El Gavilan (32 page)

Patricia smiled and said, “Thanks, but I’d probably break my leg in these damned heels trying to get up on that stage.”

“Thanks again, Tell,” the mayor said, waving over his shoulder.

“
De nada
,” Tell said. “See you at four.”

When the mayor was out of earshot, Patricia said, “That was cynical and transparent—I mean him trying to get your ‘Mexican’ girlfriend up there with the two of you.” She smiled. “But I’m going to relish this show to come.”

Tell said, “I’m going to be one hell of a lot stingier handing out my damned cell phone number.”

“You’ll be terrific,” Patricia said. She cleared off their plates and pointed at the Ferris wheel. “Take me for a spin?”

THEN

It was some old codger who drove home for Able the realization of what was happening around him.

Oh, Able sensed it before, in his way. He knew things were changing and he was seeing a lot more Mexicans in his neck of the woods. But it took old Elmer Engles to make Able see it fully.

They were sitting in adjacent chairs in White’s Barber Shop. His barber, Jim McDonald, was finishing up Able’s haircut; Elmer was just settling in. The old man raised his chin to get his wattle clear as the drop cloth was clipped secure there around his throat. He said in a cracked voice, “Holy fucking Christ Sheriff Hawk, what’s become of our West Side?”

Able rarely ventured that way—it was mostly city in his mind, and a part of it actually overlapped an adjacent county. He and the current chief didn’t get on at all, so Able had focused his efforts on the rest of the county, thinking to outwait the chief; something about New Austin ate municipal lawmen, usually in under five years.

But then Able thought about it harder and realized it had been nearly a year since he’d even ventured into that neck of the woods for so much as an idle drive. He waited as the drop cloth was whipped off and Jim whisked him off with a small stiff-bristled brush. Able paid for his haircut and waved at the old-timer. “I’ll go have a look-see now, Elmer. Do it now.” He paused and smiled. “You stay away from them young women, now, you hear, Elmer? You ain’t seventy no more.”

* * *

Able drove slowly down the four-lane, looking at strip malls that had gone native. Spanish signage and a profusion of
taqueria
trailers littered the outlots. The Giant Eagle advertised a Latino shopping selection. The library was touting its ESL magazines and books on audio. Mexican groceries and bars proliferated.

It was like someone scooped up several blocks of Juarez and dropped it all in the middle of the Buckeye State. Able was aghast.

He drove back to headquarters; got his people pulling crime reports. By the time he finished surveying stats from this little Mexico festering in his county, Able was seething.

FORTY SEVEN

Able Hawk crammed his barrel chest into the bulletproof vest and then wedged his head into a flak helmet. Smiling, he checked his four deputies who were now similarly armored.

“Here’s the rundown my lads,” Able said. “One of the bastards who beat Shawn O’Hara near to death mentioned he was doing it to avenge a brother put out of work by our little raid out to the Morales brothers’ shithole farm a few days back. This brother was a meth cooker, I expect. Anyway, Shawn’s attacker was stupid enough to put a name to this brother of his. So we’ve gone back and matched that name, ‘Javier,’ with the cheerful assistance of some of the ones we’ve got in custody from the raid. We’ve already picked up Javier Acosta. Javier, in turn, gave us the finger on his brother, who was Shawn’s lead attacker. We go to take him down, now. His name is Jésus Acosta. Figure that Jésus, in turn, will give us the names of the others who fucked up that sorry-ass reporter.”

Deputy Troy Marshall looked down at his body armor. “We expecting they might have some serious firepower, Sheriff?”

“We expect, I’m afraid,” Able said. “The old boy we go to see has ties to the Morales brothers. Through his sibling, we know that. But maybe, also, this Jésus has ties to that badass Mexican gang ‘MS-13.’ Or so I hear through the Mexican grapevine. So, as I say, our quarry today is Jésus Acosta. I want this little bastard alive and talking, boys. That said, if Jésus were to lose a few teeth—short of a broken jaw—I wouldn’t look askance at the man who rendered same. As to legs, I’ll only say that it would be something like a Biblical balancing of the scales if Jésus were to sustain a broken kneecap, or even two. Particularly viewed in light of what he did with a baseball bat to Shawn O’Hara’s leg, I mean. Suppose what I’m saying is, if this Mexican thug’s leg
was
to be broken to the far margins of medical repair, I’d shed no crocodile tears. Blows to the groin are also acceptable, given the plumbing damage he did that reporter. Old Testament, eye-for-eye balance. And frankly, we do not want Jésus spreading his evil seed. Now let’s go and get this sorry cocksucker.”

* * *

An hour later, Able was standing over a half snarling, half crying Jésus Acosta. The boy’s front teeth were broken off at the gumline and blood trails ran down both sides of his mouth and spilled down over his pointed chin … drying in the sparse and curly strands of a goatee there.

Jésus’s right leg was twisted at a severe right angle to his thigh. “I can’t feel my fucking foot,” Jésus whimpered.

“Nerve damage, likely,” Able said. “Probably a permanent thing. Would have gone easier for you if you hadn’t put a round in Deputy Marshall’s leg, Jésus. You just better hope Deputy Marshall doesn’t have nerve damage in
his
leg. Now, Jésus, I want the names of those that helped you beat Shawn O’Hara. This is my day off and I resent working on my day off.”

Jésus said, “
Gordo maricón
,” and spat blood clots at Able. “Fuck you, old man!
Chupa mi huevos, maricón
!”

Able said, “Hey, I know them fuckin’ Mexican cuss words and I know what they mean,
cholo
. And you best be choosier with them words, ’cause without your front teeth, Jésus, you’re the one talking with a fucking lisp. Provoke me and I’ll go to work on your cock like you animals did to Shawn O’Hara’s. Maybe put you in the ‘tranny’ stakes. Then who’ll be the
maricón
? Will your boss back in Mexico, Guzman, want you back then?”

With the toe of his boot, Able abruptly nudged Jésus’s broken leg a few inches backward and Jésus screamed, tears flowing again. “See, you can feel something after all,” Able said. “Ain’t that fine news for both of us? Now, names. Names right now, or I’m going to see if I can shove the toe of your numb foot into what’s left of your ear.”

The sheriff motioned and a deputy got down next to Jésus and started taking down names.

“He gets through giving you those,” Able said, “you get him going on names connected to MS-13. About damned time we engaged those gangbanger cocksuckers. Time to shut their sorry business down in Horton County and fire a shot back across the border at the cartels.”

Able nodded at a deputy. “You see to the paperwork and details here on out? My plate’s still full and I’ve got other places to be.”

* * *

Later, Able dropped by the hospital to briefly check in on Troy Marshall. The bullet had passed through his deputy’s calf, just missing most of the muscle and the Achilles tendon. Troy said, “Friggin’ luck ain’t it, Sheriff? Did two tours of Iraq and worst I got was a cut from a jagged piece of rebar during a night operation. Had to come home to Ohio to get my ass shot. How’s the one who did it to me?”

“Jésus lost most of an ear,” Able said. “Four teeth knocked out and another six they may have to pull if they show no signs of tightening up. And his right leg’s fucked up, but good. He may yet lose that leg above the knee. Docs say it’s the worst compound fracture they’ve ever seen and his kneecap is like baby powder. Nerves were severed and an artery cut. Not much blood getting down there to the foot, I guess. Vicious little punk deserved much worse. But Jésus gave up his friends that helped beat Shawn O’Hara. Our Jésus proved to be a fine little Judas. They’re all MS-13 members. So we’ve made a good first dent in that gang of Mexican cocksuckers. We’ll make a bigger dent in days to come once the rest start talking. We’ve got ’em all in custody now. Being as they’re illegals, due process is off the table to my mind.”

The deputy said, “Thanks for checking in on me, Sheriff. And thanks for giving that bastard some back for me.”

Able patted Troy’s arm in farewell then went up a floor and dropped in on Shawn O’Hara. An overweight black nurse was just finishing a check-in and scribbled something on his chart and hung it back on its hook at the foot of Shawn’s bed. Shawn still looked like a mummy. Able said to the nurse, “How’s this tough guy doing?”

The nurse looked at Able’s uniform and frowning said, “You’re not Tell Lyon are you?”

Able sensed Shawn watching him. Able said, “Hell no!
Chief
Tell Lyon is an asshole. Jesus may love him, but I surely don’t. I’m Sheriff Able Hawk. But there would be some problem if I was Lyon? That the drift of your question?”

The nurse said, “Mr. O’Hara has asked that Tell Lyon not be permitted access to Mr. O’Hara. The only New Austin policeman Mr. O’Hara will see is William Davis.” The nurse, one Wendy Fahy, Able saw from her tag, walked over and patted Shawn’s shoulder. “You okay alone with this one, sugar?”

Shawn winked with one black-and-purple eye—the lid still swollen and drooping. He gave her a thumbs-up.

Wendy waddled off, all ass and elbows, pushing a cart. Able took up her place by Shawn’s bed and said, “We got the ones who beat you, Shawn. Every damned one of them. They’re all in jail.”

Shawn typed,
Tell me everything.

As Able started to do that, Shawn began typing notes.

Scowling, Able said, “What the hell? You mean to report this yourself?”

Shawn typed,
Who else?

* * *

Tell reached the stage at 3:55
P.M.
Patricia split off from him as they approached the show trailer. She wandered into the watching crowd, moving as far to the front as she could.

A nervous Mayor Ernest Rice spotted Tell and motioned him to the back of the trailer-stage where the staircase up onto the platform was positioned.

“Cutting it close,” Rice said testily, “aren’t you?”

“Five minutes to spare,” Tell said with a shrug. “And I am on duty, you know. Trying to keep this festival quiet and without incident, just as you asked of me. Making sure those demonstrators stay off the grounds.”

“So we’ll keep this short,” the mayor said. “I’ve told the emcee to announce us together. That way, we’ll step out together and you’ll be on hand to translate what I say from word one. How do we best do this? Probably don’t want to be talking over one another.”

“No,” Tell agreed, “we don’t. You’re reading from a prepared text. Your sentences look short. Just stop at the end of every second sentence and I’ll repeat what you’ve said.”

The mayor clapped Tell on the back. “Thanks again,
Jefe
.” He said that last word with a too-strong southern Ohio accent, like some hick mocking a Mexican. Frito Bandito stuff.

Tell played along, though. He said, “You
sure
you’re not fluent in Spanish, Mayor?”

The emcee introduced them and Mayor Rice grinned at being called “Ernesto.” His smile disappeared as the more enthusiastic cheers and applause for Tell ensued.

Mayor Rice gave his halting speech with its awkward intermissions for Tell’s translations. When it was over, there were cheers for “Ernesto” and “
El Léon
.”

At Rice’s urging, Tell made a brief statement. Nothing too substantive—just his stated admiration for the town and good people of New Austin and thanking them for being so welcoming. He made a vow to concentrate efforts on stemming local drug trafficking.

Someone in the crowd yelled in Spanish, “What about Thalia Ruiz? What are you doing about that,
Jefe
?”

In Spanish, Tell said, “I’m working very hard to get Thalia justice. And I will do that, soon. I’m working with Able Hawk to do that. We have a definite suspect.”

There were some boos at the mention of Able Hawk’s name. Some cheers too, but mostly catcalls. Tell held up a hand for quiet. He said, “Able Hawk is working hard, hand-in-hand with me, to bring Thalia Ruiz’s killer to justice. We hope to make an announcement soon about an arrest. I’ll only add my personal observation that Able Hawk was friends with Thalia and he has in fact taken her family—her daughter, mother and cousin—into his own home. We will—Able and I—see justice done for Thalia, and for three other Latino women who died under similar circumstances. Women we believe were murdered by the same man or men who killed Thalia Ruiz. Hawk and I will catch this killer. This is our shared pledge.”

Scattered calls of “
Viva El Léon
!” and “
Viva El Gavilan
!”

Tell held up both hands. “Enough of that,” he said. “A moment of silence for Thalia Ruiz and all the other lost ones.”

The silence held for a minute—just a few coughs and babies’ cries.

Tell said, “Amen.”

He left the stage to cheers and more
vivas
. Patricia was standing by the bottom step, awaiting him. “That was so sorry dreadful,” Tell said.

Patricia was squinting up at him—squinting against the sun. She looked miserably hot. Tell put his hat on her head. She smiled, adjusting his hat, and said, “It was better than fine, Tell. It was honest and straight. Maybe not what they expected, but surely what they needed.”

“You’re a lovely liar, Patricia.”

“That prayer at the end—I didn’t know you had a religious streak,” she said.

“I don’t. Or haven’t for some time.” He ran the back of his hand across her damp cheek. “This heat is too much for you, isn’t it?”

“Would be nice to find some air conditioning,” she said. “Be good to relax and cool off before you hustle me off to your cousin’s place.”

“Restaurant?”

“Our place would be better,” she said. “The AC cranked up and no clothes. If you’re through here, now, I mean.”

“I’m finished,” Tell said, wrapping an arm around her bare shoulders, her skin hot and moist to the touch. “I think you have a little sunburn,” he said.