Devils and Dust (12 page)

“You’ve forgotten something,” she said. “You don’t speak Spanish. I do. Who are you going to get to translate?”

“I’ll think of something,” he said. “I’ll find someone.”

She shook her head. “We need to get going.”

He sighed. “Jesus, you’re stubborn.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

He had to laugh at that. “Okay,” he said. “You win. Let’s go.”

I
T WAS
the sort of place you found in any town that grew too fast. A neon-lit strip of shabby bars, shops with iron grates on the windows to protect their inventory after hours, populated with scatterings of people who slouched watchfully in doorways, conducted conversations with heads held close together, and drifted in and out of the shadows. A narrow, hard-to-navigate street made even trickier by parked cars and the occasional stumbling aimless pedestrian who had apparently lost the concept of crossing at the light sometime earlier in the evening.

Keller had the window down. The tinny blare of music from the bars mixed with the rumble and clatter of vehicles whose pistons and mufflers had seen better days, punctuated from time to time by bursts of laughter and shouted Spanish.

“So,” Angela said, “Where do we start?”

Keller spotted a vehicle that looked out of place, a shiny back diesel Mercedes. There was a parking place across the street. “Here seems as good a place as any.” He maneuvered the old Jeep, which they’d bought for cash in El Paso, into the space between an ancient station wagon—with cardboard where one window should be—and a bright yellow Volkswagen Bug that looked as if someone had tried to repair the finish with a can of spray paint. The battered old Jeep fit right in.

They got out and Keller locked the vehicle. A young man sauntered up to them. He wore knee-length red shorts and a San Diego Padres jersey that hung on his skinny frame like a tent. He looked no older than twelve or thirteen. “Hey,” he said.

Keller straightened up. “Let me guess,” he said. “You’ll watch my car and make sure nothing happens to it. For five bucks.”

“Shit no, man,” the kid said. He grinned. “Fifteen.”

“Sounds like a lot,” Keller said.

The kid shrugged. “Bad neighborhood.” He looked at Angela, who’d gotten out and come over to stand by Keller. “Not the sort of place a guy normally brings his lady, you know?”

“I know,” Keller said. “We’re looking for someone.”

The kid tilted his head back and looked at them with narrowed eyes. “Yeah, well, I don’t know nobody. I’m, like, a stranger here myself.”

Angela smiled. “We’re not cops.”

The kid didn’t look convinced. “Uh-huh.”

Angela took a photograph out of her back pocket. “We’re looking for this man.” She held the photo out. The kid backed away a little, then came forward and took it. He cocked his head to one side, as if considering. “He owe you money or something?”

“He’s my husband,” Angela said. “He came down here looking for someone, too. But then he disappeared.”

The kid looked up. The hard, cocky facade was gone. He looked young again. “That happens around here,” he said in a small voice. “A lot.” He handed the picture back. “Sorry, lady,” he said, and he actually sounded like he meant it. “I never saw this guy.”

“Okay,” Keller said. “So, tell you what. You watch the car.”

“Fifteen bucks,” the kid said.

Keller gestured across to the Mercedes. “How much you charge that guy to watch
his
car?”

The kid looked, then barked out a short laugh. “Funny.”

“What’s funny?”

The kid rolled his eyes as if Keller had asked the stupidest question in the world. “That guy don’t need no one to watch his car. No one messes with him.”

“Maybe he’s the guy we need to be talking to,” Keller said.

“Yeah,” the kid said. “You do that, homes. Let me know how it works out for you.”

“Ten bucks,” Keller said. “Five now, five when we get back.”

“American?”

“Yeah,” Keller said, getting out his billfold, “American.” It was full of cash. Keller had figured he might need to spread some around to pay for information. He held out the fiver. The kid took it.

“You talk to that guy,” the kid said, “you better hope he likes what you have to say.”

“Or what?”

“Or else I’m out my second five bucks.”

T
HE BAR
was tiny, just a guy behind a wooden counter with a few stools in front of it and bottles lined along wooden shelves behind. A slow, sad ballad in Spanish blared from a jukebox near the door.

There was a narrow aisle between the stools and a row of tables along the outside wall. The clientele seated on the stools seemed mostly male, men with suspicious eyes that looked them over, then turned back to studying the bar top. They were dressed in blue jeans and work shirts. A couple wore trucker hats; one had a white cowboy hat sitting on the bar in front of him.

All of the tables were empty…save one. The man seated at that one stood out in much the same way as the Mercedes stood out on the street. He wore black slacks and a matching black shirt with an ornate silver tracery across the chest and shoulders. A woman was seated across from him, a young brunette in a skirt and white blouse. She held a piece of fabric that she twisted nervously between her hands. She was saying something, but her head was down. She wasn’t looking at the man in black. The man looked over at them, turned back to the woman, then did a double take and stared at Keller and Angela as they walked to the bar. The woman started to say something, but the man in black shushed her with one raised finger.

“
Buenas tardes
,” Angela said to the bartender, a stocky, fortyish man with thick dark hair, and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once.

He nodded. “
¿Qué le gustaría ordenar?
”

“
Agua, por favor
,” Angela said.

“
Cerveza
,” Keller said. He looked behind the bar for something he recognized. “Tecate.” The bartender nodded and pulled the beer and a bottled water out of the cooler. Angela started talking to the bartender, pulling the picture of Oscar out of her back pocket. Keller tuned her out and watched the man in black. Seated, Keller couldn’t tell how tall he was, but he was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and large, thick-fingered hands. His hair was thinning, but slicked back and sprayed with something that made it look hard and shiny, like shellac. His eyes were small and set close together. Those eyes never left Keller. The woman said something else. The man’s response was short and apparently so sharp, it made the woman visibly flinch. She got up from the table, her face hardening with anger. She was beautiful, Keller saw, with sculpted cheekbones, full lips, and wide dark eyes. Her full breasts strained against the tight blouse. She shook out the piece of fabric and began tying it around her waist. An apron. She obviously worked there. She raised her head and caught Keller looking at her. She straightened up and smoothed the apron down, smiling at him. He took the beer and raised it to his lips. She walked toward him, her eyes on his. She didn’t speak as she sidled past him, close enough that her hip brushed his. Keller looked over at the man in black. He looked angry enough to chew nails.

Angela turned to him. “The bartender says he hasn’t seen Oscar.” Then she saw the expression on Keller’s face. “What?”

“Give me the picture,” Keller said.

“Okay.” She handed it over. The man in black was rising from his chair, his face set and hard. “Oh, boy,” Angela said.

“Just translate for me.” He shoved himself back from the bar.

As the man in black strode down the narrow aisle between the bar and the tables, Keller advanced to meet him, plastering a big friendly smile on his face. As they drew closer together, Keller stuck out a hand. “Hey, pal!” he said in a hearty voice. “You look like a guy who might be able to help us out.”

The man stopped, his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowing with confusion. He didn’t take the offered hand. Keller heard Angela’s rapid-fire translation next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the men at the bar turning to watch the show. Keller held out the picture of Oscar, keeping his other hand extended for a friendly shake.

“We’re looking for a friend of ours,” Keller went on in that same slightly too loud voice. “Came down here not long ago. His name’s Oscar Sanchez.” Keller waited a beat. “I’m Jack Keller.” He waited for the reaction. If this guy, as he suspected, was some kind of soldier in the Mandujano Organization, he might have been told to keep an ear out for those two names.

He was disappointed. Neither name seemed to register. The guy still looked confused, but the confusion was wearing off and turning to suspicion. The guy had been temporarily disarmed by Keller’s dumb-
turista
approach, but it wouldn’t be long before he turned back toward his default state of anger and arrogance. Keller wondered if he should just coldcock the guy right now and get them the hell out of there.

Angela said something else. Keller caught a word he recognized.
Marido
. Husband.

The man looked back and forth, between Keller and Angela. Then he reached out and took the photo from Keller in his fat stubby fingers. He studied it for a moment. Keller dropped his hands back to his sides. The song on the jukebox finished. There was no sound for a long moment. Everyone was watching the three of them. Then as the opening chords of Van Halen’s “Runnin’ with the Devil” blasted out of the cheap jukebox speakers, the guy shook his head and handed the photo back. He said something to Angela, then turned and gave Keller a hard look. He took out a billfold and dropped a couple of bills on the bar. With another look at Keller, he walked out. The men at the bar turned back to their contemplation of the woodwork.

“Was it something I said?” Keller asked.

“Come on.” Angela led him back outside.

They stood under the sign, which simply said BAR in large neon script. The sign buzzed and popped as if it was going to explode into a shower of sparks any moment.

“What was that all about?” Angela said.

“I figured that guy might be part of Mandujano’s local crew,” Keller said. “I figured if we were going to ask anyone, it ought to be him.”

“So you wanted to piss him off by making eyes at his girlfriend?”

“What? No. That wasn’t…”

“Whatever, Keller,” she said. “Let’s move on.” She walked off without looking back. He followed her, baffled by the ice in her tone.

They didn’t have any better luck in the dozen or so bars, cheap restaurants, and small convenience stores where they stopped to show the picture and ask questions. They were greeted mostly with suspicion and silence. No one would admit to having seen Oscar, and the mention of Mandujano’s name seemed to make people forget not only what little English they had, but most of their Spanish as well. Finally, exhausted, they began the long trudge back to where they’d parked the Jeep. It was at least two in the morning, but the streets were still busy. The shouts and laughter had become more ragged, maybe even slightly desperate, but the party went on.

“Think that kid’s still watching the car?” Angela said. Fatigue was making her limp slightly, the pain of her old injuries flaring up.

“Nah,” Keller answered. “He’s taken the money and run by now.”

“Hope the car’s still there,” she said. “At least enough of it to get us back to the hotel.”

It was. True to Keller’s prediction, the boy had gone. In his place, slouching against the hood of the Jeep, was the girl from the restaurant. She’d changed out of the skirt into blue jeans that hugged her lush hips, but she was still wearing the white blouse. “Hey,” she said as they drew near. She sounded like she was greeting friends she saw every day.

“Hey,” Angela said as they slowed.

The girl stood up. “I hear you looking for your husband,” she said, her English thickly accented.

“That’s right,” Angela said.

“You still got that picture?”

Mutely, Angela handed it over. She looked at it for a minute. “Yeah,” she said. “I seen him.”

“When?” Keller said.

She shrugged. “Couple, three days ago.”

“Uh-huh,” Keller said. Something about her demeanor was too elaborately nonchalant. It seemed artificial. She was trying to work some sort of con, he figured. He expected to be hit up for money next. Then he noticed that she kept looking back at the car.

“So,” he said, “where was he? What was he doing?”

“Asking around,” she said. “You know?”

“Do you know where he went?” Angela said.

She shrugged again, glancing to the car, and then back at them. “Not really, but he said he’d be back. Maybe tomorrow night.”

“Okay,” Keller said. “We’ll be back tomorrow night.
Gracias
.”

“
De nada
.” The girl sauntered away, hips swinging.

“She’s lying,” Angela said in a low voice.

“Yep, hope she’s better at waitressing than she is at lying.” He walked over to the Jeep and bent over. He slid a hand up into the wheel well nearest where the girl had been leaning against the car.

“What are you doing?” Angela asked.