The Famous and the Dead (18 page)

“He is a good man.”

“He has treated you very poorly. He has forced you to the edge of death with his own weakness and shame. Yet El Tigre has seen a way for you to live.”

Caesar looked toward the pasture. He wiped a tear from under each eye, then took a deep breath. “You just pull the trigger?”

Herredia offed the safety and placed the gun in front of the man. Then the tequila. Bradley tapped his fingers on the nine. Caesar drank deeply, then stood. “Only two months ago everything was good. There were no drugs hidden in our cars and my friend Arturo was not about to die.”

“Think about your debts,” said Herredia. “Think about a future that has great riches no matter how much your wife gambles and spends. Or how many degrees your daughter needs to have. Caesar, be a man. If you hesitate much longer I'm going to be very happy to shoot you both.”

Caesar took up the .50 caliber and walked past the cantina and the poolside
palapas
and onto the road. Bradley could see him stop and look back, and beyond him he saw Arturo still gesticulating and Felipe with the shotgun on him. Arturo's voice, shrill and angry, came in fragments. Caesar trudged toward them and Bradley heard the road gravel rasping under his shoes.

“Will Felipe kill him?” asked Bradley.

“Only if he loses his courage.”

Bradley watched Caesar approach the two men. There were still fifty feet between them. Arturo turned and said something and Felipe didn't move. Caesar answered, still advancing. Arturo spoke again and his voice ended on the upsweep of a question. Caesar began talking fast but Bradley could only catch a few words, something about the truck and getting back to Hermosillo and their
esposas
. Arturo exclaimed something to the old man and proudly slammed his fist to his own chest. He took one step toward the new Fords, then an orange blast from the Desert Eagle blew him like a rag into the pasture fence. He shrieked and thrashed awhile, then his head sagged forward with the great exit of his life. His coat sleeves caught up on the barbs so his arms and body slid only partially free and he hung there, half in and half out of his coat, with the dark liquid blooming on his white shirt.

“Now
both
men can be trusted!” boomed Herredia.

Bradley watched as Felipe sprang forward and tore the gun away from Caesar, who did not move to stop him. The old man came scampering down the road toward them, his gargoyle face delighted in the moonlight. Bradley saw that Caesar had knelt and wrapped his arms around his friend. His lamentations arrived in a cadence broken by the breeze.

B
r
adley was ready to set off at sunrise on three hours' sleep, sitting high in the tractor cockpit as Baja California came alive in the clean pink light. He'd always liked driving eighteen-wheelers, and was taught to handle them by one of his uncles, who drove long hauls for a living. At age sixteen, Bradley had stolen a big rig from a drunken operator at a truck stop. Just a joyride, really, though he had gone all the way to Reno. But this morning's ride was an even bigger joy: $24,000 stashed in a toolbox, another ten thousand cash coming at Castro Ford, followed by the greatest joy of all, Erin. He'd have time to buy her something nice.

He had a tall mug of strong Mexican coffee between his legs and the nine-millimeter holstered under the seat. Herredia waved like a proud father, two pretty women standing on either side of him, one of them the gringa who'd been knocked into the pool. Bradley picked his way through the first few gears, felt the great tonnage pressing from behind him like something untamed. Two gunships, four men each, rumbled along up ahead, and two more trailed behind. They'd get him as far as the first paved road, then the way north would be secured by various state police. Dust rose around him. The
cardón
cacti, tall and singular, passed his windows slowly, then less slowly, then not so slowly at all and El Dorado was gone.

He drove Highway 1 west through the spectacular Baja desert. The clouds were dark blue but through them sunlight slanted down in bright girders. The beauty of it fought his nerves to a draw. He listened to Mexican songs on the radio and thought of Erin.

Off Highway 3 he stopped in a village with a lovely old church because he suddenly wanted to say a simple prayer in the house of His Lord. Maybe mention poor Arturo. He set his hat on the seat beside him and climbed down from the tractor. He checked the pigtail, then walked the length of the double-deck trailer, eyeing the tie-downs and chains, three per automobile.

The church was of minor historic note because it was made almost entirely of copper. The door was copper-covered wood inlaid with a full-length stained-glass image of Saint Francis of Assisi. There were birds on his shoulders and a lamb and a lion at his feet. Bradley pulled open the door and stepped inside, smelled the soot and smoke of many candles, the decades of incense, the faint earthy scent of the pavers.

He sat in the back row of pews and looked at the simple altar and the communion table with its wooden candelabras and folded white towels. High on the chancel a bleeding Jesus hung on his cross. Bradley began the Lord's Prayer but as soon as he thought
Our Father
a wave of nausea broke over him and his face went cold. He felt dread. He bent over slightly and looked at the floor, reviewing what he'd eaten for breakfast at El Dorado: ham and eggs and tortillas and grapefruit juice. He had always had an iron stomach and was proud of it. The nausea passed so he knelt as his mother, a very lapsed Catholic, used to do on the family's rare excursions to church.

He began his prayer again, but he felt his stomach turning over and the cold flash of sweat on his back, and again he had to stop at
Our Father
. Bad ham? It had tasted fine. Too much coffee? That was hours ago. Maybe it was just the pressure of smuggling over a ton of drugs into the United States. And all that cash. If convicted he'd get, what, fifteen years? Twenty? He thought of the Blands. What if they really weren't off the job? What if Dez had changed her mind? Dread nagged him. Could this be some kind of delayed reaction to last night's murder of Arturo? Certainly not the first killing he'd seen, and he'd never had such a reaction before. Then he wondered if this might be Mike Finnegan's Declaration of Parity coming back to bite him.
Asinine
, he thought. The second wave of nausea left him breathing faster and more heavily, and even when he straightened his back and felt all his weight being borne by his knees he couldn't quite seem to get his breath.

Movement on the floor beside him caught his eye and he looked down at the red diamond rattlesnake inching toward him across the pavers. It was very small, no more than eight inches long. Wide head, thin neck. It was nearly the same brick red as the floor, but its diamonds were outlined in white and black and its tail had black and white rings. The pupils were elliptical. The rattle was but two small buttons. Bradley was conversant with the behavior of some snakes, having lived on the Valley Center property for much of his life, where he had observed that in spring and summer the rattlesnakes were active, less so in the fall, and in winter were almost never out moving around unless it was very warm or very late in the season. This February activity was unusual. The day was cool. The snake approached slowly with its tiny tongue darting in and out and made small directional adjustments, but its course was directly at Bradley.

Suddenly the nausea hit again. Using the back of the pew in front of him Bradley pulled himself off the padded prayer kneeler and stepped into the aisle and stumbled for the exit. Outside he rounded the building and bent over with his hands on his knees in the cool shade. But the nausea passed again, and he straightened and felt the blood coming back to his face. Settling into his seat in the tractor, he had a headache but no longer felt sick. He glanced at Saint Francis of Assisi and wondered what had just happened in there.

•   •   •

By eight thirty, he had passed through both Mexican and U.S. customs with only cursory inspections. Both sets of officials had cheerful words about the high quality of the new Fords made in Mexico but neither asked why he'd driven nearly five hundred miles out of his way, or endured the tedious Guaymas–to–Santa Rosalía ferry, instead of just crossing at Nogales. He felt safe in using his cell phone now that he was stateside, and his heart fluttered when he saw that Erin had left him not one but three texts.
Thomas turned! No caesarean needed! Due in eight days and I feel very happy right now!

Shifting quickly through the low gears as he left the customs plaza, Bradley felt the great weight of his dread diminishing and he noticed that his headache was gone and his hands were no longer so tightly clenched to the wheel. El Centro was just little over an hour out. He set his phone on the seat beside him and voice-dialed Erin.

H
ood
cruised by Castro Ford and saw that Israel's Flex was parked up front. He continued down the street and made two right turns that brought him again to the back side of the lot, the parts-and-service yard and the new-car intake bay. The bay looked ready for the nine-thirty delivery—all three rolling doors up and Israel and two other men all standing out in the cool morning sunshine, smoking and checking their watches and kicking around one of the promotional Castro Ford soccer balls that Hood had seen in the showroom. Again he pictured a life as a car salesman should his law enforcement career not pan out.

He parked well away in the meager shade of a stand of greasewoods and rolled down the windows. The greasewoods gave off a clean scent but Hood knew from a boyhood of shooting doves from the shade of Bakersfield windbreaks that they were greasy and home to all manner of spiders, scorpions, ticks, and other biting things. Dug into the bank of fallen greasewood needles he saw a silk-lined cavern in which a fat spider sat. Then another. Looking through his camera he could see the men still horsing around with the ball, Israel apparently the best athlete. Hood shot a couple of pictures.

At 9:43, Hood saw the big tractor-trailer coming down the avenue toward him, the new cars catching the sun. He raised the camera and saw the Hermosillo Fusions and Ford Tauruses and Lincoln MKZs tethered tightly but still rocking slightly against their moorings. The sun was just high enough now to blast into the powerful lens of the camera, and Hood had to hold it low to get a look at the drivers.

There was only one driver this time. No man in an olive suit, no man in a blue Ford shirt. Just Bradley Jones, signaling his turn and throwing his weight into the downshift, sending a plume of gray smoke out the stacks above him.

Hood smiled and let the motor drive rip.

B
radle
y and Erin sat in the courtyard of Hood's Buenavista adobe. Bradley saw Gabriel Reyes loitering in the kitchen inside, peeking through the window intermittently at them. Bradley saluted him. He wondered what Hood was doing on this fine day. Working his ass off for not much reward, was Bradley's guess; probably wondering where Congressman Grossly had gotten such good documentation of the Love 32 fiasco from three years back. And wait until Hood got a load of Dez's Yucatán dossier, and a likely investigative exposé by his admirer Theresa Brewer at Fox News. Amazing how Mike could look and plan ahead. Not just weeks and months, but
years.
As he had done for his mother, Suzanne. And if Mike was to be believed, for many others. The biggest question about Mike was, could he be trusted? And the answer was, of course,
too late
.

“So, what are bathroom-products people like?” asked Erin.

“They vary.”

“I don't like you spending time with Mike. No matter how many good things Owens has to say about him. I think the truth about Mike is closer to the way Charlie tells it. And he's got that scar to prove it. Was she there, Owens?”

“Of course. The two peas.”

“Did Mike try to get you two together?”

“Of course not. Why would you ask that?”

“I always had the feeling that he wished I was her. So he'd have more control over you. She's very beautiful and mysterious. Are you tempted by her?”

“I'm tempted by you.”

Her smile was faint but a smile nonetheless. Without asking permission he reached over and placed his hand over her distended middle. She closed her eyes. His heart was beating strong and hard. Sitting on the table near them was the Victorian-style wrought-iron birdcage and two blue parakeets he'd bought cowered together on a perch as far from the humans as they could get.

“Why parakeets?” she asked.

“Why not parakeets?”

“They don't look super happy.”

“They're the happiest creatures on earth. These two are just afraid. It will take them a little time to get used to the new cage. Then they'll sing to you. See, they'll sing for you, the singer. They can live to fifteen. Thomas will be just about ready for his learner's permit.”

She opened her eyes. Bradley studied the blue surfaces of them and wondered exactly what she was thinking. He told her about his last few days of working the STAR Unit. He talked up the value of the program for troubled as well as untroubled youth. He spoke highly of Gail Padilla. He thought of the $34,000 stashed in the spare-tire well of his Porsche, which had been waiting for him at Castro Ford. Not only waiting but washed, as Herredia had promised. It was good seeing Israel again after so many years, he thought. A good businessman. Then Bradley had a fleeting image of El Tigre and the two women standing there at El Dorado just six short hours ago.

“What are you smiling at?” she asked.

“The way the sunlight makes your hair shine.”

“Gabe says it's the avocados he puts in the salads.”

“You talk girl stuff with Gabriel?”

“He's got four daughters and four granddaughters.”

Bradley nodded. “I hope to have daughters and granddaughters someday. What did Dr. David say this morning?”

“Everything is fine. Now that he's turned I can have him without a surgery. It's exactly eight days until he's due. I think he's going to make it real clear when he's coming. He seems . . . assured.”

“I love you.”

“You're immature and deceitful and reckless.”

“Those days are over. Behold the new Bradley Jones.” He took her hand and kissed the back of it lightly, then closed his eyes and let the winter sun warm his face. For the first time in four months, since her ordeal in Yucatán, Erin let her hand stay in his for longer than ten seconds. He felt his heart large in his chest and he knew his luck had changed and he knew he was going to write himself back into her book of days. He would be the best father in the history of Western civilization.

•   •   •

Back in Valley Center that evening Bradley took the dogs on a long run down to the creek on the far side of the property. He rode a noisy ATV with a toolbox in back and kept to the fence lines, checking the sensors and electrified wires. Never again, he thought, never again will someone breech this border. The dogs bounded along with him, all twelve, led by Call, a Husky–Saint Bernard mix. The dogs were all dragging their tongues by the time they got back to the house. The Labradors waded, panting, into the pond to drink chest deep, while the others lapped noisily at the edge.

Suddenly he heard someone calling his name from across the pond. The dogs heard it too and they stopped their drinking and perked their ears. The woman was older and small and from what he could see she was wearing an old-fashioned Victorian dress. He actually rubbed his eyes but it did no good. Eva. She waved and called out his name again and started out around the pond toward him. The dogs charged around the water toward her, led by Call, but when they reached the small woman she raised her hand confidently and they halted and some sat and some crept up to her but didn't quite touch their noses to her dress. Bradley came up behind them. “How in the hell did you get past the fence?”

“I jumped over it.”

“It's eight feet high and electrified.”

“I'm well aware of that! You do remember me from the convention, don't you? Eva?”

“Of course I do.”

“For you.” She slipped the silver flask from a slit pocket in the abundant hip ruffles of the dress and held it out to him.

“No, thank you.”

“Drink the damned stuff, Bradley. I've got unhappy news for you.” He took the flask and drank without taking his eyes off her. The flask and potion were both cold. “Mike is not happy with your behavior at the convention, or since. He believes you are spoiled, truculent, thankless, and selfish. Now, these kinds of disagreements do come up, and they usually resolve positively. However, during such standoffs, competitors often attempt to forge an advantage. Some of Mike's envious coworkers here in the Western Territory have decided to try just that. I have this on good authority. It's imperative that you refuse to speak to them or hear them out. They can't and won't coerce you in any physical way, but . . . well, you should know that they can be very, very persuasive. Especially with you soon to be so vulnerable. And for the first time.”

“First time?”

“Becoming a father. They'll try to manipulate you using Thomas. But mark my word: What they really want is for Thomas to be theirs.”

“That will never happen.” He drank again and gave the flask back. She drank and pocketed it. He began to feel the confidence and clarity, the alert well-being that the potion caused. He felt his vision becoming stronger and his imagination more boldly visual.

“Do not negotiate with them. Mike has worked himself to the bone to provide for your family. They'll claim to be friends of his. They'll claim they have been ordered to replace him. They'll tell you anything to get you talking back. And, of course, they'll bribe you with pretty much anything you want. Say nothing. And, please, Bradley, don't mention me or this visit. I'm breaking a hundred rules just by jumping your little fence. Now, I'll leave you to yourself. Bradley. Dogs. Good evening.”

Bradley took her offered hand—a cool, soft-skinned, bony hand—and he shook it firmly but he felt the unlikely strength in it. She smiled and turned and glided back into the thick chaparral from which she had apparently come. The dogs trotted along behind her and Bradley loped into the brush, too, in strong pursuit. But the manzanita and the scrub oak and Spanish saber were thick and high, and Bradley had not gone fifty feet before he lost sight of them. He heard the faint cracking of branches and brush far ahead. The dogs were not barking. He put his hands up over his face and plowed through. What there was of the trail soon narrowed to nothing and he was left to shoulder his way between the trees and stout strong shrubs. He could feel the branches scratching his forearms and cutting at the scalp of his lowered head. Finally he broke into a clearing and joined the dogs looking out at Eva, who was already far on the other side of the eight-foot-high, electric, motion-sensing fence—nearly a hundred yards beyond it, in fact—striding through a low grassy swale with a speed that Bradley could hardly believe. She turned and waved and a white van came rocking along the Forest Service fire road and picked her up. Call was as close to the fence as he had learned to get, watching her intently.

•   •   •

Late that night Bradley's cell phone buzzed from his bed stand. He saw Jack Cleary's number and answered.

“It looks like Warren flipped Rocky Carrasco,” said Cleary. “They spent two hours in the Gallo in Cudahy today. My informant says she saw a voice recorder on the booth between them. Your name was spoken. And my ears in Warren's office tell me Warren can't wait for Dez to hear it.”

“Rocky can hurt us. This is not good.”

“We can hope he's just bullshitting.”

Bradley thought it through. Rocky was a La Eme OG, respected, well off, well protected. An aging family man. He'd taken over the North Baja Cartel's L.A. franchise from Hector Avalos and he ran it well, employing the youngsters of Florencia 13 and kicking heavy taxes up to his old bosses in the prisons. He also allowed Bradley to function as courier to Herredia, a coveted and lucrative position. For which Rocky took a tithe from Bradley, of course. Rocky also had Florencia's 18th Street competitors dying to put some bullets in him, and at least one informant in his organization passing along damaging information to LASD. Thus making him vulnerable to Warren. Thus giving him the need for something solid to keep Warren happy. If Rocky was ready to sing in earnest, Bradley was cooked and he knew it.

“We'll hope that. I want updates before they happen. If your people can keep any closer eye on Rocky, we could use it.”

“I'll do what I can do. You a father yet?”

“Soon.”

“Love to Erin.”