Echoes of a Distant Summer (77 page)

“You’s way too thin-skinned, boy, for one that likes to throw a dig in every now and again. I ain’t decided nothin’. I just wants to hear yo’ reasonin’ and get an understandin’ of yo’ commitment. You my only grandson! I’m gon’ give you all the help you want to get through college. You don’t have to do what I say for me to help. Money ain’t nothin’ but Vaseline, it just make things slicker. It don’t help with no real problems.
I ain’t gon’ play no money games with you. I done already put five years of tuition in yo’ bank account. I’ll send you the same amount next year whether we talk or not!”

Jackson breathed a sigh of relief. He had only a partial scholarship and he was happy that he could rely on his grandfather’s support. He would not have asked for it, but he was willing to accept if it was offered.

“Thank you for your support, Grandfather. I am very grateful.”

“Good! Now, can we talk about huntin’? I built me a pig-sticker roaster in the back of the house and ain’t got no pig to stick in it. I would dearly love to bring back a couple of them peccaries from Durango.”

“Sure, Grandfather, when do you want to go?”

“I needs a couple of days to take care of a few things first. Them boys that followed you need some talkin’ to. You’s welcome to join me if’en you wants to find out how they knew you was coming on that particular flight. It won’t be pleasant, but it’ll be real. I knows you don’t want no part of this life. I’s offerin’ ’cause I wants you to know what’s goin’ on. Ain’t no disrespect if’en you wants to pass.”

Jackson shook his head. “I don’t want any part of it.” Sometimes his grandfather seemed too incredible to be believed. After all that had passed between them, his grandfather still had the gall to invite him to watch two men being tortured. The old man was as persistent as the tide, washing away bits and pieces of his grandson’s protective coastline with each assault. Jackson had to renew his resolve regularly.

His grandfather nodded his head then said, “You and Carlos could go up to the huntin’ lodge outside of Nombre de Dios in Durango and make sure it’s stocked with vittles. We gon’ need at least a week’s worth of supplies and I’ll have some men bring up the horses we gon’ need.”

“You’re planning to hunt peccaries on horseback?”

“It ain’t as dangerous as on foot and it be more sportin’ than a vehicle. Gives the pigs a bit more of a chance and sho’ do test how well a man can sit his horse!”

“I thought we were just going to hunt.” Jackson didn’t like the thought of a herd of thirty or forty outraged pigs chasing him, while he, astride a horse, attempted to escape them in the twisting arroyos and canyons of Durango’s high desert. One fifty-pound pig could be savage enough on its own, but the prospect of facing a whole pack was
quite frightening. The local folk in the hills of Durango called them
javelina
, because of the shape of their sharp tusks. “I’ll drive the jeep for cut-off or pickup.”

King Tremain accepted his grandson’s offer with a wave of his hand. Doing pickup for a peccary hunt was sometimes more dangerous than the hunt itself. Peccaries had a highly developed social structure and were tremendously loyal to other herd members. Sometimes they would lurk out of sight in the bush for hours before abandoning the fallen individual to desert predators and scavengers. The unsuspecting person who alighted from his horse to field-dress a peccary kill sometimes paid with his life.

“Maybe we’ll just use the horses to flush ’em out, but if they’re back in some of those steep and narrow ravines, we gon’ hunt ’em where they be. May not be able to get the jeeps in there at all.”

“I’ll work whatever you assign me, Grandfather. If we have to go down into the ravines after the pigs, I’m with you.”

“Good! I talked to Alma and Maria and they want to get out of the city for a while. So they’ll join us at the lodge. It’ll be better this way, because we’ll have someone concentrating on the cooking the whole time. We’ll get coffee and hot food in the mornings and when we return. Can’t beat that with a stick! You folk could leave tomorrow morning and be in Durango by late tomorrow night. We could be set up for our first scoutin’ party by Wednesday.”

At four-thirty the next morning two four-wheel-drive vehicles pulled out of the courtyard of King Tremain’s Chapultepec house and headed north out of the city. The larger vehicle, a station wagon with a fully packed roof rack, was driven by Carlos, and the smaller, canvas-covered jeep was driven by Jackson. Alma rode with Carlos while Maria rode with Jackson. The station wagon led the way along broad boulevards, past numerous plazas, and finally through the broad streets which led out of the city. Even at five in the morning, Mexico City’s vehicular traffic was a snarling, cacophonous experience. The trucks and cars swerved in and out of traffic, seemingly unconcerned that there were painted lanes to direct the flow of motorized vehicles.

Once they were free of the city, the two cars headed north across an upward-sloping plain toward a pass in the mountains which ringed the basin in which Mexico City was located. They passed irrigated fields which were a luminous green in the first shafts of sunrise. The sun appeared
as an orange disk above the eastern edge of the two extinct volcanoes. Even outside of the city, the polluting haze distorted and dimmed the outlines of the surrounding purple mountains.

It was nearly midnight when they drove into the city of Durango. They spent the night at a
taberna
in which King had purchased a half share. The other owner, Pablo Guzman, was a longtime friend of both King and Rico Ramirez. He was a chubby, jovial, brown-skinned man with a shaved head and heavy black eyebrows and an even thicker black mustache. He greeted his guests with smiles and laughter and led them to their rooms. After they had washed the travel dust from their faces, he took them down to a large kitchen, where bowls of steaming rabbit stew awaited them.

Jackson was exhausted from the drive; he ate the spicy stew and then went to his room. He fell into a deep sleep and dreamed about Maria. Mostly he dreamed about their long drive northward. There was a tension between them that confused him. It was not an uncomfortable tension, but for some reason he thought and rethought everything that he wanted to say and then when he attempted to say it, he became tongue-tied. She did not seem to be affected by the same affliction, but she did not talk much. She spent a lot of time watching him, staring at his face.

Since Carlos did not stop for meal breaks, they ate as they drove. At one point along a two-lane stretch of highway, as the two vehicles were passing slower farm vehicles and heavily laden trucks, Maria had brought out lunch, which consisted of meat and beans loosely wrapped in tortillas. Jackson could not handle the food and drive at the same time, so she had fed him. She moved so close to him that her breast grazed his arm and he could smell the soap she had used.

Her touch had given him an erection, which was further titillated when she picked the crumbs out of his lap. After they finished eating, she did not move away but stayed next to him. By the time they drove into Durango, she was asleep against his shoulder. When he woke her to go into the
taberna
, the sleepy smile she gave him warmed his heart.

The next morning the clean, cool, dry breeze of the high desert greeted them as Jackson drove Alma and Maria to the marketplace on the edge of Durango. In the distance, the Sierra Madre Occidental raised their brown and gray peaks skyward. The city of Durango sprawled across the foothills of the Sierras like a drunken man lying on
a low sofa. Below the city the Mezquital River wound its way placidly to the Sea of Cortez. From the outdoor market which was between the river and the lowest area of town, the rest of Durango could be seen rising gently above it, rows upon rows of white buildings interspersed with the beige, brown, and clay of adobe structures. At the edge of the market the bells in the spire of an old church tolled out the hour, joining the churches farther up the hill, calling the faithful to prayer.

Alma, Maria, and Jackson walked down the main aisle of the market. There were rows of brightly covered wooden stalls where vendors displayed their neatly stacked wares and produce. It was a typical farmers’ market to be found on the edge of comparable cities in countries throughout the world. Most of the produce was grown locally by the extended families of the people working the stalls. Even though it was Sunday morning, the market was rippling with vitality and color. There were hundreds of passionate exchanges and conversations being conducted in Spanish as buyers and sellers argued over prices and quality, and somewhere in the distance came the braying of a burro. Jackson passed booths festooned with wreaths of green and red peppers. Other booths had bright yellow bananas, green tomatillos, and red tomatoes. Maria and Alma occupied themselves haggling with the vendors over prices while Jackson performed the manual labor of carrying the large woven basket into which the purchased goods were placed. Since his assigned task required little thought, Jackson allowed himself to be distracted by the color and sights around him.

If Jackson had been more alert he might have seen Juan Tejate standing between two booths staring at him. Juan had grown no taller since he had last met Jackson, but he had filled out into a solid, muscular man. Juan pulled his stiletto from his boot and tested the nine-inch blade for sharpness by sawing through a leather scrap. His black eyes gleamed as he watched Jackson moving through the market assisting the two women. Juan had not forgotten the beating that he had received at Jackson’s hands. He had spent many days and nights dreaming about his revenge. Now, after three years, the opportunity was in his hands. Only this time, it would end in death for El Negro’s grandson. Juan held the knife so that the blade was up his sleeve then stepped out into the crowd.

T
he old panel van rolled silently to the curb a quarter of a block from the corner of McAllister and Octavia streets and turned off its lights. It was parked in the shadows down the block from the corner streetlamp. Three men dressed in black got out of the back of the van and melted away into the night. Jackson rested his arms on the steering wheel, took a deep breath. He felt uncomfortable and restricted in his bulletproof vest. He tried to adjust it unsuccessfully, but it was beneath his shirt and wouldn’t budge. After a few futile efforts he gave up and looked at Carlos in the passenger’s seat. Carlos acknowledged Jackson’s look with a nod then took a silencer out of his pocket and screwed it onto his machine pistol. He gestured that Jackson do the same. Jackson took his .45 Colt from its holster, secured the silencer, then pulled back the slide, chambering a bullet. He holstered the gun, patted the hilt of the knife in his back sheath, and took another deep breath to steady himself. He was nervous and edgy, and no matter how many deep breaths he took to calm himself, he couldn’t seem to reduce the pounding speed of his heart. He picked up a long, black sports bag containing a pair of dark goggles, a flashlight, a compact twelve-gauge shotgun, and a cane machete, and got out of the driver’s side of the van. Carlos got out of the other side with his own sports bag and checked to ensure that all the van’s doors were locked. He and Jackson then synchronized their watches before heading off into the darkness. They turned into a street in which there were a couple of garages, a number of different repair shops, a cabinet shop, and a lighting store. All of the businesses were closed and the street was surprisingly dark. There were only two streetlights at either end of the block.

They were headed for a converted two-story garage in the middle of the block that John Tree used as the headquarters for his heroin and cocaine distribution. The first three men out of the van were responsible for securing the building’s roof and perimeter. Carlos carried his machine pistol, dark goggles, a couple of flash grenades, and a cloth-wrapped packet containing various instruments of persuasion in his sports bag. He signaled a halt and stared at the roof of the old garage, waiting for an all clear. They waited several minutes and then saw two bright flashes from the top of the building. Carlos led the way at a run to
the front door of the building. Underneath an old painted sign that read
USED FURNITURE
there was a heavy wooden door that was partially ajar. Carlos slipped inside. Jackson followed him into the darkness then scuttled out of the doorway and squatted down against the wall. He wanted to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the interior of the building’s gloom and shadows. The only illumination came from windows high on the walls that caught the weak, ambient gleam of distant streetlights. Carlos closed and locked the front door and joined him against the wall. As Jackson’s eyes adjusted, he saw that they were in a large hall filled with dining table and chair sets, couches, end tables, and lamps. On his left, above a small office, there were stairs leading to an upper level. There was movement in the darkness and his heart jumped in his chest. He almost pulled his gun, then he saw that it was one of Carlos’s men, Tavio Lopez, dragging a body into the little office. Tavio came out of the office and waved the all clear. Carlos led the way up the darkened stairway.

Jackson was trying to be alert and attentive to his surroundings, but the truth was that he could barely hear anything over the pounding of his heart. They reached the top of the stairs. A hallway illuminated only by the thin slits of light which glowed underneath a couple of closed doors. They headed to the first door. Jackson’s gun was now in his hand and his trigger finger had a terrible twitch. He was concerned that if he kept his gun in his hand he was going to inadvertently shoot himself in the foot. He was concentrating on controlling himself when a door swung open on his right and light flooded the hall. A tall, dark-skinned man in a dashiki walked through the doorway and Jackson fired on reflex. The gun puffed and jerked in his hand, but there was no sound. He put three bullets in the man’s torso before he knew what he was doing, and the bullets hitting the man’s body made more noise than the silencer, thudding, splattering sounds that seemed to ring in his ears. The man staggered backward through the door and fell against a chair then landed on the floor with a crash.