The Right Side of Wrong (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-two

Pepper and I weren't in the house when the phone call came in. We got tired of playing secret agent and went in the smokehouse to shoot dirt dauber nests with our BB guns. The tiny explosions of dried mud was always satisfying, and we figured we were doing Miss Becky a favor by keeping them from nesting in the rafters, and on the rusty bedsprings hanging high overhead.

Miss Becky's shrieks jolted us out of the smokehouse and into the yard. I'd never heard her make that sound, and it scared me to death. I heard Grandpa's voice over hers, yelling to beat the band. They'd been joking about her loud washing machine when we went outside after supper, and the terror in her voice ran down my backbone.

We raced across the yard, past the propane tank, and up the steps onto the porch. Hootie skidded to a stop behind us. Miss Becky was sitting at the kitchen table and crying even louder when we pressed our faces against the screen.

Tied to one end of the living room by a six-foot cord, Grandpa was stomping back and forth with the telephone in one hand and the receiver in the other.

He reminded me of a horse rearing up against a lariat rope. “Grandpa's
mad!”

“Shitfire! He's madder'n a sore-tail tomcat!”

Miss Becky caught a glimpse of us and shrieked. “Oh, my God! You kids come in this house right now.”

I figured there must be a booger out there fixin' to get us, so we ran inside. As soon as Hootie was in, I dropped the screen door's hook latch into place. Miss Becky grabbed Pepper and held on for dear life, like a drowning person holds a life preserver.

Grandpa stopped in the middle of the living room and quivered. I didn't know if he was crying, or furious.

Pepper pulled away and tears ran down her face. “What's wrong?”

Miss Becky reached out to me with one arm, and I let her pull me in close. “Cody's hurt bad and he's in prison down in Mexico!”

I prickled all over. Uncle Cody couldn't get in prison, not him.

We listened to Grandpa's side of the conversation. “What town are you in, son?”

He paused.

“This line's crackling bad.” He sat down at the telephone table and picked up one of them giveaway Harold Hodges Insurance pencils. “Spell that.”

Miss Becky got control of herself, but her deep, shuddering sobs were so strong I felt them in my chest.

“Shit,” Pepper said.

“Hush, child,” Miss Becky said, not really hearing Pepper's language.

We quieted when Grandpa raised his voice.

“What town did you go through on this side of the river?”

Pause.

“How bad are you hurt?”

Pause.

“
Did
you kill 'em like they said?”

He paused again. I hated being on the quiet end of a one-sided conversation.

“They ain't even gonna give you a trial?”

Pause.

“Did they say anything about bail?”

Pause.

“When are they gonna do that?”

Pause.

“It'll take us a while to get down there.”

Pause.

“Damn this phone. Say that again and tell that Mexican son of a bitch to quit talking over you. I'm having a hard enough time hearing you as it is.”

Pause.

“Did he just hit you?”

Pause.

“Goddamn it!”

Pause.

“All right. All
right
!”

Pause.

“I'll tell her.”

Pause.

He stood. “Wait! I need to know more to be sure…hello? Goddamn sonofabitchin' bastards!”

I thought he'd slam the receiver down, but with his back to us, he slowly lowered it into the cradle. His shoulders slumped and his head dropped. Grandpa stood still as a fence post, arms limp at his sides and knees buckled inside his overalls.

His body literally shrank in front of our eyes.

Miss Becky's breath caught, shuddered, and caught again in hiccups. A lump grew in my throat, and I felt tears roll down my cheeks. The three of us in the kitchen waited, as if expecting Grandpa to melt down into nothing but a puddle on the floor, like Little Black Sambo's tiger when he melted into butter.

What came next was a complete surprise. As if inflating, his knees straightened, his shoulders squared and his head rose. He came into the kitchen and for the second time in my life, and for the first time very clearly, I saw Grandpa truly enraged. I swear electricity flashed from those blue eyes.

He actually looked bigger. “Mama, them Mexicans have Cody. He trailed a suspect down across the border. That's where he's been for the past week. I need to get down there before they kill him.”

She stood up. “Go.”

Chapter Thirty-three

While Pepper and I watched, a cyclone of activity churned through our little country house. Miss Becky called Norma Faye, and she was there in a flash.

And like water brought with a storm, folks flowed through the door in a steady stream. The house quickly filled up like it always does when somebody is hurt, or dies. Ninety-year-old Miss Whitney was listening in on the party line to the long distance call from Mexico. As soon as Grandpa hung up, she started the grapevine humming.

Friends and relatives brought so much food there wasn't one inch of table or cabinet space in the kitchen that wasn't packed with something good to eat. The only problem was, none of us was hungry.

Mr. John Washington slid into the driveway twenty minutes after Grandpa called him, and like the wind through a screen, he blew into the kitchen without knocking. He'd made his bones with us the night The Skinner took us, so he was treated as one of the family.

Ralston Shaver brought Miss Sweet, Mr. John's auntie, to the door. He was the healer's driver and took her everywhere she went. He didn't come inside, but she did, and for the second time in a year two colored people were in Grandpa and Miss Becky's house.

Mr. O.C. Rains, the Wilson boys, Isaac Reader, and dozens of other Center Springs residents arrived in a steady, worried march.

Grim-faced men filled the living room, talking low. Their voices rose in anger at Mexicans and drug dealers and quickly ebbed. Pepper and I stayed on the porch, out of the way beside the open window, to hear what they said.

Grandpa paced on the living room linoleum. “Cody told me they've beat hell out of him and this is the first time they've offered to let him call. I'm going down there tonight to get him out.”

Judge Rains presided from Grandpa's rocker. “Let me try through the law.”

Grandpa was too worried to sit down. “Hell O.C. There ain't no law down there we can trust. They've already showed us that.”

“You go on then, and I'll get in touch with the U.S. Embassy and see if they'll meet you when you get across the border.”

“All right, but there ain't much time. They're moving him deeper into Mexico in a day or so, to a real prison. Right now he's in the local jail. He said that stink hole was called,” he read from the folded paper in his hand, “el Cell ass, or something like that.”

A high pitched voice filled the room. It was Mr. Isaac Reader. “Listen, listen, I'm a-goin' with you.”

Mr. John's voice was a deep rumble in the room. “You stay here. I'll go with Mr. Ned.”

“Why you and not me?”

Grandpa blew his nose. “Ike, even if it don't look like it, this is law business. John's right, we've worked together for years, so I can depend on him to think the way I do if things start to pop.”

“Listen, I'll be right here if you need me, then.”

“I know you will.”

Jimmy Fox Wilson's voice rang strong and firm. “Me and Ty Cobb will follow you in our truck. We'll be good to have around if things get rough.”

It was true, they spent their whole lives running the river bottoms with guns in their hands.

Uncle James spoke up. “I'm going.”

“No, you're not, and neither are you Wilson boys. I still need you here, James, and I cain't be worrying about you in Mexico, too. One family member down there is enough. You other boys don't have any business down there. You're liable to get into something I cain't get you out of.”

“But dad…”

“I done spoke!”

Mr. O.C. dug in his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. “Here, they're all crooked down there. Take this money. You can either use it for a bribe or to go his bail.”

Other men in the room opened sweat-stained leather billfolds and pulled limp bills into the open. Mr. O.C. took off his black hat, dropped his money in it, and passed it around the room.

Grandpa wiped tears from his eyes. “I'll pay y'all back.”

Murmurs filled the room as men acknowledged the comment.

Ten minutes later, Mr. John came out of the house carrying a shotgun in each hand. He put them in the back seat of Grandpa's sedan. The eager hands of men who lived close to the land offered several boxes of shells.

Knowing they might need heavier ammunition, Ty Cobb passed John four boxes of double-ought buck. “This is better than that number four buck y'all use. You might need a little more punch where you're going.”

John shrugged. “I intend to be ready for whatever comes.”

Jimmy Foxx added two boxes of .38 caliber ammunition from the supply they kept under the seat in their truck. “I know what Ned said, but do you want us to follow y'all?”

“No. Mr. Ned says it'll be me and him, but you might be ready, just in case.”

Grandpa hugged Miss Becky, and then wrapped me and Pepper up with both arms. He didn't say anything for a long while. Pepper's breath was shuddery, and I fought to keep from crying.

“I love you two.” Grandpa quickly stood, pitched his car keys to John, and set his hat. “C'mon John, let's go to Mexico.”

Chapter Thirty-four

The next day, John drove Ned's car through the dirty streets of Hembrillo. Neither had ever been to the Texas border, and they were already tired of the mesquite-infested landscape.

“Where we going Mr. Ned?”

“Find the bridge. They say you can see the jail and that prison they call Los Cell-u-las from this side of the river.”

“It don't look much like our river. This thing is a nasty color. I'd a lot rather be back home.”

Ned watched the sluggish water move between thick stands of cane and mesquite. Cottonwoods lined both sides of the river, but to him, they were trash trees. He already missed the hardwood bottoms of home, and the miles of cultivated fields they'd passed while driving through the Valley made him want to climb back onto his tractor and start plowing. It was getting late in the season, and if he didn't get a crop in, he wouldn't have much in the bank come fall.

“We'll get back soon enough, once we get Cody out.”

John didn't miss the curious stares. The huge black man was an oddity for sure in a town populated by Mexicans and white people. The fifteen hour trip had drained all the energy out of the two lawmen. The first couple of hours to Dallas went fairly fast. From there south, they drove on parts of the new interstate system under construction, but over fifty percent of the roads were still skinny farm-to-market hogbacks leading through every one-horse town on the route.

The road ahead turned, and the bridge appeared. Ned sat a little straighter and rested his elbow out of the window. “There it is.”

“So what are we gonna do now, drive across that there bridge, bail Cody out of jail, and then go home?”

“Close enough. Foller that car and let's get over there and find the jail. It shouldn't be too hard to do in this crummy little town.”

John slipped behind a dingy De Soto. The car slowed as it reached the bridge, and then sped on across when the Texas border guard waved it through. John was about to go when the guard held up a hand for them to stop.

“Let me talk, John.”

“Sho 'nough.”

The border guard approached from John's side as a second man stopped at Ned's window. The first guard did the talking. “Morning, sir.”

Instead of answering, John nodded when he realized the man was talking past him to Ned.

“Where's your driver taking you?”

Ned leaned forward to peer around John. Neither wore their badges, but both were dressed in their Sunday clothes. “We're headed down to the jail over there to fetch my nephew.”

The guard frowned. “They have him in
Las Células
in
Carreta Ciudad
?”

“I reckon so. He got word to us that's where he was, so we come down here from Chisum to fetch him.”

“You've come a long way.” The second guard leaned into Ned's open window, so close he smelled onions on the man's breath. “You carrying a lot of money?”

Such a personal question wasn't worth a damn, in Ned's opinion. “I might have enough for bail money, when we find out how much it is.”

The first guard understood Ned's flash of irritation. “What he means is that you make sure nobody over there knows you're carrying a wad of cash. That's a mean town when you get off the main street where the jail is, and you're likely to get your throat cut if you run across the wrong person.”

“We'll watch out. Where's that jail?”

The guard pointed toward an ugly, square building hulking above the squatty, two-story businesses that surprisingly resembled a tired version of Chisum's main street.

Both men had expected to find a Mexican town straight off of television, complete with adobe buildings, unpainted wooden store fronts, and serape-wearing peasants. Instead, the town south of the Rio Grande resembled every Texas town they'd passed on the way down. There was even an S.H. Kress five-and-dime, and what appeared to be a hardware store bearing the familiar GE appliance logo.

“Don't let your driver get too far from you, either. Those Mexicans over there don't care much for niggers, and they're liable to cut him.”

John held his tongue.

Ned didn't like it either, but this was no time to get into an argument with the border guards, especially not with a car full of guns. “There must be a lot of cuttin' over there.”

“More than you'd believe, mister. If I's you, I'd stuff that money down in my drawers and don't let any of them
Federales
there know how much you have. They'll ask for a lot more than they expect, so try to Jew them down a little. Now, one more word of advice, y'all oughta turn this car around and park it back there in the bank lot and walk across. I'll tell 'em it's all right if anybody asks. Tags from this side of the river are targets over there. One little traffic accident, or run a stop sign or something, they'll take your car. With him in the car, you're gonna be more of a target than most folks.”

The idea didn't appeal to Ned, but he understood the wisdom of the man's advice. “All right. Back up there, John, and let's do what the man says.”

“Yassuh, Massah Ned.”

While Ned grinned and waved at the guards, John glanced over his shoulder to find the way was clear. He backed quickly and circled around. They parked the car at the bank directly across from the bridge.

The guards were talking with the passengers of a truck when Ned and John passed them in a flow of people and started across the long bridge on foot.

“Stay out of Boys Town!”

Instead of answering, Ned raised a hand in acknowledgement. He watched the muddy water roil far below. “Lordy, John, you're right. This here river ain't near as pretty as our Red.”

“Sho' nuff, but there's a lot more water that I expected. I thought it was shallow enough to wade across, but it looks like a pretty good swim.”

Ned barely heard the words, instead looking carefully at the Mexican crossing guards who had traffic backed up on the northbound side, going into the states. They were much more interested in who was crossing
into
the U.S. The American guards stopped a few of those same cars when they reached U.S. soil.

Without issue, they were in Mexico.

“I have to tell you Mr. Ned, I'm 'bout scared to death to be over here.”

Spanish flowed over them as soon as they stepped on Mexican soil and Ned suddenly realized that communication might be an issue. “You don't speak any Mexican, do you?”

“Nossir, nary a word.”

“We'll have to figger this out as we go.”

“I imagine somebody in the jail speaks both.” John smiled and shook his head at a young boy who held up a bundle of homemade tamales wrapped in corn shucks and tied with string. The big deputy's stomach rumbled at the rich smell of unfamiliar spices, reminding him that he was hungry. “No.”

Disappointed, the boy understood the word that was the same in both languages. He returned to a blackened Dutch oven resting on a bed of coals piled in a rusted wheelbarrow.

John flashed the boy a smile to soften the refusal. “This place is built up more than I expected.”

Ned pointed toward a small grocery store and a sign reading Perimex Drilling, painted on the window. “Phil Cates told me this was a dirt road border town until they took to drilling here about ten years ago. They poured a lot of concrete and now it's a company town, at least on this street.”

A cross street allowed a view of the three story jail in the distance. Ned hung a right and moments later the town completely changed. Only one block off Main, the streets were dirt. Ancient wooden and stucco buildings settled into the earth.

Houses were small, dusty, and simple. Many were desperate. Chickens scratched in dirt yards. Some of the haphazard lots closest to the trees lining the Rio Grande were larger with rough corrals and tired barns.

“Mr. Ned. A lot of these folks ain't got no solid doors on they houses.”

“Nor glass winders, neither.”

Ned's brightly shined shoes were already dusty, and he noticed the backs of John's dark slacks were accumulating a coating of fine powder. Both were glad they wore straw hats in the bright morning sun. Dogs barked challenges, but most stayed within the confines of their own yards.

Half a dozen silent, barefoot children trailed behind them. They reminded John of his people back south of the tracks in Chisum. “What do they want?”

“Most likely to know what we're doing here.” After another block, the crowd of little people had doubled. Ned stopped. “Y'all oughta go on back home.”

The silent, expressionless children didn't respond. Apparently none of them spoke English.

John waved a hand. “G'on! Y'all need to git!”

“Where are you going?”

Startled by the heavy accent, Ned's attention swung to a skinny dark-haired girl near Pepper's age. “You understand American?”

“
Si, señor
.”

“I reckon that means you do.”

“Yes. My brother and I both speak it.”

“Which one is your brother?”

“I am.”

Ned grinned down at the brown-skinned, black-haired copies of Top and Pepper.

“All right missy, what's your name?”

“Yolanda. My
hermano
is Jorge.”

“Hor-hey?”

“You say George.”

“All right then. Why are y'all taggin' along behind us, Yolanda?”

“Nothing else to do. Not many Americans on this street during the day, unless they're drunk or looking for a woman. You are not drunk. Do you look for a woman?”

Embarrassed, Ned exchanged glances with John. “Well, neither.” He waved a hand toward the brick building that didn't look nearly as good up close as it did from a distance. “We're going over to the jail there.”

Her eyes widened. “Why you going to
Las Células
?”

Ned didn't much want to tell his business to a little Mexican girl, but he might need her help. “My nephew is locked up in there, and we intend to get him out.”

“You have monies?”

Recalling the border guard's warning, Ned deflected the question. “We'll see what we can do when we find out how much it'll take.”

“The guards are
muy malo
. They are bad. They will steal your monies and may put you in a cell also. Do not trust them, they are…” she frowned at George. “
Como se dice corrupto
?”

He gave her a gap-toothed grin. “Crooked.”

Ned despised a crooked lawman, and having to deal with criminals in police uniforms rubbed him the wrong way.

The girl took John's big hand in hers. He flashed her a smile and received one in turn. “Maybe we can use these kids. They can speak this Meskin to them guards when we get there.”

“Might.” Ned studied the youngsters for a long moment. “Y'all know much about this here
cell…cellar place?”

Yolanda nodded vigorously. “Si.
Mucho
. All of it bad. Many peoples are put in
Las Células
by
La Guardia
and never seen again. The
comandante
is
muy malo
, very bad, and he works for the
policia
, our police. People are put in
Las Células
without a reason and stay there for many months or years.”

Ned noticed their dirty feet in the coarse Mexican sand and knew they didn't own shoes. He felt bad for them, because he'd been raised at a time when one pair of shoes per year was all he got. They came with the start of school, and had to last until the summertime.

“We need to get in there and talk to whoever is in charge to get Cody out, but we don't speak the language. I'll give you five dollars apiece if you'll talk for us when we get there. Will your mama let you do that?” He figured they'd buy shoes with least half the amount and use the remainder for sweets.

Her eyes wide with the possibility of such riches, Yolanda shrugged. “She does not care. She sleeps after being up all night in the bars. How long ago did they took your
sobrino
?”

Ned didn't understand the word, but the meaning was clear. “A little over a week.”

George shook his shaggy head. “He will be very hungry if he did not have monies to buy food. Did he have any?”

John was startled. “They don't feed their prisoners in there?”

“Si, they have food, but never enough. Prisoners fight for it when they eat each day. If they pay, they get tortillas and beans.”

“My god, John.” Ned broke into a brisk stride toward the jail. “You know they took his money when he went in. If these kids are right, that boy's damned near starved.”

John recalled the fight between Cody and several bad guys up at the store nearly a year earlier. “Yeah, but imagine he's managed to get a bite or two.”

Yolanda spoke sharply to the other kids in Spanish, and watched as they scattered. Then she and her brother followed the two Americans, jogging to keep pace.