The Contractors Page 19

  “We were stopped in Tijuana,” Ernesto said.

  “I know.” Raul took a sip of whiskey. “The man you shot was related to the Camel.”

  “What a shame.” Ernesto didn’t sound like he thought it was a shame at all.

  Another period of silence. They drank scotch while Raul’s daughter popped bubble wrap, laughing uproariously at each tiny explosion.

  “The guards foiled a kidnapping attempt yesterday.” Raul pointed to his youngest child.

  “No.” Ernesto gasped, crossed himself. “Such a precious child.”

  “The Camel’s people gave us warning the day before.” Raul paused. “And today I had to apologize to him for what you did in Tijuana.”

  “I am sorry. My temper, it’s—” Ernesto rubbed his eyes. “Never mind.”

  Raul strolled across the room and patted his daughter’s head. The anger lessened.

  “I am tired of this life, not being who I am,” Ernesto said. “I am going away as well.”

  “New York City.” Raul nodded. “Such a vibrant place.”

  Ernesto had a lover in Manhattan and talked often of leaving Mexico and the family business. He wanted to move to New York where homosexuals did not suffer the persecution that they did in Latin America. Raul could hardly blame him.

  “I’ve taken care of what you asked me to,” Ernesto said. “The Senator and our investment in the Camel’s organization.”

  Raul nodded.

  “Two days from now.” Ernesto put down his glass. “I have a flight from Houston to New York.”

  Raul looked at the boxes that still needed to be packed and then at the calendar on his smart phone. He was going to have to go to the United States and secure their relationship with this Senator.

  McNally thought he was simply getting a consulting firm’s services in order to help with an upcoming election.

  The other side of the equation was that the consulting firm, a front for the Banco Manzanares and its largest depositor, was gaining the ear of a high-ranking politician’s operation, something that would help the bank and the Camel control the anarchy engulfing the border, a desirable turn of events for everyone involved, including Senator Stephen McNally.

  He sighed and finished his drink.

  If you wanted something done correctly, you had to do it yourself.

  PART III

  “The global war on drugs has failed, with devastating consequences for individuals and societies around the world.”

  —Report of the Global Commission on Drug Policy, June 2011

  “The war on drugs is a failure. But that doesn’t mean we should stop the fight, at least not right now at this critical juncture. I’ve seen what drugs do. My s-s-son… excuse me, I’m sorry… as I was saying, my son died from an overdose.… My question to the hawks is this: Where’s our compassion? Where’s the kindness that America’s known for?”

  —US Senator Stephen McNally, Piers Morgan Tonight, May 2012

  - CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX -

  An hour later, I used the smallest road I could find to cut across the western leg of Interstate 35, an underpass by the tiny farming town of Grandview.

  Piper had left a message at a number in Houston, the voice on the answering machine that of an elderly woman. She’d said for whoever heard the message to contact the Dallas Police regarding Katherine Ramirez, Eva’s sister, and an urgent matter. Under the circumstances, the best we could do.

  There were no traffic lights or roadside junction boxes. Nothing electronic that could house an RFID tag reader. Just crumbling blacktop and a concrete embankment that supported the highway leading to Fort Worth. The embankment had been tagged by graffiti, faded, loopy letters that read SENIORS 1997 RULE!

  The town itself was a blur, a few white clapboard houses with porch swings, a Dollar General store across from a Dairy Queen, a couple of service stations. A church steeple in the distance. Once on the other side of the city limits, a county sheriff’s car passed going the other way. The driver waved. I waved back.

  The government Tahoe was going to be a problem the farther we traveled away from large metropolitan areas. I’d switched out our original plates, substituting a backup pair kept for just such an emergency, so the APB for our license number wasn’t an immediate problem. We had some breathing room. Hours or days, who knew?

  Eventually, they would track us to the purchase of the new battery at the auto parts store in Plano, and the serial number on the RFID tag would be put on high alert at scanners across Texas. Would that happen today or next week? Again, hard to say.

  I drove on while the two women slept. Stayed far enough south to skirt Cleburne, a county seat, and Glen Rose, home to Comanche Peak Nuclear Power Plant, both locales most likely full of prying ears and eyes. Stayed well north of Fort Hood, the largest military base in the world, for the same reason.

  Radio reception grew patchy, hellfire-and-damnation preachers mixed with country music and a few Spanish-language stations.

  Three hours later, after zigzagging across the rocky landscape of Central Texas, I stopped somewhere past Hico at a dilapidated little place called the Alamo General Store, a gas station and barbecue joint that looked like it should have dried up years ago from lack of traffic.

  My eyelids were heavy. The diet pills had faded.

  The stucco building sat on a flat spot between a pair of limestone bluffs, on a two-lane county road. It was old. Gas pumps from a different era, mechanical dials, faded and worn hoses, sat across from a rack of tires and a soft drink machine that should have been in an antique store.

  I parked to the side by the restrooms, near a cluster of hackberry trees that partially shaded an ancient Airstream travel trailer. The odds of this place having a video surveillance system were infinitesimal, but you couldn’t be too careful. The odds were zero they would have cameras guarding the toilets.

  Piper yawned and stretched. “Where are we?”

  “Welcome to Ass-Crack, Texas.” I shut off the ignition. “Your turn to drive.”

  The engine ticked, cooling. Eva was still asleep.

  I stretched in my seat. “We should—”

  “Gotta hit the head,” Piper interrupted, opened her side and jumped out.

  “… get new wheels.” I finished the sentence, watched her slam the women’s room door.

  It had been a calculated risk, the need to get as far from Dallas as possible versus secure transportation.

  “How do you plan to get a new vehicle?” Eva yawned in the back, awake now.

  “There’s a town not too far away.” I held up a map. “We can find something there.”

  Brownwood had a population of about twenty thousand, guaranteeing at least a couple of used car lots where cash would trump the rules about title work and ID verification, items that could be handled at a later date, like, say, never.

  I got out of the Tahoe and stretched. Then I opened the rear door.

  “We’re five miles past the middle of nowhere,” I said. “Don’t be stupid and try to run.”

  She nodded and exited the SUV, stretching as well. She wobbled, unsteady on her feet, and fell toward me.

  I caught her before she hit the ground, an arm around her torso.

  “Sorry.” She grasped my shoulder. “My leg was asleep.”

  I held onto her, helped her stand. She stamped her foot.

  Piper came out of the women’s restroom.

  Eva and I stood by the side of the Tahoe. Eva’s head was pressed against my shoulder, my arm around her waist.

  “It’s a one-holer, no lock on the door.” Piper regarded us with a quizzical expression. “The window’s nailed shut.”

  I let go of Eva. “You’re gonna be cool, right?”

  She nodded. Tested her foot.

  “Okay.” I pointed to the door.

  Eva looked at each of us for a moment and then limped into the bathroom. The door shut.

  “Her foot was asleep,” I said.

  “Did you wake it up for her?
”

  Neither of us spoke for a moment.

  “We’re making good time.” Piper opened a map, spread it on the hood. “If we’re traveling by covered wagon.”

  “You know as well as me how much heat there’s gonna be on the interstate.” I sat on the bumper.

  “Whatever.” Piper opened a bottle of water. “I’m ready for this trip to be over and we’ve just started.”

  A midnineties Ford Explorer with peeling tint on the windows rattled to a stop under the canopy by the gas pumps, the only traffic we’d seen in a half hour. The vehicle was faded red except for the rear quarter panel, which was Bondo color.

  “I forgot to tell you.” Piper arched her back, stretching. “The PI sent me an email. Said there might be a line on my mom.”

  “What PI?” I looked at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “You never listen to me.” She took a drink.

  The back door of the Ford opened and a woman in her early twenties got out, a cigarette in one hand, a toddler on the opposite hip. She wore goth eye shadow and an orange-and-white striped shirt, a Whataburger uniform. Enough metal studs in her ears to set off an airport detector.

  “You hired somebody to look for your mom?” I shook my head. “Oh, Piper. Let it go.”

  Our access to the most sophisticated databases in the world had failed to yield a single lead to Piper’s birth mother. The woman was either in the French Foreign Legion or dead, very likely during childbirth. Yet the lack of information didn’t stop Piper from searching, a terminal cancer patient grasping at ever more desperate straws.

  The toddler began to cry, and the woman yelled at someone inside the Ford, her voice shrill. She leaned over and stuck the kid back in the truck. Then she yelled some more, an angry conversation with whoever was in the vehicle.

  From across the parking lot, a few key terms were audible, evidently a shopping list. Mac-and-cheese. Cigarettes. Maxi-fucking-pads.

  “Must be debutante season.” I yawned.

  The goth woman straightened up and looked around. She had a teardrop tattoo in the corner of one eye and appeared to be missing at least two teeth. She flicked her cigarette away and walked to the women’s restroom.

  “Somebody’s in there.” Piper stood. “She’ll be out in a second.”

  Goth Chick didn’t hear or care. She entered the restroom and shut the door.

  “Just what we need.” I got to my feet, shook my head. “A tussle with the locals.”

  - CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN -

  I watched as Goth Girl came flying out of the women’s restroom, one shoulder of her Whataburger uniform torn.

  “What the hell?” She fell to the ground. “Goddamn bitch.”

  Eva strode out, a foil package the size of a matchbook between thumb and forefinger.

  “Hey, that’s mine.” Goth Girl tried to stand.

  Eva placed the sole of one foot against the woman’s chest. Shoved her back.

  Piper sighed. “Usually I love me a good cat fight.”

  “What’s your problem?” Goth Girl rolled away, stood.

  Eva slapped her, hard, an open palm to the cheek.

  I winced and approached the two women, wondering how big of a trail this little altercation was going to leave. Initial guesstimate: too damn big.

  “Shit. Who the—” Goth Girl covered her face with a forearm, swung wildly with her free hand. “Damn crazy ass—”

  Eva grabbed her wrist, slung her back to the ground.

  “Do you know why the babies cry in the barrios?” She knelt beside Goth Girl.

  Goth Girl didn’t speak. She inched backward, eyes wide with fear.

  “They’re orphans.” Eva grabbed the girl’s pinky, twisted. “Their parents die because of the narcotraficantes.”

  “Owwww,” Goth Girl whined, face scrunched in pain. “You’re hurting my finger.”

  Piper stood next to me. At the word “orphan” she’d tensed.

  “The older ones have to beg for food.” Eva twisted a little more. “Or worse.”

  “Pleeease.” Goth Girl arched her back. “You’re breaking it.”

  “Just so you could have this.” Eva held up the foil package in her free hand.

  “Take-it-for-god’s-sake-it’s-yours,” Goth Girl said. “JUST LET GO OF MY FINGER!”

  Piper moved to the other side of the two women.

  “Enough.” I grabbed Eva’s shoulder. “You made your point.”

  “How do you know what my point is?” She pushed my hand away. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  Her eyes were hard, the soft vulnerability that had been there earlier replaced by something brittle and cold. A thousand untold stories lurked beneath the surface, crevices of hurt best left unexposed. In that instant, she reminded me of Piper.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “She asked if I wanted some.” Eva let go of the woman’s finger. “Had it out, ready.”

  “You lying skank.” Goth Girl got tough again. “I so wasn’t gonna give—Hey, what the hell are you doing?”

  “You’re under arrest.” Piper slapped the bracelets on the woman.

  “Oh crap. You guys are the heat?” She struggled against the cuffs. “I totally can’t get another bust on my record.”

  “Time and a place for everything, Piper.” I took the foil from Eva’s grasp. “And this would not be the most opportune moment for an arrest.”

  The driver’s door of the Explorer opened and a woman in a faded housedress got out.

  She was gigantic, the size of a sumo wrestler. Caucasian, age hard to pin down because of the rolls of fat. Somewhere between thirty and fifty. Orange hair, gray roots. A mole the size of a bumblebee on the second of three chins.

  “What’s going on out here?” She waddled over.

  The mole had a tail, a half dozen inch-long whiskers wafting in the breeze.

  “Ma’am, get back in your vehicle.” I badged her.

  “That’s my baby.” She pointed to Goth Girl.

  “Mama, they gonna throw me in jail.” Goth Girl was crying.

  “You have the right to remain silent.” Piper slung the handcuffed woman over the hood of our Tahoe. “Anything you say may be—”

  “A word, por favor.” I grabbed my partner’s arm, pushed her toward the small stand of trees growing up against the limestone bluff. She grumbled and stalked away. As she went, I shoved Eva in the backseat and cuffed her.

  “What about my daughter?” Sumo Mama said.

  “Open your mouth again, and you’re both going to jail.” I followed Piper behind a tree, out of earshot.

  We were in a small clearing along with a couple dozen empty beer cans and an elderly television set with a broken screen.

  “What in the heck are you doing?” I opened the foil pack.

  Piper’s face was blank, eyes empty, the expression she always had when things were seething on the inside.

  The foil package contained several small nuggets of opaque material, each about the size of a pencil eraser. Crystal meth. Hillbilly crack.

  “Enforcing the law.” She held up her badge. “That’s what we do, right?”

  I dropped the drugs into a small puddle of greasy water, ground them with the sole of my shoe.

  “Orphans. Did you hear what she said?” Piper snorted. “What does she know about my life?”

  “She wasn’t talking about you.”

  Neither of us spoke for a few moments.

  “A day or so longer.” I touched her arm. “This will all be over. One way or the other.”

  “You didn’t remember about my mother?” She pushed my hand away.

  “You’re trying to find your mom; got that. I didn’t know you’d hired a PI, that’s all.”

  “Well, I told you.” She sniffed, arms crossed.

  “I’m sure you did.” I rolled my eyes. “And I’m an insensitive jerk for not remembering.”

  Neither of us spoke for a few moments.

  “We could r
un, you know.” I leaned against a tree. “Drop Eva at the next town and hit the road for wherever.”

  “The money, Jon. We need the cash.”

  I tried not to think about how long my father had before a biopsy became immaterial.

  “This sucks.” She brushed back her hair. “We’re neck-deep in the bad stuff.”

  I nodded.

  “And we’re all alone,” she said. “Even when we’re together.”

  - CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT -

  I surveyed the scene.

  Goth Girl was still leaning against the hood of the Tahoe, handcuffed. Sumo Mama stood beside her, a cell phone pressed against her ear. An attendant from the service station was present too, a guy in his fifties wearing a khaki uniform, heavy, black-framed glasses, and a barely there comb-over.

  Eva was still cuffed in the back of the truck.

  I took the cell phone from the obese woman and pressed End.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  “A felony amount of methamphetamine.” I gave her back the phone. “That’s what your daughter had in her possession.”

  The attendant gulped. “I need to call my boss.”

  “No.” I aimed a finger at his face. “You’re not calling anybody.”

  Piper uncuffed Goth Girl.

  I pointed to the two women. “You’re both gonna get back in your vehicle and go home and make sure that kid has a good meal tonight.”

  They didn’t speak.

  “If you don’t, then I’m coming back and taking both of you to jail.”

  Sumo Mama nodded. She grabbed Goth Girl’s hand and pulled her toward the Ford Explorer and the child waiting inside. The two women got in and sped off.

  Piper hopped in the driver’s seat of the Tahoe and pulled under the canopy. She began to refuel our tank.

  “My cousin.” The attendant looked at me. “He’s a deputy for this county.”

  I didn’t say anything. We couldn’t even stop once in a row without leaving a wake.

  “Should I call him?” The attendant scratched his chin.

  “No.” I shook my head. “That won’t be necessary.”