Indian Country Noir Page 15
"Rey," I say. "What are you doing here?"
"Working, working," he answers finally. "Just working." He still cant look up at me, he cuts his eyes left and right repeatedly. Dial tosses my car keys to the guy in my Subaru's passenger seat. Dial pulls out a Glock fitted with a laser sight. He pops a switch, the red laser dances across his palm, across my face.
"You know what this is?" I nod. "Right now, there's another on your daughter."
"Excuse me?"
"She's vacationing up in Sedona. With your granddaughter."
I nod again, mute. He gently strokes a thumb down my nose.
"You're a PI?"
"Yes. Yeah, yes. Why?"
"You work for the Navajo Tribal Police? The drug unit?"
"Why are you, why, why are you doing this?"
Dial nods at Rey, like, Your turn here.
"Laura," Rey says. "Do you still find people? Create legends? New ID, everything?"
"My daughter? How is she involved in this? My granddaughter?"
"What he's really asking," Dial says, "do you still make up really good ID?"
"Yes, but-"
"ID can pass any test? Even if it's fake?"
"Yes, yeah, but listen, listen, just ... listen to me. If you've kidnapped my daughter-"
"Don't fuck with me," Dial says, but quiet, he's really confident of himself. "Don't you fucking think you can fuck with me.
"Rey, Rey, Jesus, Rey, what are you guys telling me?"
"You help us, nobody gets hurt."
"Help you do what?"
"We need you to create a legend," he says.
"I won't."
"I told you. I said, don't you fuck with me." Dial pulls my Beretta out of Rey's hand. "You want to see what happens, you fuck with me?" Turning toward the two men in my Subaru, the passenger's face in shadows. Ronald Jumps the Train looks at me, he's so terrified I can smell fresh urine. "Tell me again. You're a private investigator?"
"Yes. Yes, yes, yes."
"Lady?" Ronald whimpers. "Lady, can you get me out of this?" But I have little sympathy for him. Ronald Jumps the Train got his name at the age of eleven when he rode boxcars pulling into Flagstaff, throwing marijuana bales out the open door. Now he deals crystal meth, the major supplier for Gila River and Casa Grande, so I try not to feel any sympathy at all. But Jesus, a sudden pop-pop, a double tap as Dial shoots Ronald dead, then pop, one more guarantee shot through his forehead before he turns the Glock at the passenger who is already starting to open his door.
"Me jodi!" the passenger shouts before Dial pops him too.
I'm screwed.
Dial tosses my Beretta onto Ronald's lap. What's really really scary about Dial is that he's totally cool about just having murdered two men, and in that moment I believe him about my daughter. He shoves me into the passenger seat of the Escalade, sits behind me.
"Seat belt," he says. "We're going where it's quiet, you either say what we want or you don't. You don't got what we want, we kill you." He checks his watch. "Yes or no?"
"Yes," I say.
Rey drives. Nobody talks. We take Ina to I-10 and head south until Rey exits onto I-19. Soon I see my past rising in front of me. Mission San Xavier del Bac, a gorgeous white mission, the white dove of the desert. Mission San Xavier del Bac, where Rey and I were once responsible for killing and burning a teenager.
Five years ago.
Or seven, I don't want to think about it.
Rey slows at the edge of the mission parking lot, a barren, uneven and unpaved stretch of ground, just a few hundred yards from the Tohono O'odham Tribal Police center. We swing past the Wak shopping center, the People of the River, the gates open but nobody in sight. The Escalade bumps past some of the concrete block houses, moves briefly along a dirt road with, amazingly, a sign. Gok Kawulk Wog. Tohono O'odham words. No sense to me.
Dial's cell rings. He motions Rey to stop next to an ancient saguaro cactus with seven arms and two huge holes up where somebody'd shotgunned it in the main stem. Dial listens, murmurs a word, flips the cell closed, and holds up a hand at Rey.
Engine running, aircon set at meat locker, we sit there for two hours or so, gas gauge near empty. Dial occasionally leans forward between the seats, studying my face. The full tats on his arms are layered three deep, the most faded seem to be 81st Airborne tats from Nam. On the left arm, Killing Is Our Business, on the right arm, Business Is Good.
A family of Gambel's quail bustles across the road, Dad in front, Mom behind, both sandwiching a dozen new chicks the size of fluffy walnuts, urging them from a creosote bush to shelter under a clump of teddy bear cholla. Dial lasers the chicks one at a time, smacking his lips in a silent pow, and then he centers the red dot on my left eye. His cell rings again. He listens, nods at my computer bag.
"Is that enough equipment?" he says to me as Rey checks out the bag.
"The laptop and the satellite phone," I say. "Yes, maybe. I can try. But not until you guarantee my daughter's safety. And my granddaughter. Why are you doing this, Rey?"
"I work for Veronica Luna de los Angeles Talancon," Rey answers quickly; he wants to get her name out there and over with.
"Veronica Talancon? The drug cartel woman?"
Dial slaps the back of my head. "Show some respect. Respect for La Bruja de los Cielos."
"Rey? You work for Sonora's biggest drug cartel?" My jaw slack, mouth open.
"Listen."
"The drug lord? You work for her cartel?"
"Yeah," sighing, shrugging, "yeah, okay? Jesus, will you just listen to me?"
"La Bruja de los Cielos? The Witch of the Skies?" Dial slaps my head again; Rey turns away, nodding, his chin so low it bumps his chest. "You're threatening my family because of a vicious woman who runs a drug cartel?"
"Listen," he says. "I mean, just listen to this, okay? I mean, I'm just a go-between. Just a connection, a fixer. Just trying to stay alive here."
"You're wasting time," Dial says. "You're useless. Let's go. Drive."
"Wait, wait a minute. What do you want?" I ask again. "And where are you taking me?"
"What Talancon wants, what she needs, Laura," Rey says quietly, but looking me right in the eyes, "what Talancon needs is a brand-new, best-quality, never-fail, platinum-grade U.S. identity. What you call, in your business, you call it creating a legend."
"I don't do that anymore. I'm legitimate. I do computer forensics on corporation databases. I'm completely, totally legal. Rey. Listen to me. This is a bad idea."
"This is way past a bad idea," Rey says.
"You're not listening to me." Dial flips open his cell, a finger on the keypad. "I've got five minutes left to call Sedona. I don't call, a sicario pops your daughter."
"Jesus Christ, Rey. You're just making this up." I talk directly to Rey, I won't acknowledge that Dial is in charge. He doesn't care what I acknowledge or think or whatever, he just dials, listens, puts the cell on speaker-phone. "Five minutes my ass. This is a bluff."
"Eating dinner at LAuberge de Sedona," a voice says. "Down by the creek. Kid's in a high chair, wearing a pink jumpsuit, Mommy's in a yellow tank top. Nice tits."
"Okay, okay," I say into the cell. It's not a bluff. Panic, trying to sound calm, hoping I project willingness to go along instead of terror at the situation, and in the back of my mind, nothing forming, but back there, trying to figure a plan to get out of this alive. "Okay, I'll do it. Don't-"
Dial flips the cell closed, motions to Rey who just nods and shifts into drive.
"Where are we going?"
"Talancon is hiding in Sahuarita. She got across the border, but no time for plastic surgery, so she's got to fly out of Tucson quick, like, tomorrow. She can't do that without a whole new identity. And you're the expert."
"Just to find the right connections will take days. A week, maybe more."
"Talancon figures she's got eight, maybe ten hours to arrange a safe out."
"Impossible. Ugh." Dial slaps the back of my head. He knows the sweet
spots back there, three times he's whacked the same place and it's starting to vibrate with pain.
"I'm nothing here, Laura," Rey says. "Don't you see that? If you do this, Talancon will pay whatever you ask."
"Don't shit me, Rey. You've already threatened my daughter, my granddaughter. If I give this woman, this Talancon, if I give her a new identity, she'll kill me. She'll kill you, she'll kill anybody in her way just like those two back there."
"Yeah. Well. I don't bring you to Talancon right now, Mr. Dial here will pop me and you, no hesitation. That's your choice. Come with us or die." The sunset lights up his face, his color bleaching to white, corners of his mouth sagging. "Yes or no?"
Dial slaps my head again.
"Yes," I say finally. "Yes. I'll do it. "
Sahuarita, Arizona. Just south of Indian reservation lands. Bustling with new houses going up, their framed skeletons crowded with carpenters, plumbers, electricians, everybody trying to get rich.
Rey winds along a narrow street, twisting through smaller roads until we stop at the dead end of Calle Zapata at the edge of a pecan orchard. A Ford crew-cab pickup faces out to the street and a woman sits at a battered redwood picnic table behind the gated front wall, a vivid view of the Santa Rita mountains behind her. Dial grips my upper arms, marches me in front of him toward the table.
Veronica Talancon bites carefully into a Sonoran hot dog, sipping occasionally from a bottle of Diet Sprite. A slim, tiny woman, barely taller than five feet. Gorgeous, beautiful, stunning, the Witch of the Skies.
"Miss Winslow," a quiet voice, calm, measured, steady. She wipes bits of chili from her chin. "Thank you for coming."
"You threatened my family. Did you really expect I'd not come?"
"Look at this," she says, gesturing at what's left of her food. "The all-American hot dog, made in Mexico, wrapped in bacon, stuffed inside a fresh bun and loaded up with tomato and onion chunks, grilled onions, mustard and mayo and a jalapeno sauce with a guerito pepper. Two nights ago, I had lobster flown in from Maine on my private jet. Tonight," gesturing at the cracked adobe house and yard full of weeds, "this is my whole kingdom."
"You threatened my family," I say again.
"Look. You're alive. Usually, when somebody's threatening me, beating on me with a hammer, I'm not going to duck. I'll grab a machete, whack off his arms and some other parts. So. You know what I want. Fix it for me, your family will live."
"I'm not threatening you in any way. Don't bullshit me about why I'm here."
"Reymundo," she says, "am I not a woman of honor?"
"You'd have a sicario tell me about honor?" I say.
"Reymundo's a lover, not a shooter."
Rey nods without hesitation.
"He has no honor working for you," I say.
"Then let's get to business. You know what I want."
"No, no," I say. "You know what I want."
"You want to live," she laughs. "That's entirely what this is about. We all want to live. I control you and your family; you control my future. I will trade one for the other. And money. Do you have enough of the proper equipment to find me a, how do you say it, a legend?"
I just shake my head, work at controlling my panic, searching for an edge. She sips the Diet Sprite, muscles flexing in her temples, a tectonic shift in her calculations as she nods. "You want a drink? Beer? Water? Tequila?"
"No. Just stop threatening my family."
"How about some Ritalin?" she says and I freeze. She reaches under her chair, grabs a plastic folder, sets it on the table without opening it. "I know all about you, Miss Winslow."
"I haven't used Ritalin in years," I say angrily.
"Fascinating." She opens the folder and flips through a few pages. "You didn't use, you abused. I wholesale thousands of pounds of methamphetamines. You once took methamphetamines. So in a way, we're not all that different."
I'm really furious now, the fury conquering my panic. "And your crystal meth has ruined a thousand lives. Ten thousand lives. You can't threaten me. And if you threaten my family, I won't help you in any way."
"Okay," she says. "Let's try something else. Your Hopi name is Kauwanyauma. Butterfly Revealing Wings of Beauty. See? We've both got grand names. I'm La Bruja. The Witch. You're a butterfly, with an arrest record and a drug-user record. Rey's told me everything about you." She finishes the Diet Sprite, opens another bottle, studies me carefully. "Okay." Nods. "You don't really get threatened, do you?" When I say nothing she turns to Dial. "Diablo, call Jesus." Dial flicks open his cell, speed-dials a number, holds the phone aside after hearing a voice. "Tell Jesus to return."
"Whoa, whoa," I say. "Why would I believe you?"
"I offer proof of life," she replies, holding up a small GPS unit. "Tell that man to leave his cell on, and give me his number." Talancon nods at Dial, who flips open the cell to display the last number dialed. She punches it into the GPS, waits until the map screen shows Sedona. "His cell has GPS on it. He's headed toward 1-10 and Phoenix."
"Why should I believe you?"
"Don't listen to this puta," Dial says, but Talancon flicks her palm, shakes her head.
Twenty-five minutes later, the GPS shows the cell locationout of red rock country and headed south toward Phoenix.
"Now. I've guaranteed your daughter's life," Talancon says. She shrugs off her wristwatch, presses a button on the side, and lays it on the picnic table in front of me. "A Rolex Cosmograph Daytona. Diamonds, rubies, gold, twelve thousand dollars, I could care less. Right now, it's just a stopwatch. Look at the numbers. Nine hours, fifty-eight minutes. That's how much time you've got. I've arranged an out in Chicago, but I've got to get there first. So in nine hours, we'll be headed for the Tucson airport for the early flight. You've got that long to set up a whole new identity."
"Impossible."
"Driver's license. Social Security card. Let's say four credit cards, whatever else you can provide."
"Impossible," I insist. "Not for a totally clean package." She points at the chronometer dial, the seconds shrinking back toward zero. "We're talking about special paper, special inks. Official seals, photographs, and bottom line, a Social Security number that's absolutely guaranteed to be genuine."
"You've got somebody who stores up these numbers, somebody who verifies they're clean."
"I don't think you really understand," I say. "I haven't arranged an entire identity kit in over a year."
"My personal motto of life," she counters. "If you don't ask for something, nobody says yes. I visit New York, the hottest Broadway show, I can get tickets anywhere in the house. Restaurants booked three months in advance. I can get a table. When they told me my son couldn't get into a prestigious high school, I threatened a lawsuit on the basis of discrimination against Latinos. He got in. Nothing is impossible. So I'm asking you again, can you do this for me?"
"No. Maybe. I don't know."
"Come with me," she says, turning sideways, a slight bow and nod into the house. "Let me show you something, Miss Winslow. Please. No harm, just come inside for a moment."
I walk ahead of her into an entranceway. She gestures down a hall to the door of the main bedroom.
"On the bed. Look."
Two bodies sprawl on pink and purple flowered sheets. A man and woman, bloodied, dead. One hand across my mouth, I freeze. Talancon spins me around, pushes me back outside.
"Okay," she says. "Without hesitation, if you won't do this, just as I killed them, I'll kill your entire family. In front of your eyes."
"You promised, you guaranteed their safety."
"I lie. Usually it works."
And there it is.
I have few bargaining chips. Nine hours, during which I can fake a process, hoping to convince Rey to get me out of this mess, or I can work what few contacts I still have, gambling that if I create a new identity Talancon will let me live.
"Okay," I say. I mean, what else am I going to say?
Except I suddenly realize I have an edge.
"Agreed. Okay. Your point?"
"I figure you'll fly to Chicago, then jump around the country, or head outside the country to get plastic surgery. I'll get you a perfect new ID on one condition."
She cocks her head, her expression unchanged.
"Let me tell you a short story."
"Don't beg," she says. "We're well past that."
"Up on the Navajo rez," I say, "my husband's mother is from the Start of the Red Streak People. The Deeshchii'nii clan. His sister married a man from the Jaa'yaaloolii. The Sticking-Up-Ears People. They had two sons."
"Please," Talancon says. "I know where this is going."
"Both sons got totally bored with high school and turned to drugs. Both worked their way up the drug ladder to making crystal meth. They blew themselves up in their lab one day."
"What's the point, okay?"
"If I fly with you to Chicago, I figure there's a good chance you'll just disappear and let me live. I'll take that chance if ... what I want, what you'll have to do ... if you'll give me a complete list of all the meth dealers on all Arizona Indian reservations."
She studies me for a long time. A long, long time. And then nods abruptly.
"Okay. You've got everything you need?"
"Just so you understand," I explain. "First, I've got to find an identity, find a legend. That's a name I can use without challenge by law enforcement databases. A name that's got a birth date near enough to yours, a somewhat facial resemblance."
"That's going to be altered here," she says. "Depending on what you tell me I've got to do. I'll dye my hair, cut it, stuff cotton wads into my cheeks and nose, whatever it takes so I look like whatever picture you provide. So find me a golden legend."
"Even after I find the legend, I'll have to locate somebody who'll work up the identity materials. That will take some hours. I might not be able to guarantee delivery."