Dove Season (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) (19 page)

A noise turned my attention to the end of the narrow road. The other
vato
stood thirty yards away. He was breathing rapidly, taking in the scene before him. His eyes fixed on mine.

We stared at each other. Literally, a Mexican standoff.

The man at my feet hit me in the knee with his bat. The nerve. He knocked me to the side, but not down.

“Fuck you,” he gurgled in English.

I stood up straight, my weight shooting sharp pain through my knee. The man at the end of the row put his head down and charged like a rhino. I kicked the man on the ground in the side on principle, and then I took off. At least now I was going toward my truck. Even if a berserk man with a baseball bat was chasing me.

I ran maybe fifty yards before my knee screamed. That wasn’t going to work. Fuck it.

I turned and stood my ground. Shovel versus bat. Advantage bat, but I didn’t have a choice.

The man kept coming full steam, bat over his shoulder like a battle-ax in a Frank Frazetta poster. I grabbed the handle of the shovel wide with both hands, holding it like a quarterstaff and preparing to parry his blow. He reached me, swinging the bat. I feinted a block, sidestepped him, and let him sail past me, hitting nothing but air. For good measure, I hit him in the back with the flat of the shovel as he passed. It pissed him off more than it hurt him, but I had to take what I could get.

He turned and we circled each other. One good swing and he’d be able to break the shovel in half. I had reach, so I took a couple of quick jabs at him with the blade of the shovel. He easily knocked them away.

I had brawled enough in my lifetime to know that violence didn’t have to be emotional. Some people got angry. It took away their focus. This was a fight, so I thought about fighting. The mistake too many people made was that they thought about the end of the fight instead of the middle. The middle of the fight was where the end happened.

I found my answer. I was going to use my weakness to my advantage.

He took his swing. I held up the handle of the shovel, letting him hit it dead center. The handle broke in two, splintering the wood. While he was at the end of his swing, I brought one half of the handle down on his foot. The sharp splintered end sank deep into the top of his shoe. He screamed as I brought the shovel blade up quickly and connected with his chin. He dropped to the ground, conscious, but in too much pain to care about me anymore. When he reached for his foot, I could see the tip of the wood sticking bloody out of the rubber sole of his boot.

I had learned my lesson. I didn’t stick around to help.

Four flat tires. At the time I found no amusement in the unavoidable irony of my now worthless truck in front of the rainbow wall of tires of La Ciudad Perdida.

Bobby wasn’t waiting for me. With two downed attackers in my wake, I didn’t think it prudent to stick around. I took a quick breather, taking just enough time to quell the rising sick in my esophagus. Filled with adrenaline, my heart raced and my head sang. After a minute and with my faculties under control, I lit a cigarette, threw up, and limped west into the heart of the city.

I turned back to my truck, not expecting to ever see it again. What was the life expectancy of an abandoned truck in a Mexicali slum? My guess, two hours or night, whichever came first. Driven off or stripped, the city would even eat the bones. I was going to miss that piece of shit.

An hour later, Angie picked me up at the only landmark I could find on the west side of Mexicali. A McDonald’s on Avenida Yugoslavia. I used loose change to buy something called a McNifica. It looked like a Whopper and tasted like septic waste. I left a series of messages on Bobby’s voice mail. I still hadn’t heard from him when Angie drove me back over the border into Calexico.

“What’s going on? Where’s Bobby? What happened to your truck?”

“I don’t know where Bobby is. My truck is gone,” I said, trying not to snap at her from my frustration. “Give me a bit. At least until we get to the house. I have to think. I have to get things straight in my head.”

“Until we get to the house,” she said, obviously unhappy.

“I need to call Buck Buck. I was going to call information, but I don’t know his first name. He’s always just been Buck Buck. I know his last name is Buckley. Do you know?”

“I don’t want to be a smartass,” Angie said, “but I think Buck Buck is his real name. Did you try it?”

I gave her a look and called information. Sure enough, Buck Buck Buckley was in the fucking book. I called and left a message. In the age of cell phones, I still had to wait. “Buck Buck, it’s Jimmy Veeder. Grab your brother and head to my house. Bobby’s in trouble. If you got a gun, bring it.”

Angie gave me a sharp look.

I stopped her. “I know. When we get to the house, I’ll explain everything.”

Back at the house, I didn’t explain a thing. Instead, I went straight to the hall closet and took out Pop’s shotgun for the second time since I’d been back. I rolled the functional antique Winchester out of the Mexican blanket. I cracked it open, both barrels empty. Snapping the break-action back into place and feeling the weight of the shotgun, I felt invincible. I found a box of shells on the shelf in the closet. Bird shot, but it would have to do. I would have preferred a couple of deer slugs. I wrapped the shotgun back up and headed for the door.

Angie had watched me without a word, but she grabbed my arm as I tried to pass. “You better tell me what stupid shit you’re about to do.”

“Bobby’s in trouble,” I said.

“Bobby is always in trouble,” she said with no humor in her voice.

“Angie, I got him into this.”

“And now you’re going to get him out? That’s not a plan. You said you didn’t know where he was. What are you going to do? Until I know exactly what’s going on, you’re not taking my truck anywhere. Especially not Mexicali with a shotgun.”

I pulled my arm away, but had no argument.

She continued. “At the very least, wait to hear from Buck Buck and Snout. Don’t do this alone. Tell me what happened. Bobby’s usually the last guy who needs saving. Think about it. Think about Bobby. Put the shotgun back. We’ll wait. I don’t know what’s going on, but running out of the house with a gun and no plan isn’t going to help him.”

I said nothing for a minute.

“Fucking Bobby better be okay,” I finally said, defeated.

Angie took the shotgun and shells from my hands and walked them back to the closet.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. When I have a task to accomplish, I have focus. But when things are unsettled, I am completely lost. I contemplated taking a shower, but the thought of Yolanda’s body floating in the cistern kept me filthy. This kind of waiting was torturous, but Angie was right. Reacting wasn’t good enough. I needed to think.

I put a bunch of ice cubes in a Ziploc, grabbed a beer and my cigarettes, and sat on the living room floor with my back against the wall and the ice on my knee. Angie silently brought me a coaster and an ashtray. I hadn’t even known there were coasters in the house. She sat across from me and waited silently.

I needed to figure out what to do about Bobby. Should I have stayed? If I had, what would I have done? Angie was right again. Bobby was much better at taking care of himself than I was. But those gunshots. He could be trapped in La Ciudad Perdida, shot or dead. I needed to call Tomás.

In all that, tickling at the back of my brain was a little Mexican kid named Juan. Ill-prepared to get my head around Pop having a son, I tried to keep my mind on Bobby. But the kid kept creeping in there. That face. Those eyes. Did Pop really have a son other than me? It was crazy. Couldn’t be. I had to find his relatives. Relatives other than me. If I was a relative. What a fucking mess.

It finally sank in. Angie was right. I couldn’t do this myself. I needed help. All the help I could get.

“You ready for the whole story?” I asked her.

She nodded. “Let me grab a couple more beers.”

So I laid it out for her. I told her everything. From the beginning. From Pop’s request, which she knew about, to Yolanda’s body, to this trip to Mexicali and the possibility of Pop having a son. The only thing I left out was how Pop died. That would always be mine.

It took about a half hour to get it all out. The storyteller in me kept wanting to embellish, but I did my best to keep to the facts. By the time I finished, the room was dark. Angie stared at me, expecting more or absorbing what she’d heard, I’m not sure.

“Fucking shit” was Angie’s response. “What in the holy hell are you going to do?”

“Exactly,” I said.

At that moment, the door swung open. The bang of the door against the wall resounded throughout the big room. In the fraction of a second I had to react, I pushed Angie behind the couch and grabbed the poker next to the fireplace, the only weapon within reach.

I rolled into a crouch, ready to attack.

In the doorway Bobby laughed at me. I didn’t recognize him at first, covered from head to toe in partially dried black mud, but his machine-gun laugh was unmistakable.

“You scared the shit out of me,” I said. I put the poker back and helped Angie up to a sitting position.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

She nodded and then looked up at Bobby. “What the hell happened? You smell like a colonic.”

Bobby shrugged. “Long story. Dude chased me. Took a couple of shots. Missed, obviously. Shit, I haven’t been shot at since I was a kid. I got all serpentine. Bobbed and weaved. Kept to the nooks, ran through the crannies. Ditched him, but I was hell and gone west. Part of Mexicali I ain’t never been before. Only found one way to get back. At a shitball tamale stand, I hooked up with some illegals taking the plunge and rode the waves of the New River.

“I guess that wasn’t as a long story as I thought.”

I was surprised to see Griselda walk in past him. She continued the story. “The Border Patrol caught him as he climbed out of the river. Because of all the pollution and disease coming in from Mexico, agents won’t go anywhere near it. They just sit on the bank and wait. Catch the ones they can. Double-thick rubber gloves and surgical masks. It’s a nightmare. But apparently, Bobby was big enough to be a keeper.”

Bobby added, “Couldn’t stop puking. Pretty sure I puked up a corndog I ate in junior high. River smells like a baby shit omelet.
La Migra
gave me a ton of hassle. Thought I was a smuggler, a terrorist. Figured I couldn’t be up to no good. They had that look in their eyes. The one they get right before they tonk you with their Maglite and perform a cavity search. I called fuck this and got them to call Gris ’cause she’s all legit and could vouch for me. She worked her magic. Got me released.” He winked. “I don’t think she hates me.”

Griselda punched Bobby on the arm.

She turned to me. “Bobby said you’d explain. I need to know exactly what’s going on. I need you to be straight with me. This is a murder investigation. If you’ve withheld information, I need to know. Why was Yolanda at your father’s wake? I don’t want to get too cop on you, but I need everything that has happened and what you’re planning to make happen or what might happen. We’re on the same side.”

I looked at Bobby.

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t fuck with Gris. I’m going to hose off. Scrub some of the encephalitis off. Sounds like you two are overdue a chat. You can trust her, Jimmy,” Bobby said. “Oh, and Gris, that’s Angie. Angie, Gris.” He closed the front door behind him. Angie and Gris half-smiled at each other.

I turned to Griselda. “How much did Bobby tell you?”

“I didn’t bother to listen. Can only believe so much of what that troublemaker says. Start from the beginning.”

I looked out the window and watched a buck-naked Bobby hosing himself off on my front lawn. He spent an inordinate amount of time on his genitals. Both Angie and Griselda followed my eyes. Their laughter broke some of the tension, and I retold the tale for the second time in an hour.

“You know what the old
campesinos
say.” Tomás spoke evenly on the other end of the phone. “The gopher digs the hole. The snake eats the gopher. Then the snake lives in the hole. The owl eats the snake. His turn in the hole. Finally, the rain comes. It drowns the owl. The animal, it doesn’t matter. They live. They die. Only the hole remains.”

“I didn’t know the old
campesinos
said that,” I replied after too long a silence. “And I don’t have a clue what the hell you’re talking about. I don’t know what that means. Pretty though.”

“Alejandro isn’t anywhere. None of my eyes have seen him. He’s deep in that hole, but he’ll come out. He can only hide so long. The rain is coming.”

“What about you? Aren’t you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding. I’m different. I’m untouchable. I continue with my business, but more carefully. With more support.”

“You think he’ll come after me and Bobby?”

“Cross the border? Take some massive
huevos
, but that’s one pissed
chingon
. And them two
maleantes
you messed up, they ain’t so happy either. I got word to my people that work the border. Spread some money to the boys in green. Unless he jumps the fence, I’ll be able to warn you if he heads north.”

“That’d be a lot of risk for little reward, don’t you think?”

“Jimmy, you stuck a piece of wood through a motherfucker’s foot. I don’t know how they respond to that kind of thing in your world, but Mexicans don’t let that shit go.”

“I still got some shit to deal with down in Chicali,” I said, thinking about Juan only to the point where I had no idea what I was going to do.

“Coming down here would be ill-advised. If it doesn’t require your personal attention, send someone for you. You come down here, he’ll come at you. Won’t take him long to find out. All it takes is money to control the law on both sides. This is serious shit, Jimmy. You try to sneak in, you better be extra careful.”

“Can I talk to him? Work something out?”

“It was past talking the moment your fist hit his face. You can’t look for his reaction to be logical. There ain’t no logic in Mexico. I warned you. He’s dangerous. Dangerous to me, too. Tired of playing second. He’s going to use this to make his move. Sooner than he wanted, but this was the, what do you call it?”

“Straw that broke the camel’s back?”

“No, the idiot who punches Mexican gangsters for making stupid jokes.”

“Yeah, that’s me. It’s not a party until I punch a Mexican.”

“Alejandro doesn’t have my friends. As long as I’ve got my friends. As long as they’re happy, my business partners. The plaza, the cops, the priests, and the players. I’m good. He’ll find help from the unaffiliated talent pool. Their quality and quantity will depend on how much money he’s banked. I’ll know soon enough. Because one thing is certain—he’s coming.”

“Then what happens?” I asked.

“People die.”

When I came back inside, Bobby, Griselda, and Angie had made their way into the dining room. They each had a beer in front of them, and it was church quiet. I glanced at Bobby as I sat. He wore Pop’s terrycloth bathrobe and distractedly played with the sash.

“Seriously, bro,” Bobby said, looking up. “It’s a fucking sauna in here. Is the heat on? I’m sweating like a Youkilis.”

“Air’s broke. These are all the fans I got. Sorry.”

“What’d Tomás say?” Bobby said, eyes back to the sash.

When I had relayed the events to Griselda, she had been very aware of the activities of Tomás Morales. He seemed to have established himself as a slippery player in the criminal enterprises on both sides of the border. Nothing specific, but connections to every criminal and most crimes. On hearing Tomás’s name, Griselda showed obvious interest. I had a feeling that any information I gave her about him would be stored for later use.

I lit a smoke. “Tomás had nothing. Keeping an eye out for Alejandro. He seemed to think that if he tried to cross the border, one of Tomás’s guys would see him.”

“He’s got people in the Border Patrol, too?” Griselda said, shaking her head.

“Looking forward to seeing Alejandro again,” Bobby said. “That asshole’s got a beat down on credit.”

“I just want this to end. For Alejandro to leave us alone.”

“Leave
us
alone?” Bobby said. “He shot at me. Tried to kill me. And if you hadn’t gotten all MacGyver with that shovel, and I’m not totally convinced that actually happened, you’d have a couple of bat-sized dents in your
cabeza
right now. Let him come. I got some king-size hurting to put to that punk.”

“This isn’t the time for a war. There’s too much to figure out. If you want to get back at him, fine. Not now. Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

“Revenge is a what? What does that mean? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s a quote.”

“Best served cold? What? Like stab him with an icicle? Or use ice bullets.”

“What? No. What are you talking about?”

“No, no. You may have something. Think about it. Ice bullets would be completely untraceable.”

Angie made a loud, exasperated grunting sound. Bobby and I turned to her. After a few seconds with her eyes closed and frustration in her voice, she said, “Boys, can we save the moronics for some other time?”

Griselda laughed, putting her hand on Angie’s arm. “I was going to say something, but I was curious to see how stupid these two could get. They completely exceeded my expectations.”

“He started it,” Bobby said, pointing at me.

Angie gave Bobby a hard stare. “The only thing that matters right now is that boy. What’s going to happen to him? What are you going to do?”

It took me a moment to realize that she had turned to me and was waiting for an answer.

“I don’t know,” I said. Then for no reason other than complete impotence, I repeated, “I don’t know.”

“Well, until you know, there’s nothing else for you to do or think about. You have a problem. Solve it. Nothing you can do about this Alejandro. Work on what’s in front of you.”

“I don’t even know for certain if that kid’s Pop’s kid.”

“Then that’s where you start. Find out,” Angie said. “Have a paternity test done.”

“You need blood or something for that. I just put Pop in the ground. I’m not going to dig him up.”

“All I’m hearing is excuses,” Angie said, not hiding the aggravation in her voice. “You don’t need blood. You have all your father’s things. If there’s a hair in his hairbrush, that’ll do. Long as it’s the whole hair with the follicle, it works just as well. You can compare it to one of the boy’s hairs.”

“She’s right,” Griselda agreed.

Bobby chimed in. “DNA, dude. It’s all CSI and shit nowadays. I saw an infomercial for a home paternity tester. Three hundred bones. A little steep, but if you need to know, you need to know. Erik Estrada said it takes like a week to get the results. He was wearing a lab coat in the ad, so he probably knows what he’s talking about. Not everyone gets to wear a lab coat. I was even thinking of getting one. You know, just in case.”

“In case of what?” Griselda asked.

“In case I needed one.”

Four beers later, Griselda was off on a rant. “It’s only been a day. One day, and it’s already falling apart. Me, the case, the body, everything. My bosses, they’re pushing me to file Yolanda as an accidental death. Dove season. Election year. Bureaucratic bullshit. Like that’s a reason. They know it’s a homicide, but they don’t think I can solve it. What they’re thinking is, what’s the point? Why bother? An open murder isn’t what they want on the books. Better it’s just another dead Mexican. Won’t make their stats. Get lumped with all the other dead wetbacks.” She drained her beer. I went to the fridge and brought out four more.

“That’s fucked up,” Angie said.

“Couldn’t put it better.” Griselda nodded.

“So fuck ’em,” Bobby said. “Let’s catch the motherfucker our own damn selves.”

“Thanks, Bobby.” Griselda laughed.

“I’m serious. Just ’cause that’s not how it’s done don’t mean we can’t do it. You said it yourself—they’re going to quit. Going to bury it. Maybe I’m all revengey right now with that prick, Alejandro, on my brain. But too much fucked shit has happened. Some bastards need a severe ass-kicking to balance out the bill.”

Griselda laughed. “I had a couple too many beers. I was venting, not looking for help. This is serious police business. It’s my job.”

“You mean, the job they’re not letting you do,” Bobby said. “You let this here farm boy get a little Columbo on this shit, and you’d be doing the job you’re supposed to. Hey, look, I don’t want to get you fired or shot or whatever they do, but I don’t see the harm in me looking into it.”

“Actually, there is,” Griselda said. “It’s called interfering in an ongoing criminal investigation.”

“But if they close the case—you said they were going to close the case—if they close it, what am I doing wrong? I wouldn’t be fucking any ongoing nothing. There wouldn’t be no investigation. Is it illegal to ask people questions?

“It had to be someone who was at Morales Bar. This is the middle of nowhere. No other reason to be this far out of town. Not like there’re people just strolling by. I made that list. We got us some suspects. You’re in, right, Jimmy?”

“No way, Bobby. This is all you. I’m sorry about Yolanda. Hell, I feel responsible, at least in some way, but she’s dead. You said it before, dead is dead. I went to get her last name, find her family, and look what happened. Griselda’s right—we don’t know what we’re doing. And Angie’s right, too. There’s a little boy without parents. He was going to have a hard life before his mother died, but now…”

“He’s fucked,” Bobby finished my sentence.

“Mrs. Ruiz said Yolanda was about to go back to Guadalajara. Head back south with Juan. That she had raised enough money to go home. Where is that money? She wouldn’t’ve kept it at her house. Wasn’t no lock on the door.”

“Wasn’t no door on the door,” Bobby said.

“She was killed right before she was going to leave?” Griselda said.

“Too much of a coincidence? You think the money has something to do with her death?” Angie said.

“Money usually does,” Griselda replied.

At that moment for the second time that night, the front door flew open and slammed against the wall with a loud crash. I turned, my heart beating out of my chest.

Buck Buck and Snout stormed into the house. I had completely forgotten that I had called them.

They stood just inside the door ready for battle, their faces streaked with a rough estimation of camouflage makeup. Buck Buck had a Remington pump-action shotgun, finger just outside the trigger guard. A shotgun shell bandoleer draped across his torso, a sombrero on his head, and a nub of cigar in the corner of his mouth: the psycho bandito look. Behind him Snout had two revolvers holstered cowboy low on a gun belt on his hips. He held a recurve crossbow with a bolt nocked and ready. In his shorts and tank top, he didn’t have a look. Unless batshit crazy was a look.

They both breathed heavily, staring at our quorum. Their dramatic entrance had taken everything out of them.

I turned to Griselda, who had her hand on her sidearm. “They’re with us.”

“Of course they are,” she said, not showing any sign of relaxing.

Explanations and introductions were quickly made. Buck Buck and Snout’s disappointment was childlike. All that preparation and Wallyworld was closed. Bobby gave them the rough recap. They were ready to head south, amped for a fracas. They almost convinced Bobby to join them. His instinct said fight, but Bobby stuck by his brain and used every ounce of restraint to convince them that now was not the time. Even if he didn’t believe it himself. I knew he was doing it for me.

While he talked them down, I spent my time convincing Griselda not to arrest the moron twins for scaring the hell out of her.

As Buck Buck was leaving, he said, “You need us, you call again. We’re always ready for action. Probably not used to it in the city, but country folk look out for each other.”

“I grew up here too,” I said, not sure why I was defending my rural origins.

“All right, Jethro. Just saying, you want, Snouter and I’ll camp out outside. Sentry duty. Or we can go on the hunt. Just like in
Hawaiian Hellground
.”

“What’s that?”

“Mack Bolan.”

“Who?”

“The Executioner? It’s a book.
Hawaiian Hellground
. Number 22. I’m surprised you don’t know that, being an English college major and all. Thought they’d teach you literary shit.”

“I ditched Literary Shit 101.”

Griselda and Bobby left soon after Buck Buck and Snout, leaving me and Angie alone in the big house. Not much had been decided on, but beer and exhaustion adjourned the meeting.

I had settled on two clear objectives: One, stay away from Alejandro. And two, figure out what to do about that kid. The talking was over for now. It was time to do some heavy figuring.

“You okay to drive home?” I asked Angie.

“Nope.” Her eyes were at half-mast.

“I’ll throw some clean sheets on the bed in back. I usually just hit the couch anyway.”

“Are you going to go again?” she asked.

“What? I’m not sure what you’re asking. Go where?”

“Your father died. I’m sorry. But that’s why you came back. For Jack. That’s done. Are you going to leave again? Are you leaving now?”

“You’re drunk. If you want to talk about this, let’s do it tomorrow. I’m not going anywhere tomorrow. I still have the house and the land and this thing with the kid, so…”

“That’s not an answer. You didn’t answer me. Are you leaving?”

There was silence between us. But her patience trumped my discomfort, so I answered.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” she said.

“A lot has been happening really fast. I’m just trying to get to morning. Hoping that when I wake up everything will be clearer.”

“You don’t know?” Now it was a question.

“I’m definitely not leaving soon.”

“When you go, where to? What are you going to? Are there people there? Are people waiting for you?”