Southtown (12 page)

“We had to take it,” Sam said. “Stirman would’ve paid for the best defense. That kind of cash . . . we didn’t even trust the cops. Stirman had friends in the department, in the state attorney’s office. We didn’t want any chance he’d get off the hook. There was no choice.”

“Doing your civic duty,” I said. “A real self-sacrifice. What about Stirman’s baby, Sam? Was there no choice on that, too?”

His eyes took on the kind of deadness I was used to seeing in victims of violence, or collared criminals.

“We didn’t mean to,” he said.

Rain rattled at the window screens.

Robert Johnson pushed his food dish around.

I tried to think of something to say—some condemnation strong enough.

The phone rang. I pulled the ironing board away from the wall.

Sam said, “You’ve got a phone behind your ironing board.”

“You must be a detective.” I reached into the alcove, which had been constructed by some day-tripping carpenter in the sixties, and picked up the receiver. “Tres Navarre.”

Silence.

Then Will Stirman’s voice said: “Shitty little apartment, Navarre. Can’t she afford to pay you better?”

I snapped my fingers to get Barrera’s attention, but I’d lost him. He was still staring at the ironing board, trying to come to terms with the phone’s unorthodox location.

“Put Erainya on, Stirman,” I said. “Let me hear she’s okay.”

He ignored my request. “Instructions: I’ll call Barrera’s mobile number tomorrow evening, around midnight. I’ll tell you where to bring the money. You, Sam and Erainya’s boy. Nobody else.”

“You think I’m going to bring Jem anywhere near you, you’ve been locked up in the wrong kind of institution.”

There was a pause I didn’t like at all. “We’ll all be better behaved with the kid around. A lot less anxious for the guns to come out.”

There was something about his tone I couldn’t quite nail down. What the hell did he want with Jem?

“Nothing that happened to you was Erainya’s fault,” I said. “It damn sure wasn’t her son’s.”

I looked out the dark windows. Stirman could be on the street right now. Or in the alley. He could’ve cased my place days ago.

“Mr. Navarre,” he said, “eight years ago there was another mother and child. They hadn’t done anything, either. I won’t hurt the Manoses, as long as you and Mr. Barrow don’t disappoint me.”

“What makes you think the money is still around, or that I can get it?”

“You’re a resourceful young man. And Mr. Navarre, be smart. If I get indications you have talked to the police, it will go very hard on you and everyone you care about. And don’t think Austin is far enough away.”

He hung up.

Robert Johnson leapt onto the ironing board. He pushed his back against my hand. I wanted to think he was consoling me. More likely, he was reminding me that he liked dessert after tuna nachos.

“Well?” Sam asked.

I told him the details. “How much cash could you raise?”

“If I liquidated everything? Took everything out of savings? I don’t know. Nowhere near three million.”

“Seven,” I said.

“What?”

“Your half was seven million.”

He kept his hand on his notepad, as if it were a railing.

“Right,” he said. “That’s what I meant.”

“Where would Fred Barrow stash his loot?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam said. “The money won’t save us. Stirman will kill her. We have to find him before tomorrow night. We have to get to him first.”

For once, I agreed with him.

“I have to call Maia,” I said. “I need to tell her . . .”

What?

Sorry, honeybun—the psychopath knows where you live. Don’t forget your AK-47 when you take Jem to the playground.

“We’ll figure something out,” Barrera told me. “We’ll talk on the way.”

“The way to where?”

“Castroville.”

I stared at him. “What?”

“The McCurdy Ranch. I’m supposed to take you there.”

The air thickened around me.

“Sam,” I said, “we already went to Castroville . . . this morning.”

He hesitated a couple of heartbeats. “I just meant . . . That’s what I said. This morning.”

I stepped around the ironing board, sat down across from him. “Sam, let me see your notebook.”

He didn’t move.

I took the notebook out of his hands.

Inside, meticulous notes—where Barrera worked, directions to his house, who he had called that day. Addresses. Phone numbers. Names—his secretary Alicia, Erainya Manos, Will Stirman. Descriptions of each person. My name, with a small notation:
Erainya’s PI. Be careful about him.

“Sam,” I said, “do you know who I am?”

His eyes were watery with frustration. “Of course I do.”

“What’s my name?”

He glanced at his empty lap. “I never forget a name. The whole damn case is in the details.”

“When were you diagnosed, Sam?”

Barrera stared at the wall, his jaw tightening. “I’m fine. They gave me some pills.”

“Do you remember what happened, the night you took down Will Stirman?”

A long silence. “There was something . . . something important . . .”

He gazed across the room, helpless.

“We’re going to get through this, Sam.” My voice didn’t sound like my own. “I’m going to help you, okay?”

“I don’t need any help.”

“Are you better in the mornings?”

“Yeah. I’m fine in the mornings.”

“I’m going to drive you home then, and keep your car for the night. I want you to sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Damn it,” Barrera said. “Goddamn it.”

He pushed away my hand, and got up by himself.

We took our second ride together in his mustard-colored BMW.

As the windshield wipers slashed back and forth, I realized I was going to need other help finding Stirman fast.

I was going to have to call on an old friend. A friend I’d rarely called for help without somebody ending up dead.

15

Just before the news hit the networks, the Guide called Will from Omaha to warn him.

Luis and Elroy had fucked up.

The Guide had told them to steal a new set of wheels. He didn’t give a shit what kind. Anything from the Target parking lot across the road. A van would be good. Tinted windows, for sure.

It wasn’t a fucking calculus problem.

The Guide told them to fill up with gas and meet him back at the motel. They only had to go, like, two blocks. Shouldn’t have taken them more than fifteen, twenty minutes.

Luis and Elroy ended up boosting a Toyota Sienna—two child seats in the back, the whole floor littered with Cheerios and juice boxes and trading cards. It was parked on the side of the store, nice and secluded. Doors weren’t locked. Might as well put a
STEAL ME
sign in the window.

But did they notice the FOP sticker? Did they know that stood for Fraternal Order of Police? Fuck no.

Apparently what happened, the police officer’s wife came out with her kids, saw her van driving away without her, and cell-phoned her husband. Must have happened that fast, because in a matter of minutes the whole fucking Omaha Police Department knew some stupid shits had stolen an officer’s car, and every unit in the area was closing in.

If Luis and Elroy had gotten straight on Highway 64, they might’ve had a chance, but no—they were supposed to fill up the van with gas, so they parked a block away at the pumps of a gas station—the most obvious fucking target in the world.

Back at the motel, the Guide heard the first dry crack of gunfire.

How it happened: Luis went into the Exxon store for a six-pack of cherry Coke and some candy. He was thinking jelly beans, maybe red licorice.

“You’re a fucking kid,” Elroy told him. “How about some beer?”

Luis grinned. “You want them carding this baby face?”

He went inside to get his sweets while Elroy worked the pump.

It was a big goddamn gas tank, so Elroy had time to watch the clouds scraping by overhead. There were hills in Omaha. Tall pine trees. Parks with lakes. Elroy never would’ve figured that in Nebraska.

He watched a big military plane lumbering toward the horizon, and he thought about C.C.

He missed the scrawny bastard’s smart remarks. He missed his tough-guy act, his stupid Italian suit and matching pistols. C.C. had been a time bomb, sure, but he’d kept things upbeat. He’d believed they would make it to freedom. Another week, C.C. had told them, and they’d all be partying in Alberta, screwing some Canadian chicks. Now, C.C. was six hundred miles south, under a foot of red earth, food for Oklahoma worms.

Night before last, in a Kansas trailer park, Luis and Elroy had held a kind of memorial.

While the Guide retired inside the rented Winnebago, they had lit a barbecue fire and got drunker than hell, cooking up brisket and talking about C.C.

Elroy took Luis down to the creek, where they shot the bow-and-arrow set Elroy stole in Oklahoma City.

Then they realized they’d have to find the arrows, so they tromped around in the dark and collected a few until they heard a rattlesnake and ran like shit back to the picnic table. They laughed about it afterward, their hearts pounding, and Elroy felt good for the first time since C.C. died.

But they couldn’t keep up their spirits. The Guide was always close by, always giving orders. He looked at them like they were heavy, worthless packages he didn’t really want to deliver—the same way he’d looked at C.C., bleeding to death in front of that sporting goods store.

Nobody leaves the group.

Walking to Target, Luis had told Elroy, “We can make it the rest of the way,
ese
.”

“You mean without
him
?”

“Fuck him,” Luis said. “We steal a car, head north our own damn selves. What do you say?”

Elroy understood why Luis hated the Guide. The Guide was a flesh smuggler, same as Stirman. Probably killed more Mexicans in his life than he’d killed flies. Be like asking Elroy to trust a Klansman.

But Elroy was doubtful. He wanted a new identity, money to start a life, all those things the Guide had promised. He didn’t trust the Guide or Stirman worth a shit, but Elroy
had
to get to Canada—for C.C.’s sake, as well as his own.

Here at the Exxon station, this was the moment to decide. As soon as the tank was full, as soon as Luis came out of the store, they could either go up the block to the motel, or they could get on the highway.

Elroy wanted to find a good woman to marry. He wanted to buy a decent house, join an old-fashioned gospel church.

Not that he believed his soul could be saved. He knew better than that. Since the day he drove his fist through that racist foreman’s nose out in the oil fields of West Texas, Elroy had accepted the fact his temper would damn him to hell.

But he wanted to get a job, have some kids. Maybe if he raised a couple of children right, that would count for something. He could have his own van with Cheerios and juice boxes in the back. He could take his kids into woods, somewhere up north where the wilderness went on forever, and teach them to shoot a bow. They’d buy an endless supply of arrows, so they’d never have to go looking for them, just shoot them into the sky and watch them disappear.

Elroy didn’t hear the police car pulling up behind him until the doors opened.

A cop’s voice on the bullhorn: “Driver of the Sienna van. Put both hands slowly on top of your head. Do it now.”

Elroy turned.

The policeman yelled, “Do not turn around. Put your hands on your head. Do it now!”

There were two of them, shielded by their car doors, guns drawn and pointed at him. No way could Elroy reach the gun tucked in his jeans, under his shirt.

He started to raise his hands, but he kept hold of the pump nozzle, still squeezing so it came out of the tank gushing. Gasoline sprayed up the side of the van, toward the cops.

That bought him a half second. They weren’t expecting it.

Elroy dropped the nozzle and ducked around the front of the van. He hoped the cops knew better than to shoot at high-octane fuel. One of them fired anyway. The shot sparked off the fuel door. Elroy crouched against the front bumper, breathing heavy. He pulled his gun.

He weighed the odds of running, and didn’t like them much. He saw Luis come out of the convenience store, a plastic grocery bag under one arm and a gun in the other.

Before Elroy could say anything, Luis let loose a full clip at the police car.

Then Luis jerked back. The glass behind him spiderwebbed. A hole ripped through his grocery bag, then another—cherry Coke and jelly beans dribbling down his shirt.

Elroy thought about his imaginary children, shooting arrows into the sky. He thought about Floresville State, the death sentence that was waiting for him.

Maybe Luis had nailed at least one of the cops. Maybe there would only be one left.

He raised his gun and charged around the side of the van, straight into crossfire from the second and third police cars, which had just pulled up.

Elroy didn’t have time to marvel at his bad luck.

He smelled gasoline turning to flame, and the world erupted like a full blast of Texas summer sun.

The Guide pulled out of the motel in a stolen Honda Accord. He could see the black smoke boiling, a couple of blocks away.

The dragnet was already going up, but he eased past the scene at the gas station long enough to get the idea what had happened. The cops stopped him. His Nebraska driver’s license was valid. They didn’t bother checking his registration. He didn’t look like anyone they wanted.

He got on the highway and headed in no particular direction—just away.

Eventually, the police would check motel records. They would get an ID on Elroy and Luis and wonder about the third man who’d checked in with them—who didn’t quite match Will Stirman’s description. They would start wondering where Stirman had gone.

“We’re even,” the Guide told Will over the phone. “I’m gonna disappear for a while.”

“You promised me a week,” Will reminded him. “I need a full week.”

Nothing on the line but the hum of the highway.

Will felt his old friend’s disapproval. Will should have left the country already. He’d had plenty of time. It shouldn’t take him a week to tie up his loose ends.

“You sure you’re thinking straight, Will?” the Guide asked.

Will had trained this bastard. He had saved his life once on the border.

“You sent them out on purpose, didn’t you?” Will asked. “You knew they couldn’t handle anything alone. You knew something like this would happen.”

“We’re even,” the Guide repeated. “And Will? That emergency account I set up? Don’t try to withdraw any cash, you hear? I emptied it.”

The line went dead, and Will shattered the phone against the warehouse’s brick wall.

He threw the iron bolt on the storage room door. Inside, Erainya Manos was sitting cross-legged on an old mattress, her hands no longer tied behind her back. She was eating chicken soup out of a can.

Pablo sat by the window, thumbing a
Sports Illustrated,
his gun and portable radio on the table next to him. The news was just coming on:
“Breaking story in Omaha, a possible connection to the Floresville Five—”

Will turned it off.

“Hey,” Pablo complained.

“You heard enough news about yourself.”

“What’s your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” Will repeated. “Who told you to untie her hands?”

“She’s got to eat.”

“Then spoon-feed her.”

“Fuck that.”

Will went over to Erainya Manos and slapped the soup can out of her hands.

She didn’t even blink. She gave him a look of pure black hate. She held up her spoon, like she was inviting him to slap that away, too.

“Your memory any better today?” he asked.

“I don’t have your goddamn money. You’re wasting your time.”

If she’d shown any weakness, Will couldn’t have held back from hitting her. Her anger saved her. That, and the doubt that had started to creep into his gut, the feeling that maybe he’d read things wrong. Perhaps very wrong.

“Put down the fucking magazine,” he told Pablo. “Pick up your gun and keep it on her.”

Will yanked the woman’s wrists behind her back and tied them.

He looked at Pablo. “She stays that way, understand? I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“When do I get to eat? That soup was it.”

“When I get some money, you get to eat.” And then, sensing rebellion, Will forced himself to add: “A few more days, Pablo. You’ll be loving on your wife again. Patience.”

Will could tell Pablo wanted to believe him. That was all that mattered. Even a slim hope would keep him in line a little longer. As soon as the money came through from Barrera and Navarre . . . Stirman would figure out the rest.

He walked out, conscious of their eyes on his back. The concrete floor felt spongy under his feet.

Maybe it was the lack of food. How long had it been since he ate? Fourteen million dollars coming, and he didn’t have ten bucks for a meal.

From the milk crate by the loading dock entrance, he took a 9mm and a clip of ammunition.

He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t have a plan.

For the first time since the Fourth of July, Will thought about his Floresville cell, his Bible sketches blowing in the fan breeze.

You were better off in that cage,
he thought.
You’re falling apart.

No. He could keep himself together. He had to, or eight years of praying for vengeance went for nothing. Just a brief errand, now. Something to clear his head.

He tucked the 9mm under his shirt and went out to find cash and food.

Erainya pretended to sleep for almost an hour. She waited for Pablo to nod off, but it was too much to hope for, even though he’d been guarding her all night and half the morning.

After a while, Pablo turned back on Texas Public Radio. Under different circumstances, this would’ve struck Erainya as funny. A con who liked the Diane Rehm show.

Pablo listened dutifully as Diane refereed a debate between a Catholic priest and a Buddhist monk on the sanctity of marriage. Still Pablo didn’t snooze. The guy was made of iron.

A newsbreak came on: two fugitives shot dead in Omaha. Identification was pending, but the men were believed to be part of the Floresville Five. Police were confident more apprehensions in the case were imminent.

Erainya opened her eyes just enough to watch Pablo’s face.

He stared at the wall.

He got up, paced, and turned toward Erainya.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to breathe deeply.

She heard the big iron door creak open. Pablo walked into the next room.

She wouldn’t get a better chance.

Stirman had been angry when he retied her, which made for sloppy knots. Her fingers had spent the last hour carefully exploring them. She worked herself the rest of the way free with little problem.

She’d tried to keep her legs from going to sleep, but they were sore and stiff when she tried to stand. She wasn’t going to be running anytime soon.

She could hide. She’d been staring at the loose ventilation grate in the corner. It looked big enough to crawl inside, if she could just move it. But there wasn’t time, it wouldn’t be quiet, and she didn’t know if the shaft led anywhere.

Only one other option, even riskier.

What kept her going was the memory of J.P. getting shot. Her anger braided around her spine like an iron coil.

Pablo’s gun was sitting on the table. She heard him in the next room, rummaging around.

Move,
she told herself.

She grabbed the gun and walked to the door.

Pablo was kneeling over a milk crate. He was holding a phone, cursing as he tried to dial a number.

Shoot him,
she told herself.

She aimed.

This one, Pablo, she didn’t hate enough.

He hadn’t pulled the trigger on J.P. She could see in his eyes he hated Stirman as much as she did. He’d fed her soup.