Doubleback: A Novel (26 page)

A stocky Latina woman lounged behind the bar. Georgia caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. With her blond hair and pale skin, she had
Gringa
written all over her. She stepped up to the bar. “I’ll have a beer.”

The woman stared at her sling, then fished a longneck Corona out of a cooler. She held up five fingers. Georgia dug out a five, knowing she’d been ripped off. The woman stuffed the bill inside a drawer. Georgia tipped back her head for a swig, rinsing the grit that seemed to have settled in her throat. She took her beer to an empty table.

Five minutes later, a young man came in. Olive-skinned, with a razor haircut that was probably intended to make him look older, he wore jeans, a denim shirt, and cowboy boots. A small object poking out of his shirt pocket—a recorder or Blackberry, maybe— identified him as Javier Garcia. Georgia waved him over.

“Thanks for coming. I’m Davis.”

He nodded. His thick eyebrows furrowed in what looked like a permanent frown. “Friday’s a good day. I’m not on deadline.”

She motioned toward the woman behind the bar. “Get what you want and tell her to start a tab.”

Garcia ordered a Pepsi. The woman nodded, popped the top off, and filled a tall glass with ice. Garcia dropped a dollar tip on the bar, pointed at Georgia and told the woman to start a tab.

“Sure thing, Javier,” she said. She cast a quick glance towards Georgia.

He brought his drink to the table. “This is a treat. It’s not every day I get a call from a Chicago PI.”

She took a sip of beer, wishing she’d ordered a Pepsi. But she’d wanted to fit in. “You cover the Stevens police beat, right?”

Surprise flickered across his face. “My reputation’s that widespread?”

She smiled. “I’m working on a case in Chicago that has ties to Stevens. I need someone who knows what’s going on.”

“And is willing to talk about it.”

Garcia couldn’t be much older than thirty. How much did he know? She almost said something to that effect but changed her mind. “So, tell me about Stevens.”

“The town or its secrets?”

“Both.”

He sipped more Pepsi. “Stevens used to process copper from the Bisbee mines but most of the mining operations are gone. We still have a good number of cattle ranchers.”

“I thought the land was barren.”

“Not exactly. This part of the country is a series of small mountain chains with basins and valleys. Stevens sits in the high desert grasslands between the Sonora and Chihuahuan deserts. A lot of the land’s gone to scrub, but we have our moments. Especially during monsoon season.”

“Tell me about the people.”

“It’s heavily Hispanic,” he said. “Most of the whites, ranchers mostly, or rich people, live outside of town. And we have a prison.”

A man at the next table started to deal out cards. Five card stud.

“Isn’t there an Army base nearby?”

He nodded. “Fort Huachuca’s about fifty miles away, near Sierra Vista. Been around forever. Since the days of Pancho Villa at least. It’s a major base for the Signal Corps. The Thunderbirds train there.”

Georgia recalled the Thunderbirds from Chicago’s annual Air and Water Show, their jets diving and corkscrewing in tight sequence a few feet above Lake Michigan. She loved feeling the rush of the jets as they tore through the air.

Javier drained his Pepsi. “Fort Huachuca’s one of the Army’s centers for military intelligence. Lots of training, classes, and field work. People think the guys who interrogated prisoners at Abu Ghraib got their training there.” He paused. “They’ve also got an aerostat.”

“A what?”

“A radar-equipped dirigible. DEA uses it to detect low-flying aircraft flying across the border.”

She pointed to his pop. “Another?”

“I’ll get it.” He stood and gestured to her Corona, which she’d hardly touched.

“No, thanks.” Her wrist ached, her ankle was sore, and she wanted another Darvocet. But she had to remain sharp.

He went over to the bar and came back with another bottle of pop. He glanced at her sling. “So I’ve been dying to ask. How’d you break your arm?”

“Plowed into some pylons and a car in Chicago.”

He winced. “What happened?”

“Brakes failed.”

He arched an eyebrow.

She shrugged. He didn’t need to know more. “Back to Stevens. You said it’s heavily Hispanic.”

“A typical border town.” He propped his elbows on the table. “Lots of traffic back and forth. Plenty of us have family on both sides. For example, my parents and siblings are here, but my grandparents live in Esteban.”

“Do they visit?”

He nodded. “You used to be able to go back and forth at will. Now you need proof of citizenship, but my grandmother still crosses to go the supermarket once a month. They operate a bus from the border to the store.”

“Who runs the town?”

“Why?”

“I told you. I’m working a case that has links to the town.”

He cocked his head. “I need more than that.”

“All I’m asking for is public information. I thought it would be easier—and more pleasant to buy you a drink than go to the library. But if you’re not willing...” She let her voice trail off.

He shot her a skeptical glance. “Okay. We have a mayor. A city council. A small police department. The prison. And the Sheriff’s Department of Cochise County. You know, all the requisite civil institutions.”

“Yes, but who runs the town?”

“Ahh.” A faint smile curled the corners of his mouth. “That would be the Grant family. Lionel Grant.”

“What does he do?”

“He owns pretty much everything around here. The family settled here almost a hundred years ago and built the biggest smelting operation in town. Ever hear of Grant Copper Works?”

Georgia shook her head. The men at the next table placed their bets. One of them seemed to be taunting the others.

“Over the years the Grants built the town hall, the library, the hospital. You can’t miss it—the family logo’s plastered on almost everything.”

“Logo?”

“A crouching lion. You know, for Lionel.”

Georgia rolled her eyes. “But then, after the copper mines closed down, this Lionel—there’s a Lionel in every generation— moved to Elgin, about sixty miles away, and built a vineyard. Now he makes wine.”

“Why did he leave Stevens?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

Georgia stared at Garcia.

“Okay,” he laced his fingers together. “There are two theories. One is that he stripped the town of everything he could get and moved onto greener pastures. Literally.”

“And the other?”

Javier lowered his voice. “This is off the record, okay? He owns the newspaper, and if—”

“No problem.”

Javier looked both ways before he spoke. “The man is a racist. As the town got more heavily Hispanic, and as the UDA problem worsened, they say he didn’t want any part of it.”

“UDAs?”

“Undocumented Aliens. Illegals. Grant can’t stand them. Won’t hire anyone of color. Always harping about border crossings. Lobbying for more agents. Tighter control. Deportations.”

“From what I’ve read,” Georgia said, “Arizona does have— uh—let’s say, the most porous borders. Compared to Texas and California.”

“Like I said, it’s tougher now, but illegals only get caught about half the time. There’s a steady stream. Especially since the cartels have Mexico by the throat.”

“How serious is the drug problem?”

The man at the next table who’d been taunting the others threw down his cards, stood up, and started to shout. A second man shot his hands in the air as if trying to calm the first.

Javier checked them out. “This place can get a little wild. But it’s authentic. I meet some of my sources here. You know, people who otherwise don’t want to be found.”

She nodded.

“As far as the drug problem, it’s getting bad. Mexico is becoming a failed state. The cartels own the courts, the police, the Federales, and everything in between. And Stevens is a border town.” He rubbed his chin in a way that made Georgia think he used to have a beard. “They’ve started to make inroads here, too. Kidnapping. Blackmail. Extortion. At one point there was a rumor that the mayor’s brother had a drug tunnel running through his property.”

Georgia took a sip of her beer.

“All of which infuriates Grant,” Garcia went on. “He makes the
Star
publish editorials all the time.”

“Even though he’s not here?”

“He still owns most of the town.”

“Must be a popular guy,”

“People didn’t shed tears when he left,” Garcia admitted. “But you gotta give the man some credit. He’s a true believer, and he’s ponied up a lot of money for the cause. Anyone, local or national, who takes a stand against drug trafficking and illegal immigration can count on a generous contribution.”

“Including the Minutemen?”

Garcia laughed. “The Minutemen are a joke. They drive down from Ohio in their SUVs wearing camo jackets and fatigues, but all they do is sit around and mouth off. Grant’s the real thing.”

More raised voices at the next table. Other patrons in the bar were starting to stare. Georgia ignored the furor. “What made him so—passionate?”

“Don’t know. He mouths all the platitudes about Latinos stealing jobs from “real” Americans, the burdens on health care and education, the destruction of the American character. And now, with the escalating drug violence, he’s got more ammunition.”

“Maybe that’s why he took his family north.”

“His son is still here. Lionel Kenneth. They call him Ken. He’s on the city council.”

“Carrying on the family tradition?”

Javier rubbed his chin again. “Actually, Ken never worked in the smelting business. He owns a crafts company. Goes around to villages and reservations, here and in Mexico, buying up stuff. You know, blankets, jewelry and crap that he sells at flea markets and tourist shops.”

“Interesting. You wouldn’t think the son of a mogul—” An image of Luke Sutton came into her mind and Georgia cut herself off. “What’s he like? Ken?”

“Whatever Dad isn’t. Liberal. Rebellious. A friend to Latinos.”

A flash of lightning followed by the roll of thunder startled Georgia. She turned toward the window.

Javier chuckled. “It’s monsoon season. We get violent storms. From now through the end of August.” He rolled his empty Pepsi bottle on the table. “Okay. Your turn. Why all the questions?”

“I told you. I have a case—”

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

Georgia ran her tongue around her lips. “This is off the record.”

“Go on.”

She lowered her voice. “Do you know someone named Rafael Peña?”

Javier shook his head.

Georgia leaned forward. “If—and this is purely hypothetical, if a Blackwater type security team was operating here, what would they be doing? Would Grant be financing them?”

Javier hesitated.

“What’s with the hesitation?”

“Nothing.”

Georgia felt a flash of impatience. “Would they be connected to the army base? The police force? Border Patrol?”

“It wouldn’t be the Army. And border patrol would be the Feds. But I haven’t heard a word about any security force in the area, local or Federal.”

“You sure?”

“Not a whisper.” He paused. “But there is something you have to remember.”

“What’s that?”

“Despite the appearance of civilization, this is still the Wild West. People like to take the law into their own hands. So you can never be sure who’s doing what. Until...” His voice trailed off.

“Until what?”

“I was going to say ‘until it’s too late.’” His expression was solemn.

“I’ll take that as a warning.” Georgia picked up her bag and set it on her lap. “Listen, Javier. What I just told you has to stay off the record.”

“Don’t worry.” He pulled out a card, handed it to Georgia. “If it turns out to be true, though, I’d appreciate a call.”

The barmaid brought the card players another round of drinks. The man who’d been shouting at the others grinned. All was forgiven. Georgia slipped Javier’s card into her pocket and paid the tab. A moment later they emerged from the bar into a torrential storm. Dark low-hanging clouds were backlit by constant lightning. Thunder crashed overhead. The rain pummeled her like bullets. So much for the image of a western sky with stars so plentiful and close you could practically touch them.

“I don’t get it,” she shouted to Javier over the din. “An hour ago the air was so dry my lips were cracking.”

“Like I said, from now till September we get storms so violent you think everything is gonna float away. Half an hour later sometimes, you’d never know it rained.”

“Like Chinese food.”

Garcia laughed. “I like you, Georgia Davis. So take what I say in that spirit. Don’t hang around this place too long. You’re a
Anglo
.”

“I’ll remember that.” She gave him her good hand, and they shook. Then she ducked back inside to wait for the rain to stop. The woman who’d ripped her off for the beer was wiping down the bar.

Georgia approached her and cleared her throat. “I’m looking for someone,” she said in a low voice. The woman didn’t look up. “His name is Rafael Peña.”

The woman still wouldn’t look up, but the brisk circles she was making with her rag slowed.

“Have you ever heard of him?”

The woman kept wiping. Then she looked up. “
No hablo Ingles
.”

Georgia remembered her talking to Javier in perfect English. She waited. Nothing happened. She turned around and headed back to the door. The barmaid began talking to a man who’d just come out from the back. He had an apron around his waist, and a small towel was slung over his shoulder. Just like Owen Dougherty, Mickey’s owner back home. He must be Chevy. He checked his watch and nodded to the barmaid. She untied her apron and disappeared through the back. A moment later, Georgia saw her hurrying down the street—without an umbrella.

Georgia waited until the rain subsided, then walked slowly back to her hotel. She thought about what Javier said about people taking matters into their own hands. Luke Sutton had said Blackwater’s next mission would be in the U.S. Is that why Delton Security was here, if they were? And if they were, what were they doing and who were they working for? And why did the barmaid leave in such a hurry?