The Girl at the Deep End of the Lake

by Sam Lee Jackson

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  He rummaged in a drawer and found a church key and popped the lid off the beer.

  “Don’t those unscrew?”

  “I’m old fashioned,” he said coming back into the room and sprawling on the couch.

  “When I was a kid,” I said, “I had a friend named Leroy. His Pap brewed his own in the basement. Saved all the quart bottles of Falstaff he and his buddies bought and refilled them. First beer I ever drank was his home brew. We’d sneak down there and shift the bottles all around so he couldn’t tell if one or two were missing. We’d go back out to the alley and open the bottles with our teeth just to prove how tough we were.”

  “That why you had the Marines do all that dental work?”

  I laughed.

  “My brother gave me my first beer when I was twelve,” he continued.

  “How old was he?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Doing life in Florence.”

  I nodded, with nothing to say to that.

  Blackhawk took a drink of his beer and shrugged. “Sitting in a bar on Cave Creek Road with his ex-wife Bernadine and some guy she had picked up. Took objection to something the guy said, went out to his truck, got a .44, came back in and blew the guy off his barstool. Six witnesses. Because he went to the car for the weapon it was premeditated. Done deal.”

  I didn’t have anything to say to that either.

  He drank his beer, looking across the room at the wall.

  “I was thinking about what Nacho said,” I said.

  He looked at me, waiting.

  “About asking Emil why he helped us out.”

  “Good question,” Blackhawk said.

  “You up for going with me?”

  Before he could answer, Nacho came through the front door. “Hey boss!”

  “Jesus, Nacho, can’t you knock?”

  “Sorry, boss. Thought you’d like to know that jock we threw out of here the other night is back.”

  “Which jock?”

  “You know. The one Jackson smacked with the shot glass. He’s asking if Jackson is here, or gonna be here.”

  I strapped my foot back on. “He looking for trouble?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Don’t act like it. Just asked calm like. Not pissed or anything."

  “Drunk?”

  “Don’t act like it.”

  I looked at Blackhawk and he shrugged.

  “Well, let’s go see him,” I said.

  We came back down the stairs, Nacho leading.

  Big Bobby was sitting with a friend at the corner of the bar. Though the bar wasn’t opened yet, they each had a beer in front of them. Jimmy diplomacy. They were watching the band practice. Blackhawk and Nacho came at them directly, while I moved around so Bobby’s buddy was between him and me. I slid up on a barstool one removed from his buddy. The buddy looked at me, then nudged Bobby. Bobby leaned over and looked at me. His ear still looked red and angry.

  “How you doin’ Bobby,” I said pleasantly.

  His buddy leaned back so Bobby could see me better.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “How’s the ear,” I said.

  “Hurts like a sonofabitch,” he said.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “I want to buy you a beer,” he said turning to look at Blackhawk and Nacho. He held his hand up, palm out. “No trouble.” He turned back to look at me. “Just want to buy you a beer.”

  “That’s awfully nice of you, Bobby. To what do I owe this distinction?”

  “Me and Jed, here,” he said jerking a thumb at his buddy, “play football for ASU.”

  “How wonderful,” I said.

  “We got a shot at the Rose Bowl this year,” he continued.

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  “Yeah, thanks. If we win the Rose Bowl I could turn pro. But see, when we were in here the other night we were breaking the coach’s curfew. So after you hit me with whatever the hell you hit me with, we went back to the dorm. Coach pulled a surprise inspection. If I hadn’t been there, he’d of kicked me off the team. So I guess, the way it worked out I’m still playing and I owe you a beer.”

  I looked at Nacho, “Dos Equis,” I said.

  He pointed at Jimmy and Jimmy nodded. He brought the beer and set it on a napkin in front of me. He took one of the bills sitting in front of Bobby, made change and brought it back.

  “Thanks for the beer,” I said.

  He slid off the barstool, “Got practice, gotta go. See you around,” he said. He turned to leave then turned back, “What the hell did you hit me with anyway?”

  “He hit you with a shot glass,” Nacho said.

  “Shot glass?”

  “You are lucky,” Blackhawk said. “He hit you with the base of the glass. If he’d hit you with the rim he’d of cut your ear off your head.”

  Bobby stood looking at Blackhawk a moment. He turned and looked at me, “What’s your name?”

  “Jackson,” I said.

  “Sorry, I was drunk, Jackson. I don’t normally pick fights. Usually drunks pick fights with me. I’m the big guy, so they get drunk and feel they have something to prove.”

  “Bobby usually tries to stay away from trouble,” his buddy Jed said. “When the pros look at you they look at more than what you did on the field. Guy gets a couple DUIs and you drop way down the draft or off the list altogether.”

  “You going to get drafted too?”

  Jed smiled, “Naw, not me. I ain’t good enough like Bobby.”

  “Good luck,” I said to Bobby.

  “Thanks,” he said. “See you around, Jackson,” and he turned and walked out, Jed trailing behind.

  Nacho and Jimmy were smiling.

  Blackhawk said, “Go figure.”

  40

  The same young girl was behind the counter at Escalona’s office. She was dressed, again, in a crisp white blouse that struggled mightily to contain her. As we came in, she looked up, then abruptly took off her headset, nodded at Blackhawk and turned and left the room. A moment later she was back.

  “He’ll see you,” she said. “Please follow me.”

  “To the ends of the earth,” I said.

  She ignored me. I was getting used to that.

  She took us down the corridor. She ushered us into Escalona’s office. Escalona was perched on the corner of his desk. Emil sat across the room, his face impassive.

  I nodded at Emil, but he was looking steadily at Blackhawk. Blackhawk moved across the room so we weren’t bunched together. He was returning Emil’s look. Both their faces could have been cut out of stone.

  Escalona was coolly studying me.

  “So,” he said. “I am hoping you come with information about young Gabriela?”

  I shook my head. “I’m afraid not.”

  I looked at Emil again, but he was still studying Blackhawk. “We found someone who we thought could take us to Roland Gomez. As we’ve discussed, this is who we think Gabriela is with. Instead it was an ambush and we were lucky to come out alive.”

  “Most fortunate,” Escalona said.

  “We had a guardian angel.”

  “Everyone can use one of those.”

  “And, you know, ours was Emil. He was following us. On your orders, we presume. So we come to say thank you.”

  He shrugged.

  “But I have to ask, why?”

  Escalona stood and moved around the desk and sat in his high-backed chair.

  “His Excellency does not want you dead.” He smiled, “at least, not until you have found Gabriela.”

  “Emil can find Gabriela. Probably faster than I can.”

  “You underestimate yourself. You have the police helping you. That is impossible for Emil.”

  “The Ambassador has very powerful friends.”

  He nodded, “Yes, you have brought that up before. I will admit the Valdez family,” – he pronounced the name
with a hard e – “has many resources, but there is a war coming. A war Valdez does not want. Dos Hermanos is like a powerful bully, full of itself and believing it can have whatever it wants. They are preparing to invade. They can be very brutal. And they are arrogant. His Excellency knows that a war will be bad for everyone. He doesn’t want his granddaughter to be a pawn in this war, but if she is not found, she will be. If they have her, he will be forced to resign, otherwise they will hold her life in their hands and force him into actions that would be, let us say, detrimental.”

  “But it seems that they have her now.”

  “It seems that, but we have people inside Dos Hermanos and they tell us Dos Hermanos is looking for her. So, no, they don’t have her yet.”

  “So who has her, Roland? He’s not Dos Hermanos?”

  “Gomez is a,” he waved his hand, “how you say, a punk. Gabriela may be with him but he isn’t Dos Hermanos. This is why the police and you will probably find her first.”

  “What do you know about a black Cadillac Escalade?”

  “There are many of those.”

  “How about Morales Trucking or Kamex?”

  “Kamex is a very large company. Morales Trucking, I’ve never heard of.”

  “Frank Bavaro?”

  “Bavaro? How do you know Bavaro?”

  “I came across his name while I was looking for Gabriela.”

  “Is Bavaro connected to Gabriela?”

  “Not in any way I can determine. The policewoman, Detective Boyce, tells me that Bavaro is connected to Kamex and Kamex is connected to Dos Hermanos.”

  “Sadly, this is true.”

  “On the night four of Gomez’s gang were murdered at the warehouse, there was a black Escalade parked in front.” I looked at Emil and now he was looking at me. “I know for a fact Gabriela was there when the shootings went down. Lieutenant Mendoza says the four were assassinated by a professional. The Escalade is owned by Morales Trucking which is owned by Kamex. What kind of vehicle do you drive?”

  Escalona smiled, “Emil drives me in a Lincoln Towncar. It is owned by the Columbian government.”

  “Would Bavaro kill those four people?”

  Escalona smiled again, “He would have them slapped like a mosquito but he wouldn’t dirty his hands. You will never prove he had anything to do with it. He is a very careful man.”

  “Who drives that Escalade? Who killed those four people?”

  Escalona stood, indicating the meeting was over.

  “Mr. Bavaro employs some very deadly people, any one of which would kill four kids without blinking.”

  Emil stood and Escalona said to him, “See if you can find someone connected to Bavaro that drives an Escalade.”

  I stood and moved to the door, “License number YLT1410.”

  As I moved out the door Emil winked at me.

  41

  We were in Blackhawk’s Jaguar and we decided to take a run by the Playboy Diablos' warehouse. It still had police tape up and no vehicles were in the lot or on the street in front. One of the windows had been broken out. It looked deserted. The Playboys had found a new home. I decided to call Boyce to see if she knew where. I found her number in my phone and hit redial.

  As soon as it connected, Boyce said, “Dammit, Jackson, you know I have a real live job as a police detective.”

  “Yes ma’am, and a damned good one too. How’d you know it was me?”

  “Caller ID, you moron. What do you want?”

  “Playboy Diablos,” I said. “A really good detective like you probably knows where they’re hanging out now and I was hoping you would tell me.”

  “You still begging for a scumbag punk to gut shoot you with a zip gun?”

  “I am cloaked in the invincible shield of truth, justice and the American way.”

  “You are cloaked in the shield of bullshit.”

  “Well, yes. But I was hoping you would still tell me.”

  “Haven’t checked it out yet, but I had a black and white report they saw some of them at a dive on Broadway called the Brown Jug.” She hung up.

  I looked at Blackhawk, “Caller ID?”

  He shook his head, smiling. “God, man, where you been?”

  I shrugged, “She says a black and white saw some Diablos at a place on Broadway called the Brown Jug.”

  “Rat hole,” Blackhawk said, turning the corner to head back the way we had come.

  There were three cars in the parking lot. Blackhawk parked on the far side, not wanting to risk a ding. If Blackhawk ever had a child he wouldn’t treat it any better than he treated this car.

  We went in. The inside made El Patron smell like a rose garden.

  The building was low, long and narrow. A bar ran down the left side as you entered, and there were booths on the right side. Two pool tables were at the end of the room. No one was playing.

  Despite the three cars in the lot, there were only two men in the place. One was the bartender, and the other was sitting down at the end with a half-filled glass of beer in front of him. He was watching a hockey game on the television that was mounted up in a corner near him.

  Blackhawk and I took two bar stools. The bartender came down and set coasters in front of us.

  “What can I get you gents?” he said.

  He had a long ponytail and a tattooed tear on the edge of his right eye. He wore a wife-beater tee shirt and his arms were a mass of tattoos. Looked like prison.

  “I’m looking for someone,” I said.

  He looked at me and moved back half a step, “Ain’t nobody here ‘cept me and Jerry.”

  I laid a twenty on the bar. “I’m looking for Roland.”

  He didn’t look at the twenty. He shook his head, “Don’t know him.”

  “Henry Cisneros?”

  He shook his head emphatically, “Nope.”

  “How about Dog or Petey?”

  He looked at me hard. “You a cop?”

  “Not me,” I said. “I’m just trying to find some old friends.”

  He snorted, “Shit, you ain’t never gonna find Dog or Petey.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Cause they’re dead, man.”

  “So you do know Roland?”

  “Never heard of him,” he said. “So unless you got a badge, why don’t you and Cochise get out of here.”

  I held up the twenty. “Last chance.”

  He turned away and began to wash some glasses. I glanced at Blackhawk and he was laughing.

  “Cochise?” he said.

  As we drove away Blackhawk said, “You white people don’t realize that when you call someone like me Cochise, it is the ultimate compliment.”

  I asked Cochise if he minded running by Melinda’s to check on her.

  Maupin’s truck wasn’t in the drive. All the blinds were drawn.

  The doorbell socket was empty so I knocked on the door. Blackhawk stood to the side where he couldn’t be seen from the front window.

  No one answered, so I knocked again, a little more forcefully. The blinds shifted slightly and Blackhawk said, “Someone is here.”

  “Melinda,” I called. “It’s Jackson.”

  Nothing happened. After a long moment I called again, “Melinda, it's Jackson. I just want to see how you are.”

  Another moment went by, then I heard the latch and the door opened a crack.

  “You shouldn’t come here,” Melinda said through the small opening.

  “Can we come in?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “The baby’s asleep.”

  It was dim inside. She was wearing a short sleeved blouse and a shaft of sunlight lit her bicep. There were bruise marks on it. I put the flat of my hand on the door and forced it open. She tried to resist but couldn’t. She stepped back.

  “He home?”

  She shook her head. She looked very tired and strung out.

  I reached over and lifted the bottom of her blouse to reveal her side and abdomen. There were yellow and saffron bruise
s. She began to cry.

  “You’ll just make it worse,” she said.

  “Where is he?”

  She shook her head, wiping her nose on her forearm, “Please, don’t.”

  “Look at me,” I said, lifting her chin. Her eyes were closed. “Look at me,” I said again.

  She opened her eyes.

  “He will not hurt you again, I promise. Where is he?”

  “At the tavern,” she said, her voice barely audible.

  “Which tavern?”

  “Tilly’s,” she said.

  I looked at Blackhawk. He shook his head.

  “Take care of Hayden,” I said and stepped back. She softly closed the door.

  In the Jaguar, Blackhawk pulled his phone and began fiddling with it.

  After a moment, “On 56th Avenue,” he said.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “You can look up places on your phone.”

  “Jesus,” I muttered. “Does it wipe your ass too?”

  “You have to download an app for that,” he said.

  42

  Following his directions, we found Tilly’s in under five minutes. Maupin’s brown and white truck was in the parking lot along with several other trucks and a couple of sedans. This was a much bigger dive than the Brown Jug, but it smelled just as bad. Unlike the Brown Jug, this place had customers. I never could figure out why two places that seemed the same could have such different success. Or lack of it. They say location is all, but this joint didn’t seem to be much different than the other. The beer on tap was the same. The bartender could have been a clone to the other.

  Tilly’s had its bar on the right hand side and tables on the left. Again, there were pool tables at the back, along with dart boards and shuffleboard. Behind the pool tables were two doors. In faded and amateurish scroll one was labeled Gents, the other Ladies.

  Maupin was playing pool for money. There were twenty dollar bills stuffed in an empty beer glass sitting on the edge of the pool table. He was intent on his game and didn’t see us walk up. No one paid us any attention until Blackhawk sat a haunch on the corner of the table. I moved around till I was next to Maupin.

  Now everyone stopped and looked at Blackhawk.

  Maupin had been leaning over a shot. He straightened up, holding the pool stick.