Billy Bob and Hackberry Holland Ebook Boxed Set (73 page)

“It wasn't that much. I got a deal.” Ouzel looked back at his house from the shadows the tree made. When he rotated his neck, the bulbous purple swellings in his throat raking against the stiffness of his collar, his small eyes sunk into black dots, Hackberry thought he could detect an odor that was reminiscent of a violated grave or the stench given off by an incinerator in which dead animals were burned. He wondered if he was starting to step across an invisible line.

“Why you staring at me like that?” Ouzel said.

“We let you skate on the sale of illegal booze because it was easier to keep an eye on you than it was to monitor a half-dozen vendors we couldn't keep track of. But that was a big mistake on our part. You got mixed up with the dope traffickers across the river, and they've been using the back of your property as a corridor ever since. How much of your construction equipment is operational?”

“None of it. It's junk. I sell parts off it.”

“When is the last time you saw Hugo Cistranos, Ouzel?”

“I cain't say that name rings bells.”

Hackberry laid Pam Tibbs's metal baton on the hood of the car. It rolled off, bouncing on the bumper before it struck the dirt with a pinging sound. He picked it up and reset it on the hood, then grabbed it when it rolled again, resetting it until it balanced, the tiny scratches showing like cats' whiskers in the paint. He watched the baton contemplatively and moved it once more, pushing it audibly across the hood's surface. “A couple of young people were almost killed yesterday. You sicced the shooter on them. Now you're on your way to your church with your grandchildren. You're a special kind of fellow, Ouzel.” Hackberry spun the baton on the car hood the way one might spin a bottle. “What do you think we ought to do about that?”

Ouzel's eyes flicked back and forth from the baton to Hackberry's face. “About what?” he said.

“I'm going to bring a forensic team out here. They're going to examine every grader and dozer and front-end loader on the place. They'll take soil samples from the blades and buckets and treads and see if they match the soil behind the church at Chapala Crossing. If your equipment was used in a mass burial, the DNA from the dead will still be on the metal. That will make you an accessory to a mass murder. If you don't ride the needle, you'll go down for the rest of your life. I'm talking about Huntsville, Ouzel. Do you understand what kind of place Huntsville is?”

“I didn't know anything about those Asian women till I saw it on TV.”

“Who used your equipment?”

“I don't control what happens here. Sometimes I see lights in the dark at the south end of my property. Maybe somebody put one of the dozers on a flatbed and took it away. I kept the blinds shut. In the morning it was back. Other people have keys to everything I own here.”

“Which people?”

“They're in Mexico. Maybe a couple come from Arizona. They don't tell me anything. After the dozer was back, some guys came to see me.” Ouzel touched his wrist and the back of his left hand, a sorrowful light swimming into his eyes. “They—”

“They what?”

“Walked me out to my shed and put my hand in my own vise.”

“Was Hugo Cistranos one of them?”

“I don't know his last name. But the first name was Hugo.”

“Who did you call about my young friends?”

“All I got is a phone number. I don't have the name that goes with the number. When something happens, when I see something that's important, I'm supposed to call that number. Sometimes Hugo answers. Sometimes a woman. Sometimes other guys.”

“Give me the number.”

Ouzel took a ballpoint pen from his pocket and a piece of paper from his wallet, his hands shaking. He started to write on top of his car hood but instead propped one foot on the bumper and smoothed the paper on his leg and wrote out the number there so he would not risk damaging the finish on his car.

“When did you last call this number?”

“Friday.”

“When you saw Vikki Gaddis and Pete Flores?”

“I was at my brother's filling station. They were riding in Danny Boy Lorca's truck. They came in for gas.” Ouzel's eyes wandered to the baton. “Can you take that off my car?”

“Do you have any idea at all of the suffering you're party to?”

“I never made anybody suffer. I just tried to support my family. You think I want these animals running my life? I'm sorry for those women who died. But tell me this: They didn't know what happens when you become a prostitute and have yourself smuggled into somebody else's country? How about what they did to my hand? How about the trouble I'm in? I just wanted to take my grandkids to church this morning.”

Hackberry had to wait a long time before he replied. “Is there anything else you want to tell me, Ouzel?”

“I get immunity of some kind, right?”

“I'm not sure you've really given me anything. Your memory comes and goes, and a lot of what you say is incomprehensible. I also think for every true statement you make, you surround it with five lies.”

“How about this? The one they call Preacher. You know that name?”

“What about him?”

“He was here.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. He was looking for the guy named Hugo. I gave him that phone number just like I did you. It belongs to a resort or something. In the background I've heard people talking about shooting cougars and African animals, the kind that got those twisted horns on their heads. I gave it to Preacher, and he looked at it and said, ‘So that's where the little fellow is.' If you're gonna bust me, don't cuff me in front of the kids. I'll get in the cruiser on my own.”

Hackberry picked up the baton from the car hood and let it hang from his right hand. It felt heavy and light at the same time. He could feel the comfortable solid warmth of the metal in his palm and the blood throbbing in his wrist. In his mind's eye, he could see images of things breaking—glass and chrome molding and light filaments.

“Sheriff?” Ouzel said. “You won't let the kids see me in cuffs, huh?”

“Get out of my sight,” Hackberry said.

 

O
N THE WAY
back to the department, with Pam Tibbs behind the wheel, the weather started to blow. Directly to the north, giant yellow clouds were rising toward the top of the sky, dimming the mesas and hills and farmhouses in the same way a fine yellow mist would. Hackberry rolled down his window and stuck his hand into the wind stream. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees and was threaded with flecks of rain that struck his palm like sand crystals.

“When I was about twelve years old and we were living in Victoria, we had a downpour on a sunny day that actually rained fish in the streets,” he said to Pam.

“Fish?” she said.

“That's a fact. I didn't make it up. There were baitfish in the gutters. My father thought a funnel cloud probably picked up a bunch of water from a lake or the Gulf and dropped it on our heads.”

“Why are you thinking about that now?”

“No reason. It was just a good time to be around, even though those were the war years.”

She removed her sunglasses and studied the side of his face. “You're acting a little strange this morning.”

“Better keep your eyes on the road,” he said.

“What do you want to do with that phone number Ouzel gave you?”

“Find out who it belongs to, then find out everything you can about the location.”

“What are you planning to do, Hack?”

“I'm not big on seeing around corners,” he replied. He heard her drum her fingers on the steering wheel.

At the office, Maydeen Stoltz told him that Danny Boy Lorca had been picked up for public drunkenness and was sleeping it off in a holding cell upstairs. “Why didn't somebody just drive him home?” Hackberry asked.

“He was flailing his arms around in the middle of the street,” she replied. “The Greyhound almost ran over him.”

Hackberry climbed the spiral steel stairs at the back of the building and walked to the cell at the far end of the corridor where overnight
drunks were kept until they could be kicked out in the morning, usually without charges. Danny Boy was asleep on the concrete floor, his mouth and nostrils a flytrap, his hair stained with ash, his whole body auraed with the stink of booze and tobacco.

Hackberry squatted down on one haunch, gripping a steel bar for balance, a bright tentacle of light arching along his spinal cord, wrapping around his buttocks and thighs. “How you doing, partner?” he said.

Danny Boy's answer was a long exhalation of breath, tiny bubbles of saliva coming to life at the corner of his mouth.

“Both of us have got the same problem, bub. We don't belong in the era we live in,” Hackberry said. Then he felt shame at his grandiosity and self-anointment. What greater fool was there than one who believed himself the overlooked Gilgamesh of his times? He had not slept well during the night, and his dreams had taken him back once again to Camp Five in No Name Valley, where he had peered up through a sewer grate at the gargoyle-like presence of Sergeant Kwong and his shoulder-slung burp gun and quilted coat and earflapped cap, all of it backlit by a salmon-pink sunrise.

Hackberry retrieved a tick mattress from a supply closet and laid it out in front of Danny Boy's cell and lay down on top of it, his knees drawn up before him to relieve the pressure on his spine, one arm across his eyes. He was amazed at how fast sleep took him.

It wasn't a deep sleep, just one of total rest and detachment, perhaps due to his indifference toward the eccentric nature of his behavior. But his iconoclasm, if it could be called that, was based on a lesson he had learned in high school when he spent the summer at his uncle Sidney's ranch southeast of San Antonio. The year was 1947, and a California-based union was trying to organize the local farmworkers. Out of spite, because he had been threatened by his neighbors, Uncle Sidney had hired a half-dozen union hands to hoe out his vegetable acreage. Somebody had burned a cross on his front lawn, even nailing strips of rubber car tires on the beams to give the flames extra heat and duration. But rather than disengage from his feud with homegrown terrorists, Uncle Sidney had told Hackberry and an alcoholic field picker named Billy Haskel, who had pitched for Waco before the war, to mount the top of the charred cross on the roof of the pickup and chain-boom the shaft to
the truck bed. Then Uncle Sidney and Billy Haskel and Hackberry had driven all around the county, confronting every man Uncle Sidney thought might have had a hand in burning a cross on his lawn.

At the end of the day, Uncle Sidney had told Hackberry to dump the cross in a creek bed. But Hackberry had his own problems. He had been ostracized by his peers for dating a Mexican girl he picked tomatoes with in the fields. He asked his uncle if he could keep the cross on the truck for a few more days. That Saturday night he took his Mexican girlfriend to the same drive-in theater where he had already lost a bloody fistfight after the one occasion when he had tried to pretend the color line for Mexicans was any different than it was for black people.

As the twilight had gone out of the sky and the theater patrons had filtered to the concession stand in advance of the previews, Hackberry's high school friends had assembled around the pickup, leaning against its surfaces, drinking canned beer, touching the boomer chain on the cross, touching the blackened shell-like wood of the cross itself, talking louder and louder, their numbers swelling as an excoriated symbol of rejection became a source of ennoblement to all those allowed to stand in its presence. That moment and its implications would stay with Hackberry the rest of his life.

Perhaps only fifteen minutes had passed before he opened his eyes and found himself looking squarely into Danny Boy Lorca's face.

“Why were you waving your arms in the middle of the street?” Hackberry said.

“'Cause all my visions don't mean anything. 'Cause everything around us is kindling waiting to burn. A drunk man can flip a match into the weeds on the roadside and set the world on fire. Them kind of thoughts always make me go out there flapping my arms in the wind.”

Danny Boy didn't say where “there” was, and Hackberry didn't ask. Instead, he said, “But you did your job. It's on us if we don't listen to guys like you.”

“Then how come I got this gift? Just to be a wino in a white man's jail?”

“Think of it this way. Would you rather be sleeping overnight in my jailhouse or be one of those people who have no ears to hear?”

Danny Boy sat up, his thick hair like a helmet on his head, the bleariness in his eyes unrelieved. He looked at the ceiling and out into the corridor and at the clouds of yellow dust moving across the skylight. Then his head turned as he focused on Hackberry's face. His eyes seemed to possess the frosted blue sightlessness of a man with severe cataracts. “You're gonna find the man you been looking for.”

“A guy named Preacher?”

“No, it's a Chinaman, or something like a Chinaman. The guy you always wanted to kill and wouldn't admit it.”

 

“W
E'VE GOT THE
location of the phone number,” Pam said from the top of the steel stairs. “It's a game farm up by the Glass Mountains.” Her gaze wandered over Hackberry's face. “Have you been asleep?”

“I dozed off a little bit,” he said.

“You want to contact the sheriff in Pecos or Brewster?”

“See who'll give us a cruiser at the airport.”

“We're not sure Cistranos is at the game farm.”

“Somebody is there. Let's find out who they are.”

“There's something else. Maydeen got a call from a guy who wouldn't identify himself. He wouldn't talk to anyone but you. His number was blocked. She told him to hold on while she got a pad and wrote down his remarks. He hung up on her.”