The District Manager (27 page)

“Connections,” Curlee answers.

“Connections with whom?” Rusty insists.

“Representative Ron Martinez, Chair of the Corrections Committee—at that point….”

“You’re shittin’ me, Curlee!”

“I wish Rusty…I wish.”

“Well, at least Martinez died during Dante.”

“Not altogether.”

“What the hell does that mean? They never found his body!”

“No. But just like Contact…he vanished.”

“This has got to be the kicker…lay it on me, Curlee,” Rusty says like he’s going to puke.

“We believe, though it has not been confirmed, that Ron Martinez is still alive…and running the Gulf Cartel.”

“Yer fuckin’ shittin’ me,” Rusty states.

“Holy shit,” I chime in.

“For the last year, we’ve been getting reports of a power struggle within the cartel. Then about two months ago, we caught a coyote, a known child predator on both sides of the river. We withheld him from everyone, that is, until we got what we needed. We knew that this pervert had benefactors up the food chain in Tamaulipas, that the only reason the sick son-of-a-bitch trafficked people at all was to get his jollies. He didn’t have to, financially speaking. So we water-boarded his ass,” Curlee states conclusively.

“You water-boarded him?” I ask, flabbergasted.

“Kid, sometimes you got to do what you got to do,” Curlee retorts.

“He’s a closet bleeding heart, and don’t call him ‘kid’ whatever you do,” Rusty says, taking a jab at me.

“So yes, we water-boarded him. Turns out that ‘Toro,’ the kingpin of the GC at that time was missing. I mean no one had seen him for weeks. We were desperate for information. The pervert in question…”

“…who you tortured,” I interject, snidely.

“Get over it,” Rusty says dismissively.

“…the pervert in question, spilled the beans, telling us that the boss had been taken out in a car bombing and that the new honcho was a fella called ‘Don Ronaldo.’ Ring a bell? It took us a bit to put it all together. The information you provided me regarding Contact, is yet another step in confirming what we already know.”

“Bizarre,” Rusty mutters as if in a tragic trance.

“But what’s the connection between Martinez and Contact?” I ask.

“We think he’s Martinez’s illegitimate son.”

“God help us,” Rusty says half sarcastically and half genuinely.

“I know, Sturnhauser. You can’t make this shit up.”

“So what do we do now?” I ask as I sink further into the absurd despair that has become my life.

“Rusty, can I have a word with you in private?”

Curlee and Rusty drift some fifteen feet away and begin talking under their breath. I stand aloof and try to act like I’m not trying to listen. I can’t make out much, but I repeatedly detect an ‘L’ sound. I assume this is about Jules’ wife, Ella. I detach and start to survey my surroundings. I see a few Hispanic kids kicking a soccer ball around off in the distance, their shouts echoing through the cavern of trees. The faint buzz of a DPS riverboat slowly expands in decibels. I feel patches of sweat forming under my arms.

I turn to discover Curlee and Rusty peering over at me in rapid jolts. Whatever it is they’re discussing, their body language is dark.

The sweat starts to puddle beneath my shirt sleeves.

The DPS riverboat cuts its engine as it docks.

Curlee and Rusty break like a huddle and return.

“Shit’s bad down here I tell ya…real bad,” Curlee stresses, addressing both of us, as if I had any idea of the previous conversation.

“Okay, so Homeland Security won’t help because of the political nature of the situation. The Border Patrol…they’re disillusioned—I get it. But what about the DEA?” asked Rusty.

“Drunk Every Afternoon?” Curlee asks with disdain.

“That’s awesome,” I add, laughing.

“You like that don’t you?” Rusty asks with a smirk.

“Those bastards create more problems than they solve, Rusty… you know that,” Curlee comments.

“I know, bunch of overpaid Federal assholes—never could stand them.”

“Shit,” I declare, jumping in. “They’re a product of the War on Drugs…they created the drug cartels. There were no syndicates of any real consequence before we decided we had to hyper-manage what people put in their bodies! The DEA? Please….”

“Your friend here really is an opinionated little fucker, huh Rusty?” Curlee jokes as he flashes me a wink.

“Try him as a traveling companion sometime,” Rusty snipes.

“I hope I get the opportunity at some point. It’s time we cut the meeting. I don’t want to look any more suspicious than I already do.”

“How long can you give me, Ray?” Rusty asks.

“Ten days…two weeks at the most. I can’t sit on this for too long, Rusty. It’s not only grounds for dismissal, but jail time. Make it happen.”

“Roger that.”

The meeting ends. We part.

Rusty and I go back to the Pontiac. I can’t help myself, “So what were y’all talking about back there?”

“Ella,” Rusty answers, curtly.

“I’m not stupid. What else?”

“You do know that if we make the trade…you for Brenna…if it actually works…I mean everything goes as planned, no snags, no collateral damage…”

“What?” I demand impatiently.

“You’re a dead man, Mason.”

I feel my phone vibrate from my back pocket.

Part IV

OCTOBER

I read the text to Rusty:

Unknown #:

IF YOU WANT TO SEE HER ALIVE AGAIN BE AT

KINNEY TOWN RAILROAD JUNCTION 10PM TONIGHT.

FIND ORANGE CAR SPRAY PAINTED WITH PRETTY

FLOWERS ON RAIL F.

I text back:
OK!

“Pretty flowers,” Rusty remarks from the driver’s seat. “Now that’s twisted.”

“They actually spelled everything right,” I add.

“They probably know you were once a school teacher.”

“This ain’t funny. This is tonight. Can we get there?”

“Of course. We’re leaving now. We’ll even have time to prepare.”

“Prepare?”

“Target practice. We’re gonna need it.”

“Where?”

“Don’t you have a place in the country?”

The day is slowing down as we arrive at the cabin.

I hate this on so many levels I can hardly stand it.

Luckily, the cows of the guy I lease to have drifted to another pasture, because if they weren’t I’d worry we might accidently shoot one.

“We need something to practice on,” Rusty says.

“We can set up some plywood against metal stakes. I think I have both stored in the shed.”

He nods.

I hadn’t been in the dank shed for a long time. It smells moldy. The plywood in there is meant for boarding up windows in case of a hurricane. They’ve been used so the sheets are littered with nail holes. Ann bought the green metal stakes because she had this crazy idea of stretching chicken wire around the property to keep the armadillos out.

She had a lot of wild ideas like that, that she never finished. I think she was waiting for me to become interested. I never was.

I bring out the wood and stakes and Rusty and I build a makeshift target. He takes out his .45 and then asks me, “You got a gun, Mason?”

I go into the cabin and pull an old long nose .38 revolver out from under the nightstand next to the bed. When I come out with it he chastises me, “You only have six shots with that, you know. You may not have time to reload, Mason.”

“I like the way it feels in my hand. The weight balances well. I’m accurate with it. I could have an assault rifle, but if I can’t hit what I’m aiming at it doesn’t matter.”

“We’ll see.”

We take turns blowing the shit out of several pieces of plywood. Rusty is very methodical in his aim. He carves out sections just perfectly so as not to collapse the targets.

I’m more erratic, but he is impressed.

The sun has set.

“Not bad, Mason,” he says as he taps his clip on his wrist. “Two shots left,” he concludes.

“You can tell
that
by just doing that?”

“Of course. Hey, I’m tired, think I’ll take a nap.”

I didn’t know he slept.
“You can use the cabin,” I offer.

I’m nervous as hell and wander the wooded property. Ann inherited the spread from a childless uncle. I visit the grave of our late dog, Carlton. He was huge and thus his grave was as well. It kicked my ass digging it. Ann went behind me scooping out earth after I had broken it up. Now the grass almost conceals it. I resign myself to selling the place.
That is if I’m still alive after tonight.

Nine o’clock strikes. We load up and jump in the Pontiac. All is quiet until the lights of the Depot invade the rural darkness. We get on the interstate.

“I’m going to park in that clump of brush, just off the feeder,” he says as he exits the interstate.

“What if a sheriff ’s deputy stops to check it out?” The wasps begin to sting the lining of my stomach.

“They won’t. That’s what Triple-A is for.”

The Pontiac pulls to a stop. We’re loitering. I’m getting worried.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this. Can’t we just call in Curlee?”

“No. Only if I fall. If something happens to me…call Curlee immediately. I don’t want you going it alone.”

“Okay, but nothing had better happen to you, Rusty.”

“Just in case.”

“What’s wrong? Something’s wrong,” I ask in desperation.
I can sense it!

“Nothing…nothing I haven’t felt before. Lock and load.”

“But I have a revolver.”

“Don’t let your thumb leave the trigger.”

Kinney Town Railroad Junction is as quiet as a headstone. The moon is only just beginning to wane so there is some moonlight as we make our way through the tufts of brush that spot the perimeter of the railyard. This place is in its infancy, but already stretches a half mile or so. As of now, it’s situated in a kind of purgatory: it’s not city, not suburb, and not country. The complex is an island of some twenty tall double-orb street lights that reach at least thirty feet into the sky and stake the aforementioned half mile or so.

The main rail runs alongside the interstate for miles, once at Kinney Town, it breaks off into numerous tracks that bend and curve chaotically when viewed by the ignorant eye. Grand plans have been made for this junction. In fifteen years or so—barring any global catastrophe—it will be the import/export hub of half the world with goods coming and going from the Port of Houston. But for now, it sits in a kind of purgatory of the mind as well: both hopeful and horrible.

The gate to the chain link fence is unlocked as we enter under a circle of light. The blacktop concrete is littered with tiny bits of gravel.

I am beginning to suspect Rusty is a genius as he told me to wear jogging shoes in exchange for my boots.
And I thought it was just for fleeing…but also for sliding…?