.”

  “An accountant with a gun. And you didn’t give Mexican authorities any sort of heads up?”

  “No.”

  “Because the cartels might be tipped off.”

  “Yes,” said Curtis.

  “Because the police in Mexico are corrupt.”

  Curtis didn’t know what to say. Jefe laughed.

  “You don’t have police corruption in the states, do you? You don’t have any issues with federal agents breaking and entering luxury country houses. Or carrying unlicensed firearms.”

  “Those weapons are licensed to me,” said Curtis.

  “Back home, maybe. Not in Mexico,” said Jefe. “And that’s just you. I’m still trying to figure out what he’s doing here.” He was looking right at Virgil.

  “I’m here to help him,” said Virgil.

  “Uh-huh,” said Jefe, his attention elsewhere. He was reaching for Virgil. Virgil wanted to jump back, but he couldn’t. He wanted to flinch or duck, but he was afraid. Jefe’s fat, damp fingers touched his skin. The edge of his tattoo was poking out from his shirt. Jefe pulled it up to reveal the eagle, globe, and anchor, with the letters USMC printed below them.

  “Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children,” said Jefe. “How long did you do?”

  “As little time as I could.”

  “Spoken like a true veteran,” said Jefe. “What did you do for them?”

  “Infantry.”

  “A foot soldier. Let me ask you this. When the Marines ask you to go do something, were you allowed to ask why?”

  “No.”

  “In the Marines, you do as you’re told, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Virgil, not sure where this was going.

  “How about in real life?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What I mean is, if you’re a Marine, and they order you to drive six hours to a little house in Mexico and rip it apart, you get in your truck and you do it. You don’t ask why. You don’t care why. You follow your orders. Isn’t that right?”

  Virgil shrugged. He heard the chains rattle when he did it. He knew where this was going.

  “But this isn’t the Marines, is it?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look like the type of man who’d drive to Mexico in the middle of the night to break into a house without knowing a little more about it.”

  Jefe reached into his shirt pocket and removed a plastic card.

  “What kind of work were you doing?”

  “Construction, mostly.”

  “Construction, mostly,” repeated Jefe. “So what would a construction mostly worker be doing all the way down in Mexico with a federal IRS agent?”

  “He said he might need help taking apart the house.”

  Jefe laughed loudly.

  “From the looks of that place, I’d say he got it.” He continued laughing until his chuckle wound down to nothing.

  In one quick motion, he had Virgil’s hand in his own. Virgil couldn’t believe the big man could move so fast. Jefe had his hand upturned, examining it.

  “Construction mostly?” he asked, skeptically looking Virgil in the eye.

  Jefe turned over the card. Virgil could see it for what it plainly was: his own driver’s license.

  “According to this, Marc Virgil lives at 15 Rita Road in Boston, Massachusetts. That’s you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s your address, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “I have an idea,” said Jefe. “My idea is that if I go into that office and call up the Boston Police Department and pretend to be the sack of shit who runs this house, when I ask if Marc Virgil is a Boston Police officer, they’re going to say, yes, he is. What do you think about that?”

  “Do whatever you want,” said Virgil.

  Jefe smiled. His teeth were brown.

  “I will, thank you,” he said, sitting back in his chair. He seemed to notice at that moment that there was a phone on the desk beside him. He looked at it, then looked back to Virgil with a twinkle of excitement. He picked it up and dialed one number.

  “Por favor, senora. Me llamo Commandant Lucid con La Policia de Monterrey. Yo quiero la Policia de Boston en Massachusetts en los Estados Unidos. Gracias.”

  He covered the receiver with his hand.

  “This will just take a moment,” he said with a smile.

  Virgil glanced over to Curtis. He saw a bead of sweat drop from his nose to the bench between his legs. He found himself wondering what time it was at home. He didn’t even know what time it was in Mexico. He heard the phone ringing.

  “What do you think? Want me to make this call?” asked Jefe.

  “No,” said Virgil.

  Jefe dropped it back into the cradle.

  “Know what I do think?” asked Jefe. He slid the plastic license into his shirt pocket. Both Curtis and Virgil hung on his words now, knowing that their fates were about to be determined.

  “I think you two need to work on a better story.”

  ***

  Eduardo didn’t look up when the truck stopped. He was lost in his phone.

  When he did look up, he almost jumped out of the car.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “I have business inside. It will not take long.”

  “You’re going in there?”

  “I am.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “You cannot go with me.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Then it’s settled,” said Strauss, and shut the door.

  Eduardo watched in stunned silence and wondered if this man Strauss was suicidal. No sane person, doing what he does, would have come here. Then Eduardo had a revelation. He remembered that he was in Mexico, and he burst out laughing. He laughed, and he realized that it should have occurred to him from the start.

  Fifty feet in front of him, Strauss disappeared into a building that was clearly and professionally marked Federale Policia.

  ***

  Strauss didn’t make eye contact with anyone in the office. It was getting late, and there were fewer people there. He walked with purpose through a sea of desks, looking forward, not into them, listening to the clack of fingers on keyboards and the occasional faceless voice on a telephone. Someone was smoking, and the name Dulcinea slipped through his mind. He found one desk in a dark, deserted corner and immediately began to rummage through the drawers. He found a file, looked inside, and put it down again. He thought of Dulcinea’s hair and how the light fr
om the screen filtered through it.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” a man asked him.

  Strauss turned. The man who had accosted him was tall, and younger than himself. He wore a tie and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had bushy hair and tired, honest eyes.

  “Who are you?” Strauss asked.

  “Who the hell are you?” the man asked back. “And why are you in my desk?”

  “Who told you this was your desk?” Strauss asked calmly. The other man’s temperature had risen noticeably.

  “The goddamn Federal Police, that’s who. Who do you think you are?”

  “I think I’m Inspector Strauss, and I think this is my desk.”

  That stopped him cold. The man looked for something to say.

  “In fact,” Strauss continued, picking up the file for which he’d been looking. “I know it is. My things are in it.”

  “Inspector Strauss, I apologize. I was told“

  “I know what you were told.”

  “They said you didn’t come to the office, so I should make myself at home.”

  “Is this your home?” Strauss asked.

  “No, Inspector, I understand now this is your desk.“

  “I mean, is this where you are spending all of your time?”

  The man didn’t quite know what to say. His whole body teetered indecisively.

  He stammered, but Strauss knew the answer. He could see it in his clothes and in his hair and in his worn eyes. Behind a coffee mug was a two-fold frame. In one, the man posed with a pretty woman. In the other, two very young children smiled.

  “Can I tell you a secret that the Federal Police don’t want you to know?” Strauss asked.

  The man, who clearly knew Strauss by reputation, wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear it. That was evident. Another part of him turned his ears up in the slightest way, unable to resist.

  “Yes,” said the man.

  “It isn’t worth it,” Strauss told him. Then he left.

  ***

  “What do you think?” Jefe asked when they stepped back into the office. Juan Two Saints shut the door behind him.

  “I think they’re full of shit,” said Dejo, dropping himself into a chair. Juan stood.

  “Everyone is full of shit,” said Jefe. “Just depends what they’re full of shit about.”