Salvation Boulevard (32 page)

Suddenly, I was gasping and choking and trying to get air. I pushed myself over so I could breathe better. There was another flash of light. I was fighting for air and blinking my eyes, trying to figure out what was happening, all the feet scuffling around alongside of me. There was a pain in my side for a moment, and I realized someone was stepping on me. Three, four, five people? Four. Danny boy was stumbling, no, being dragged, into the van. They were grunting and cursing in Spanglish about his size and weight.

He started to kick and struggle.

Flash. The light again.

It was a stun gun. They'd zapped him. He spasmed. They yanked. His feet disappeared inside. The side door slid sideways from inside and shut with a slam. The black cargo van was already in gear, backing out and rolling away.

 

I hauled myself up into a sitting position and, once I was there, flopped back against Polasky's Ford for something to lean on. That
set off his car alarm—an ouuu-ah, ouuu-ah siren right against my head. I got off his car and stood up, watching the van driving away.

Then I ran to my car, jumped in, and set off to follow them.

I drove like no one should drive unless he has gumball lights on top and a siren screaming. My hands were bloody, my face was scrapped, my neck and back hurt like hell, and I was terrified that if I was stopped, I'd pop the top on the breathalyzer.

When they finally came into view, I slowed down, relaxed, and grabbed another beer to kill the pain.

They drove through the night, taking it easy, mostly about five miles over the limit when the road was clear. I had no idea where we were until we hit US 131, and they turned south, heading into Davis, where there's a crossing into Mexico.

 

We passed under a sign that said the border was coming. It's a losing proposition, chasing gangsters in Mexico. They cut off people's heads down there. But I knew I would follow them anyway. Feeling depressed about it, I finished my beer.

Then my luck changed. A half a mile before customs and immigration, they turned off 131 into the sprawl of depots and warehouses that serve the border trade.

They made a series of random turns, probably checking for a tail. I pretended to go straight after the third one, then shut off my headlights, backed up, and took the street they'd taken. I saw their taillights as they turned again. When I got to the next corner, they were gone.

I started cruising around. I'm not sure for how long—twenty, thirty minutes, another beer anyway. Up in the northeast portion, which was dotted with empty lots and where many of the buildings looked like they weren't being used, I spotted a black van that I thought might be theirs. I turned and drove past, and as my headlights swept by, I thought I caught a glimpse of someone standing outside, smoking and casually holding an automatic weapon in his other hand. Just a glimpse. I drove on by and kept going two more
streets before I turned, turned again, and headed back, lights out, to come around behind the building.

 

I left my car in the dark, a few hundred yards away from the back of the warehouse and went the rest of the way on foot, using the shadows and the dark for cover.

I made it to the building safely. The back wall was blank as best as I could see. I felt nostalgic for Jesus. If still I believed, I would have prayed, but on the other hand, I would've been sober and probably known better than to be there. Might've called 911 or something sensible like that.

I crept around the corner and started making my way along the side of the building. There were two overflowing dumpsters and lots of litter on the ground: bottles, cans, boxes, crates and old pallets, a busted up office chair, and a still-shiny porcelain urinal. I stepped carefully to avoid kicking a can or breaking a bottle—or tripping and falling on my face. About twenty feet along, I found a door. It would be stupid to try it, because if it opened, I had no idea what it would open on—three guys with guns probably. But I tried it anyway. Luck, not Jesus, just blind luck, was with me; it was locked. What I needed was a window.

There were none. What the hell did they do for air? Vents. Up on the roof. If I had a ladder, I could get up on the roof. If I had a hammer, I could build a ladder. Well, if I put a pallet on top of one of the dumpsters, the one closest to the wall, I could use the pallet for a ladder. If I could do that quietly enough, the guard wouldn't discover me and shoot me. It was, without a doubt, an excellent plan, and I proceeded to put it into effect.

Standing on top of the pallet, which was on top of the dumpster, I was able to reach the top of the roof. I grabbed on and began to haul myself up, my feet scrambling for some extra purchase. My hands were in terrible shape, but sufficient beer kills all sorts of pain. It doesn't make you graceful, but it does kill the pain.

With a jerk, I got myself up to armpit height, flung my arms out flat on the roof and was able to hang that way and catch my breath. I
didn't think I could go down without crashing and clanging, so there was nowhere to go but forward. And up ahead, catching the light, were shining aluminum vents, those cylindrical things with spiral cuts that let the heat rise up and have fans inside to help move it along.

Better not to dangle there too long. There wasn't much to grip onto. I clawed and heaved and wiggled until I got my chest and abdomen up. From there it was easy. I just sort of rolled over at an angle, and my legs followed, and I kept rolling, and there I was on the roof.

 

I could hear voices. One of them sounded like Danny. That was good. It would've been a bitch if I'd crawled up there and all they were doing was smuggling illegals and cocaine. I crept up to the vent.

“Will you give me something, give me something for this? It hurts,” Danny said.

“When we're done, got a whole bottle of Percs for you, soon as you tell us everything,” someone with a Mexican accent said.

“I'm telling you . . . I'm telling you everything I know,” Danny said. Clearly, they'd been at this awhile. “Mostly all we did was keep an eye on the girls.”

“Plowright's girls.”

“Yeah, like I said. Nobody said they were Plowright's girls, but that was obvious.”

“Nicole Chandler, what about her?”

“We watched her a couple of times. All she did was go to church and go to work and go to some class at USW.”

“You snatch her?”

“No, man, not us—”

“You and Eduardo?”

“Yeah, me and Eddie, never did nothing to her.”

“The other girls?”

“If they got out of line, we straightened 'em out. We've been doing it for about a year now, year and a half. Would you give me one of them now? Just one, man. Come on.”

“You come on, Danielito, come on. How'd you straighten 'em out?” I had to look if I could. I tried lifting the vent up. It wouldn't go. I felt around the base. It was held in place with simple metal screws. I searched in my pocket for some change, looking for a dime, hoping it was thin enough to do the job. I found one and began to work it into the slot of the nearest screw.

“The usual—slap 'em around. If that di'n't work, a little more serious. One of them was stubborn. We spent the night with her, a nice blondie, about C-cups, real ones, none of your gel packs, you know. When we were done, she left the state. Never came back no more. Bye-bye.”

“How did you decide who to lean on?”

“We get the word. Jeremiah says, we do. This motherfucker hurts, man. Please.”

“Stop whining,
chilito.
Just talk. What about the money? Tell me about the hundreds of millions,
chilito.
”

“I don't know anything about that. I don't.”

“Then why were you watching Plowright's girls.”

“He's the meal ticket, man. He rakes in the big bucks. They're getting rich over there. You ever see Jeremiah's ride? That Hummer? The preacher banging the choirgirls—same old shit—kills the golden goose. At least it's not the choirboys. But hey, that's a Catholic priest thing, right?”

A beat later Danny yelled, then whined, “You don't have to hurt me. Come on.”

Meantime, I'd gotten one screw loose and out, and I was starting on the second.

“You only raped the one of them? Is that right? Just one? Tell me true, or you know what I'm gonna do.”

“Come on, man, come on. You got my fingers, man. I'll tell you whatever you want. Two. Alright, two. What do you care how many got porked? It was just Plowright was getting out of control, you know, with the babes, and Jeremiah said we just hadda keep a lid on.”

The second screw was easier. Maybe I was just getting better at it. Once I got it loose, I was able to turn it with my fingertips.

“You were up at the prison saying you were Homeland Security. How'd you do that?”

“That was fuckin' amazing,” Danny said with some enthusiasm, in spite of whatever he was going through. “Right, we walked in. I mean, Jeremiah took my old ID when I was CPB, right? And he used that to make up this ID that said Homeland Security. Well, fuck, man, nobody knows what a Homeland Security Terrorist Task Force ID looks like, and there's nobody you can check with'cause it doesn't exist, or I don't think it does, and if it did, they wouldn't answer 'cause it's the War on Terror and they don't have to tell nobody shit. If you want the ID, hey, I'll give it to you, just for one of those Percs, man. This is, like, throbbing.”

“If you would tell me about the money, you could have all the pills you want.”

“I would tell you if I knew, man. I would. I really would.”

The third screw was done. I felt around the base, and that seemed to be all there was. Now, could I lift the vent off without being discovered? I began to gently pull and sort of work it back and forth. It was tight at first, from just sitting there for who knows how long, but then it began to move, and once it started, it came pretty easily. I put it down and bent over to look in.

There was a fan inside, and I couldn't see much through the blades and wire mesh underneath. But I could make out Danny. There was a bright light shining on him. The rest of the place looked pretty dark. He was naked, sitting in a chair. It looked like his feet were tied to it, and there was something around his chest. His big arms were free, but he was clutching his right hand with his left, holding it tight to his chest. A rag, his shirt, was wrapped around his right hand, and it was muddy red, blood soaked.

“What else did you do for Hobson?”

“There was this one other weird thing . . . alright, I'll tell you, I'll tell you. We snatched this haji, and we took him up in a plane—some
private jet, maybe Plowright's, but I don't know. I'm just a fuckin' grunt—you know, do this, do that, yes sir, no sir, whatever the fuck you say sir. Yeah, we got 'im up in the plane, wired his dick to a battery, like in sand land, got him to confess to killing some guy, that professor guy, and then we brought him to the prison and said to hold him.”

That was it. I'd done it. I had my witness!

“Good story,” I heard the interrogator say. “I like that story so much, you can have some Percs.”

“Thank you, man,” Danny said.

I was already on my way. I'd go in and grab him, gun blazing if I had to. Before I went over the edge, I had a moment of good sense. I called 911 and whispered that a man had been kidnapped and was being held in a warehouse. I gave the cross streets. The operator tried to ask more questions, but I hung up, looked over for the pallet and dumpster, found my position, and started to slide over.

I hung from the lip and felt around with my feet for the slats.

I touched them, let go, and tried to fall forward, toward the wall. That was successful, but the slat I was standing on broke, and then I was sliding down on the pallet, trying to cling to the concrete block wall, tearing up my hands even more. The pallet skidded out from under me, and I crashed-landed on the dumpster with a huge metallic clang. I stopped there, on my hands and knees again, got my gun out and hoped the police would come before I got killed.

I let myself down off the dumpster, got up against the wall, and edged forward, making my way to the front.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of the warehouse doors opening and the voices of the interrogator and one or two others. They were coming
out. I had to move. I jogged toward them, my feet stumbling over trash and blown papers, holding my gun out in front of me.

I got to the corner in time to see two men pile into the back of the van, one of them carrying a bag. A third climbed into the front seat beside the driver. Danny wasn't with them. I ducked down and let them peel out, then rushed into the warehouse.

 

I smelled it before I saw it. Burning gasoline.

Fire rose from a wide splash across the warehouse floor. The flames lit up the abandoned interior, and the heat came at me in waves. A wall of flame was between me and Danny—my witness, Ahmad Nazami's salvation—and then a new smell came to me, like roasting meat. The building was beginning to burn too, and it would only get worse.

I ran to the side to get around it, or at least through the least of it. Then I charged forward, holding my arm up over my face. I felt like the fire was cooking me, and the fumes were getting in my lungs, and it was hard to breath.

When I got past the worst of the fire into an open place, I stopped and gasped for breath. I looked back and saw that it had spread wider, and flames were beginning to climb up the walls. I turned to my left, looking for Danny.

He sat, unmoving, as the flames danced around the base of his chair, starting to cook his bound feet, as if a sacrilegious modern artist had inserted a naked muscleman into a medieval painting of a Catholic martyr being burnt at the stake.