Tularosa: A Kevin Kerney Novel (Kevin Kerney Novels) (23 page)

"What is your name?"

"Kevin Kerney." He held out his badge case. Tentatively, the woman crossed to Kerney, took the case, opened it, and looked quickly up at him, her expression cautious.

"Is this real?"

"Yes." She sized Kerney up one more time before speaking, switching back to Spanish.

"I'm Rose Moya. What do you want?" Kerney followed suit.

"Information."

"What kind of information?"

"Everything you can tell me about the Mafiosios. Especially smuggling."

"And why do you need that information?"

"To catch a murderer." Rose Moya gestured to a side chair filled with books.

"Sit down. Lieutenant Kerney, and tell me your story." After an hour of conversation. Rose Moya came through with a confidential source. Kerney had the cabby stop along the Avenida 16 de Septiembre, where the cityscape changed from tourist sleaze to an upscale, cosmopolitan area of theaters, restaurants, and department stores. Using plastic, Kerney went shopping. From what Rose had told him about Francisco Posada, he needed to dress for the occasion. According to Rose, Posada was an elderly, rich retired pharmacist who sold information to cash customers with good references, and asked few questions. Most of Posada's clients sought introductions to people who circumvented any number of Mexican laws. He got back in the cab, and the driver sped past a row of old mansions under shade trees with deep lawns, rattling over cobblestone streets until the residential area gave way to auto junkyards, repair shops, garages, and car upholstery shops, all with signs painted in hot, screaming colors. After a long stretch where the only scenery was the Juarez dump, they entered an opulent neighborhood of modern houses on winding streets in a series of low hills. The driver stopped in front of a two-story house with a tile roof, arched windows, and a wide set of granite steps leading to double entrance doors. The archway to the doors, supported by columns, was built of wedge shaped stones, each cut individually.

A burgundy Mercedes was parked in the curved driveway. Kerney asked the driver to wait. The door opened almost immediately after Kerney rang the bell. The houseboy, a young Indian in his late teens, dressed in an immaculate white shirt, trousers, and sandals, looked Kerney up and down without expression.

"Yes?"

"I would like to see Senor Posada." The boy studied Kerney, taking in the tailoring of the new suit and the shirt and tie that went with it. He dropped his eyes to Kerney's feet, clad in four hundred-dollar Larry Mahan boots.

"Do you have an appointment?" the boy inquired. He was as slender as a girl, with the lithe body of a swimmer. His eyes, darker than the rich color of his skin, were soft and innocent. He had the most beautiful natural eyelashes Kerney had ever seen on a man.

"No."

"Who referred you?"

"Rose Moya." The boy stepped back and let Kerney enter. He pointed to a chair in the foyer.

"Wait here." Within minutes Kerney heard padded footsteps on the marble floor as the houseboy returned.

"Follow me. The senor will see you." The foyer gave way to a courtyard with colonnades that supported arches under a low veranda. Ornamental trees ringed the space, and in the center a fountain gurgled water from a fish mouth. The boy opened a door under the veranda, stepped aside, motioned for Kerney to enter, and closed the door, leaving Kerney alone in the room.

It was a great room, bigger than Quinn's library; a large sunny space, with a wall of windows that looked out on an expansive patio, swimming pool, and cabana. The interior consisted of several conversation areas of plush off-white couches and easy chairs arranged to give the best view of the artwork on the back wall of the room. A large Diego Rivera painting held center stage over the fireplace, illuminated by recessed lights. It was a portrait of a strikingly beautiful woman wearing a Franciscan habit. Her arms were folded below her breasts and she faced a distant, unknown horizon with passionate eyes. It felt both pious and pagan.

"It is compelling," a voice said, speaking in Spanish. Kerney turned. An elderly man with long white hair, a waxed gray mustache, and a courtly manner, Francisco Posada smiled at him peacefully, his hand resting on the houseboy's thin shoulder. His fingers, grotesquely deformed, were twisted into a claw.

"Diego Rivera," Kerney said.

"You know his work," Posada said approvingly, continuing in his native tongue. He shuffled closer.

"There is a story to the canvas. Diego fell in love with this woman, but she was fulfilling a promise to God to do penance. That is why she wears a friar's robe. Rivera could not have her physically, so he possessed her through his art."

"I have never seen this image before," Kerney said, using his best Spanish.

"Few have. It has always been privately owned and never exhibited or reproduced." Posada eased himself down to a couch and gestured for Kerney to sit across from him.

"How did Rose Moya come to refer you? She has never sent someone to me before."

"I lied and told her I was a policeman working on a murder case involving the Mafiosios."

Posada chuckled, but his eyes hardened.

"I'm sure that appealed to her sense of social justice. Are you a policeman, Mr. Kerney? Kerney laughed.

"I was. Now I'm in business for myself. Imports and exports. I would like to expand into the Mexican market."

"What do you wish to export, Mr. Kerney?"

"Artifacts. Historical documents of great value. Military memorabilia and rare coins."

"An unusual assortment of merchandise," Posada commented.

"But quite valuable," Kerney replied.

"You need a broker, I assume," Posada noted. "Someone who will act on your behalf with discretion."

"Exactly."

"It might be possible to arrange an introduction," Posada said, with a serene smile.

"I would be grateful."

"But I am reluctant," Posada added. "You have come to me in a most unusual way."

"I am new to my profession, senor," Kerney replied.

"It is difficult to find one's way without assistance." Posada rubbed his mustache with a twisted knuckle.

"How much is your merchandise worth?"

"It has been appraised at four million dollars." The figure didn't startle Posada at all.

"If you agree to a two percent commission, plus my standard fee, I would be inclined to accept you as a client."

"What is your standard fee?" Kerney asked.

"Five thousand dollars." The whole wad, Kerney thought. "I'll go one percent payable after delivery with the five thousand up front," he said.

"Agreed," Posada replied. He gestured to the houseboy, who stepped quickly to his side. The boy helped Posada to his feet.

"Seek out Enrique De Leon at the Little Turtle gambling house. I am sure he would be interested in your desire to do business in Mexico."

"Will you speak to Senor De Leon on my behalf?" Kerney asked, as he stood up.

"Of course. Do you wish me to pass along a message?"

"No. I would like you to keep the details of our discussion confidential, if that is possible." Posada nodded in agreement.

"All my client conversations are privileged. Senor De Leon will be satisfied with the knowledge that I have accepted you as a client."

"Excellent."

"Please pay Juan before you leave." He smiled lovingly at the young man.

"Thank you, Senor Posada," Kerney replied with a slight bow of his head. Posada bowed back.

"It is a pleasure to meet a norteamericano who speaks our language, admires our art, and knows how to conduct business. I look forward to seeing you again." *** Greg Benton hung up the phone in disgust. He dug out the portable printer, hooked it up, disconnected the phone jack, plugged in the laptop computer, and accessed the fax modern program. The motel room phone had been rewired at the junction box the night Benton checked in. It was secure, direct, and untraceable.

He paced the room waiting for the fax. The whole fucking scheme had started to go haywire from the day he whacked the Indian soldier up on the mesa. And unexpected events kept floating in, like shit from a plugged-up toilet: the burglary at the old lady's house, Gutierrez's failure to make the final delivery, the tossed apartment in Santa Fe-all signs that the plan wasn't neat and tidy anymore. Benton walked to the window and looked out.

The motel was a dump; the whores kept him awake at night, and the air conditioner barely worked. He looked at his watch. Meehan wanted him to meet with De Leon and tell him the delivery might be delayed. Damn right it would be delayed, with Gutierrez dead and the last shipment missing. De Leon would be pissed but probably wouldn't cancel the deal. Not with the amount of money that was at stake. He would have to come up with a good story for De Leon.

Benton looked at his watch again. It was too early to catch De Leon at the Little Turtle. He was never available until evening. There was time for a workout at Kike's Gym and a good steak before crossing the border. He hated Mexican food. In the bathroom, Benton stripped down and examined himself in the mirror. He liked what he saw. His body was fit and hard, and his gray eyes under curly black hair drew a fair share of attention from the ladies. The small scar on his chin made his face interesting. He smiled at himself and put on his sweats.

Then he pulled the fax off the printer, put the computer away, grabbed his gym bag, and walked out into the hot west Texas sun. The garbage blowing down the street didn't bother him anymore, and the graffiti-adorned car wash, the boarded-up gas station, and the junked cars in the vacant lot were now just part of the normal barrio landscape. The street ended at a concrete abutment where the freeway cut off through traffic. The fat hooker in front of the Caballito Bar saw him and waved as he got into his car. He waved back. Each time he went to buy lunch at the bar, she showed him a different tattoo and offered to fuck him for ten dollars-the going rate for locals. With all the low-riders, addicts, pimps, and whores in the neighborhood there was no difference between the barrio and Juarez. Benton thought it would be a good idea to give El Paso back to the Mexicans.

He drove toward the freeway on-ramp, looking at the fax picture. So this was the cop Meehan wanted him to find and kill. No problem, Benton thought to himself. After all, damage control was his specialty. It gave him something to look forward to. *** The painkillers the doctor had given Eddie made him woozy. He had spent the afternoon either chained to the cot or throwing up in the bathroom. Now Carlos stood over him, a clean white cook's uniform in his hand.

"So, you are going to live, Eddie," Carlos predicted. There was a hint of friendliness in his voice.

"Have you finished puking?"

"It would seem so," Eddie agreed, "although my stomach now thinks I am starving."

"There will be food for you." Carlos picked his nose with his forefinger while he pushed his upper plate into place with his thumb.

"Are you well enough to work tonight?"

"Of course. I must. I gave my word to the patron." Carlos bent over and unshackled Eddie's leg.

"Friday night is very busy. Many of Don Enrique's friends come early before leaving for their homes in the country. Clean yourself. Can you do it with one arm?"

"I can manage," Eddie answered, swinging his legs off the bed.

"And your wound?" Carlos asked. Eddie stood and wiggled the fingers that protruded from the sling around his arm.

"I must thank the doctor when I see him. The arm feels much better."

"Tomorrow he will stitch you," Carlos reminded him. "Thank him then."

"I will," Eddie replied, determined that in the morning, at the latest, he would be at the Fort Bliss military hospital being treated by an Army doctor who wasn't on De Leon pad. Carlos walked him to the dressing room and told him not to be long, as others might have need for the toilet.

He would be outside, waiting. Eddie bathed quickly, keeping the wound dry as he sponged himself, washed his hair, and used his left hand to shave with a razor Carlos gave him, nicking himself several times. He dressed in the clean clothes-a much better fit than yesterday's apparel-dried his hair, and adjusted the sling and the hump. He felt good enough to think about escaping. His plan was simple: given enough of a distraction he would run away. Carlos knocked at the door. Eddie opened it, and one of the cooks brushed by him on the way to the urinal, unbuttoning his fly as he went.

"Time for your meal, jorobado," Carlos noted, "and then to work."

"I am ready." Eddie smiled at the ugly man as he handed back the razor. *** Kerney stood inside the Little Turtle and looked around the room. The gambling house was filled with well-dressed men and women busy placing bets, socializing, and milling about the casino. It had a party atmosphere to it, and from the way people mixed, it was not a gathering of strangers. Kerney picked out a bodyguard hovering near a man with a slick-looking woman draped on his arm, and another close by an older gentleman betting at a monte table. He counted six more bodyguards in the room before switching his attention to the bar. More muscle, Kerney thought to himself, as he sized up the man standing directly behind a table at the corner of the bar. A thug with acne scars and a bushy mustache, the bodyguard carefully scanned the room with watchful eyes.

At the table the goon guarded, a man and a young woman were talking. On a bar stool to one side sat a hunchback dressed in a cook's uniform, smiling stupidly at everybody. Kerney walked toward the table, and the bodyguard cut him off.

"What do you want?" Carlos asked in heavy English, looking the gringo up and down. The man wore an expensive suit with an Italian cut that accentuated his square shoulders. He was tall and deeply tanned, with blue eyes that crinkled at the corners. He's a big son of a bitch, Carlos thought to himself. Kerney smiled.