The District Manager (24 page)

“…you’re glad.”

“Yes, I’m glad. Oh, and one more thing…”

“What’s that?” Rusty asks. He jerks the Expedition hard to the right, then barrels over a railroad track.

“Two things actually: first, this car is old and has over three-hundred and thirty thousand miles on it.”

“That many? The odometer is broken.”

“It goes in and out.”

“So you want me to treat her with kid gloves?”

“That’s right.”

“What’s the second thing?”

“What the fuck do we do now?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yeah, I really want to know—of course I want to know.”

“Hide.”

“Hide?”

“That’s right. Your cover’s blown. Even if those two back at the Adobe are dead, there’s a record of this.”

“The surveillance cameras.”

“There were witnesses, too. You don’t think that this operation’s goons won’t shake it out of those jokers? Of course they will. All they have to do is run your plates and they’ll know where you live. I guarantee you they already do. Fuck it’s on the books. That Spider Monkey fella just never finished the job…but it finished him.”

“So other than hide, what do we do right now?”

“We get back to your apartment and get what you need out and get you the fuck out immediately.”

Rusty roars into my apartment complex parking lot with utter abandon. He slows abruptly.

“Which building is your apartment in?” he asks, observing the complex layout and the shitty cars that litter it.

“It’s on the other side of the parking lot.”

“Good, we’ll park here.”

Caution is the overriding rule as we stake our way towards my living quarters.

“Hold up,” I plea as I cringe over in pain.

“You gonna make it, Mason? We really need you to make it… just a little bit longer. I’ll get you to the hospital in the morning if it looks like you need it. But for your own sake, we need you to make it, for now.”

“My buddy Keith.”

“What? Keith? Who is that?”

“My roommate, the one I told you about.”

Rusty has his .45 drawn as we climb the stairs and wind the open hallway that leads to my door. We arrive at the entry…

A rhythmic jingle can be heard, as the September bugs and frogs perform.

“Open it,” Rusty whispers. He snaps a round into the chamber.

I fidget with the door knob out of desperation, and discover that it’s unlocked.
Not unusual if Keith is home.

The place is slightly trashed: newspapers strewn about, kitchen utensils and a few personal articles. We hear a moan. I turn to my left where a solitary lamp illuminates the current situation.

“Keith!”

Keith is knocked out of his wheelchair and lying in a corner of the den. His wheelchair, which is upside down, looks as if it’s been thrown against the wall as there are a series of dents in the sheetrock.

“Mason,” Keith utters, low.

“Looks like we’re too late,” Rusty comments. He begins surveying the apartment. He goes into my bedroom.

“What happened, man?” I ask, cradling Keith’s head up from the floor. His face is battered and bleeding.

“My progress,” he says with tears in his eyes.

“You’re what?”

“My progress. They took it from me. I’m beat to shit, Mason.”

“Who were they?” Rusty asks, returning from my bed-room.

“I don’t know. They were looking for you, Mason.”

“Here,” Rusty says as he lifts the wheelchair up and places it upright. “Let’s get him in—if he can make it.”

“Can you make it to your chair?” I ask.

“Yeah, but I’ll need help. They kicked me in the back—just my luck…just like the cops did.”

I turn Keith over and discover that he has pissed himself.

“I’m sorry, Mason…I know it’s gross.”

“It’s cool, dude, don’t sweat it.”

Rusty and I get Keith into his wheelchair.

Rusty starts his interrogation, “You have to try and focus Keith. Can you do that?”

Keith is crying as he grips and squeezes his legs through his jeans.

“I can’t feel anything, Mason,” he says like he’s on the verge of panic.

“We’ll get you help, son! But what we need to know now is, who these fuckers were that did this to you—any names…accent… physical markings?”

“All three.”

“Okay. What were these three?”

They were Mexicans—I think. One looked like your normal Hispanic gangbanger…but the other…”

“Tell me about the other, Keith.” Rusty is kneeling down to Keith’s level.

“He was fucked up, man…fucked up.”

“How was he fucked up?” I interject, trying to be of some use as this is all my fault.

“He was terribly scarred. I mean, scars all over his body. He wore a wife beater—white—and…whereas the other guy was covered in tattoos, this guy was covered in scars: on his face… everywhere.”

“Did they have names, could you understand them?”

“They spoke Spanish…” Keith nods off in agony.

“Come on, Keith, stay with us now!” Rusty demands.

“Mason, I need a hit of some of that weed.”

“What?” Rusty erupts.

“Chill, you fuckin’ control freak. It helps with his symptoms.”

Rusty is furious, but I don’t care. I prepare Keith a bowl and hand it to him along with a lighter. A few tokes later and he’s again lucid.

“Contacto,”
he spouts, upon exhale.

“Contacto?”
I ask, confused.

“Contact,” Rusty confirms. “I’ll explain it to you later, Mason, but this confirms my suspicions. Anything else?” Rusty inquires as Keith blows a big hit in his face.

“Anybody ever told you, you look like Bear Bryant?”

“All the time, dope fiend. Anything else?”

“Yes,” Keith answers despondently, turning towards me. “They spoke English at the end. They told me the only reason I wasn’t dead was because I was their messenger. They were looking for you. But since they couldn’t find you they were going to get your girlfriend, Brenna—said her name. They told me if you ever want to see her again…”

“What? What did they say?” I plead.

“They’d let you know. They left a card, it’s on the kitchen counter.”

“Oh my fuckin’ God!”

“Just calm down, Mason. Just calm down.”

“Calm down!”

“Yes, calm down. You going ape shit about this isn’t going to help us, or her. First thing you need to do is call her and warn her—NOW!”

Rusty grabs the card off of the kitchen counter while I dial.

“Her phone just goes to voice mail.”

“Where does she live?”

“Over in Fort Bryan. Not far from here.”

“Let’s get our asses over there now! You got a gun? And you, dope fiend,” he says, pointing at Keith.

“What?” Keith retorts.

“You got anywhere you can stay…a friend in the complex… anywhere, anybody?”

“Yeah.”

“Can anybody take you to get medical attention?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t tell anyone—and I mean anyone—what happened here tonight. Make something up, like you were mugged or something. I’m serious,” Rusty orders.

“Mason, what happened here tonight? What have you not been telling me?”

“Man, Keith…”

Rusty cuts me off before I can frame a thought. “There you have it, you don’t know. What you don’t know might just save your life.”

The back bumper smacks the concrete as Rusty tears ass out of the parking lot.

“Damn, man. Watch out.”

“We ain’t got time to be delicate. I just wish we had my Pontiac.”

“What about the police?”

“The police?” he asks sarcastically. “Take it from a cop, the last thing we want to do is get the police involved—at least not on a local level.”

“But why?”

“Well, let’s analyze the situation. First off, tonight we discovered a Wagoneer sheriff ’s deputy is, or was, involved in a serious crime ring. Second, based on that, we don’t know how deep the police involvement in this ring goes. Think about it: Jules calls repeatedly for help on what is obviously a pit bull puppy mill. Nobody local helps—nobody! Why is that? Doesn’t that seem odd?”

“They said that the dogs were in code.”

“I know, but that’s half-ass bullshit. Hell, according to Jules’ correspondence, a cop lived down the road from him. How many deputies are involved? And what about the sheriff?”

“I need a cigarette,” I dig through the glove box and find the remnants of an old stale pack.

“You gonna smoke that in here?”

“It’s my car.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Anyway, we’ve established that the possibility exists that numerous law enforcement individuals, if not entire entities are in cahoots with this bunch. Who else? We don’t know. Third, and most important, if we get the cops involved, your girlfriend is as good as dead. Let me ask you a question: do you really want to spend the rest of your life in a witness protection program?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, that’s what will happen if we send in a bunch of gung-ho inexperienced cops.”

“What does the card they left on the counter say?”

“‘Don Ronaldo.’”

“Who is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, on the back it says they’ll kill your boss if you don’t do as they instruct.”

Brenna’s house is adequately lit but no car is present in the drive. Rusty drives past several times before we park.

“You ready?”

“Yeah, but what happens if we go in here and get into a gun fight?”

“I have no idea. But my instinct is they’ve already got her.”

“But her car is gone.”

“Is it? What about the garage? Maybe they took it when they took her. Maybe I’m wrong. Are you ready?”

“I already told you…yes.”

We park several houses down. Rusty is paranoid that the neighbors will think us suspicious if they see us get out of the car.

“Knock on the front door. I’m going to enter the backyard through the fence gate.”

“She has a dog,” I warn him.

I knock. No barking, no voices. No one answers. I wait. Within moments Rusty is unlocking the front door. “There’s no one here,” he says.

“How did you get in?”

“Spare key. People always hide their spare key someplace obvious. Single moms generally hide theirs in the back. Piece of cake.”

“No dog?”

“No dog. That’s the telltale sign. It’s like they went away on a vacation. She got any immediate family other than the kid? By the way, there’s a car in the garage.”

“As far as family, not much that I’m aware of, only her mom… maybe they took her car.”

“They got her too.”

“Now what?”

“We stay here. In case they’re out to dinner or something. You tried calling her again?”

“About seven hundred times.”

“Straight to voicemail?”

“Straight to voicemail.”

I go into Brenna’s bedroom and collapse on her bed.

Rusty is up and sitting on the sofa. The sun is up.

“You been awake all night?” I ask. I go to the kitchen to prepare a pot of coffee.

“Yup. Not a wink.”

“So what now?”

“I’ve been thinking about this all night, trying to connect some dots.”

“Anything?”

“No. But first rule of order this morning is to call your girlfriend’s workplace.”