Last Of The Good Guys – Chapter Twenty-Two
San Diego International Airport
San Diego, California
Late Saturday Afternoon
Bobby watched Rachel exit the arrivals gate a few hundred feet ahead of him. Tanya walking alongside her hand in hand. It seemed to him that his daughter held on to her like Rachel was mom. It’d been a long time since he’d seen her hold on to someone beside himself.
He favored his bad leg, putting his weight on a cane they’d bought in an emergency clinic somewhere in the middle of Texas. It was a clean wound; the bullet had passed through without tearing up any bone, just a little muscle. In fact, he’d come out of it in better shape than Rachel – her arms and part of her neck slightly burned when she’d pulled Tanya out of the car the night before. Bobby supposed that kind of thing could get the two of them a little closer.
He didn’t have too much trouble spotting Jimmy, the biggest, meanest looking man at the arrivals gate. He watched the bodyguard wade through the crowd to Rachel and Tanya, and saw the smile break out on him as he got to them. It took Bobby a few seconds to catch up to them.
“No questions. Okay?”
Bobby was just close enough to catch the words.
“Okay, boss. No questions.”
“Jimmy, I’d like you to meet my brother.”
Jimmy turned and held out his hand as Bobby got to them.
“Nice to meet you Robert.”
Bobby took his hand and pressed it, smiling like he’d been called Robert since the day he was born.
“Nice to meet you too, Jimmy.”
“There’s someone else I’d like you to meet.” Rachel said as she pulled Tanya back to give everyone a view of her. “My niece, Tanya.”
Jimmy looked at Rachel and Bobby simultaneously. “Didn’t know you had a little one, Robert.”
Bobby watched Rachel and Jimmy exchange looks. “No Questions, boss.” Jimmy said it like he was repeating a mantra.
With that said the three of them followed Jimmy’s lead to the car.
“Your friend Sunny’s quite an impressive fellow.” I owe him a lot Jimmy. She said it while Jimmy was doing the door for her. “You don’t know.”
“Oh yes I do Ms Rachel. I talked to him.” He smiled that big smile as he closed her door. “Said he had a lot of fun.”
Bobby sat in the front passenger seat of the Mercedes. Little Tanya sat in the back, holding Rachel’s hand as they watched the Pacific ocean roll by on the coast highway.
“This is a big water, Rachel. Can I swim in it?”
“Sure Sweety. We’ll get you the prettiest bathing suit you ever saw.”
Bobby heard the small talk between the two of them as he watched the water move by him. So much had happened in the past week. One minute he was looking for a little work, then he’s fighting for his life, and a few minutes later he’s riding a Mercedes beside a different ocean some thousands of miles away. At least in retrospect it all seemed like minutes to him – like a pebble making ripples that take on a life of their own, he thought.
The sun was just getting ready to settle into the ocean when they pulled onto the driveway of the beach house. Tanya had fallen asleep on Rachel’s lap. Jimmy picked her up gently and headed for the house while Bobby struggled a little getting out of the car with his bad leg.
“I’ll tuck this one into bed and then Jimmy and I have to get back to the city. Everything you need is here. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Rachel looked at Bobby for a few seconds. Something in her eyes said she liked them, both of them – something said it was time they got a break and she intended to see to that. She put her hand behind Bobby’s neck, pulled him down and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Okay, brother of mine. It’s nice to have my family home.” She smiled their secret at him as she turned to follow Jimmy into the house.
Bobby didn’t even hear them leave. He’d taken himself out to the deck and gotten immersed in the quiet roll of the waves as the sun slid imperceptibly out of sight. He sat there for some time, watching and remembering everything as it played back on some giant dark screen in the sky. It was a lot to process. He remembered Gomez and the Lady more than anything else. He thought he could see the Mexican smiling at him from the stern of the Lady as she sailed off into a distant heaven.
There was another Mexican he owed a visa to and he would see to that, Rachel had told him she would take care of it.
He took the minute for one silent prayer to whoever was listening before he stood up and headed off to check his little girl, asleep in their new home.
He stood at the foot of her bed for a long moment. It was a nice fit, he thought – you never know what God intends.
Maybe good guys don’t always finish last.
*
Last Of The Good Guys – Chapter Twenty-One
The Senator’s Home
Austin, Texas
Saturday Morning
The senator was bitching at the maid about his coffee as he rushed his way past the children, placing his usual indifferent kiss on his wife’s fat cheek.
He was in his car and onto the freeway without a moment’s notice. His watch said ten forty-five. He’d get there with minutes to spare. If there was one thing he didn’t want to be absent for it was his eleven o’clock call to Estaphan. It was something important, he’d said, something that would ‘brighten up his day’. The senator fondled the words with a certain unknown excitement as he exited the freeway and pulled into the complex of office buildings.
He pulled into his reserved parking. It was Saturday and the lot was empty anyway. He headed for the elevator, speculating how nice it’d be to have no traffic all week.
Once in his office, the senator settled behind his desk as he glanced at his watch. Ten fifty-seven. He was going to wait the three minutes. He wanted to be right on time to show Estaphan how precisely he could listen to orders.
It was something big, he thought. Maybe Enrico’d cleared up that thing with Howie and Hertzel. He wondered how it went down. He really didn’t give a shit so long as he was clear. With those two out of the way, maybe the old man wanted to move ahead with the political issues. Estaphan had insisted on him calling this morning – from the office, alone with no one else to listen in. Must be something big, he thought.
For Lorraine the morning routine had been just like all the others, tedious and humiliating. The only difference this morning was Estaphan’s state of mind. He was unusually cheerful, much too pleasant for his nature, and that, in itself, unnerved her.
To heighten the mystery, he’d ordered her to bring a phone and a newspaper to his bedside, both requests very out of character. She knew well how much the ringing startled him, not to mention his irrational fear that it might disrupt his pacemaker. But she knew better than to question him, never did.
Antonio arrived abruptly, paper in hand and impending trauma all over his face.
“What is it?” Her beeper went off.
“Does he know about this?” Antonio said. “Brownsville. It’s all over the newspapers.” The beeper squealed again, several times, sounding angrier at each repetition. “Enrico. They’re calling it a massacre.”
She answered his anxious stare with a shrug. “What massacre?” She silenced the beeper as she turned quickly for the stairs. “I’ve got to go!” Her words drifted back over her shoulder. “The master calls.”
“What time is it?” Luis Estaphan asked the question the moment Lorraine entered the bedroom, his eyes glowing just a little brighter than usual, like a child about to open a new toy at Christmas.
“Almost eleven.”
“What time is it exactly?”
“She picked up the tone, and rechecked her watch. “One minute to eleven.” The words weren’t out of her mouth before the phone rang. He smiled, and waited for it to ring a second time.
“Hello Senator.” Estaphan’s voice sounded like an excited little boy. “Right on time, thank you for being prompt. I like that.”
Lorraine opened the drawer he pointed to, saw the solitary revolver and what looked like a television remote. She’d never seen the little black box before. Funny she thought, there was no television in the room – he hated them too.
“Well, I think I’ve pretty well taken care of all our problems.” His face showed a tiny smile as he pointed to the remote. “All but one, and that’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
The senator hung expectantly on the other end of the phone. “Whatever I can do for you. You name it, Mister Estaphan.”
“Are you listening, Senator?” Luis held the remote to the receiver and pressed it. “This is the most important message I ever gave you.”
There was a high-pitched beep, and then an explosion. Lorraine could hear it through the phone.
“Well, I bet that really blew our friend away.” He looked at Lorraine, his smile turning into a wide grin.
Lorraine stood there, the paper still tucked under her arm, thinking something she couldn’t believe possible, watching him enjoy it to the last chuckle.
“Well, I’ve got myself an appetite this morning. Give me the paper and bring me something light. I think I’ll lounge in bed for a while.”
Lorraine was no sooner downstairs transferring an order to the kitchen help than the beeper started up again. This time it was the emergency code, the unbroken, high-pitched one that got shriller the longer it ran unanswered. Cursing under her breath she double-timed through the house, grabbing the oxygen on her way.
From the top of the stairs she could see right in through the open double doors to the room. Estaphan was squirming like he was in the grip of a python, the newspaper distorted and shredding in his hands. She ran through the doors only to be grabbed by Antonio. He looked at her hard, his head shaking slowly as he took the oxygen pack out of her hands and closed the doors.
Estaphan’s eyes got wide. “Help me!” He squeezed the words out between gasps for air. His shrivelled face twisted as he attempted to get himself up far enough to reach the drawer. Antonio left Lorraine’s side and walked calmly to the bed. Oxygen pack in hand, he opened the drawer and picked the handgun out of reach.
“I’ll kill you.” Estaphan gurgled the words as his face turned blue. “You little son of a bitch.” The sentence died in his throat as he pulled the covers and the newspaper with him to the floor.
Lorraine moved across the room slowly, her eyes never leaving the still body, expecting it to twitch back to life like it did on more mornings than she wanted to remember. Antonio wiped the gun, replaced it in the drawer and checked for a pulse. Getting none, he picked the front page of the newspaper from the floor and handed it to Lorraine as he punched the pre-coded emergency line.
She read the headline and didn’t need the accompanying pictures to understand.
“This is the Estaphan residence. We need an ambulance immediately. My uncle has had a heart attack. Hurry.”
Antonio hung the phone up as calmly as though he’d ordered pizza. He looked at the crumpled body of Luis Estaphan for a second, tossed the oxygen pack on the bed and turned to Lorraine. “I guess it was bad news, baby.”
*
Last Of The Good Guys – Chapter Twenty
Howie Morgan’s Trailer
South Padre Island, Texas
Late Friday Night
Bobby and Jesús had been gone for less than an hour. Bobby’s little Tanya had fallen asleep on the couch, her head on Rachel’s lap as Rachel gently stroked her soft hair.
Rachel hadn’t gotten the full story before they left, but did get enough from Bobby about the ship, the murder, his own involvement and the background to Tanya’s presence to realize there had been a lot more going on than just her brother’s death. Not that her brother’s death didn’t grieve her, it did, but she’d known in her heart for some time that he was dead – had been working on acceptance for a couple of days now.
Of all the mayhem, it was the little girl asleep on her lap that most affected her. Although her childhood hadn’t been identical to this one’s, there were certainly some parallels. Maybe the only real reason for all of it was to give her an opportunity to change something for this one – something she wished someone had done for her and her brother long ago. She still had the beach house and she knew for a certainty these two were running out of places to hide. Maybe just set them up there until they sort something out. She’d never had children, but this little thing, falling faster asleep with every moment, certainly felt like she belonged on her lap. Life was strange, she thought.
What if they didn’t come back, she wondered. She’d have to get out of there, on her own. She needed to get out of there before anyone found any bodies. That would mean tonight, in the dark, with Tanya. Her mind went to Sunny. She wondered where he was right now, didn’t think he’d let too much time pass before he started looking for her – she thought they had developed that kind of relationship. She decided she’d wait two hours, then start walking. If she could get the two of them to the hotel, Sunny would get them out of Brownsville, and out of Texas.
With that thought in mind, she gently lifted Tanya’s head and slid out from under her, covering her with a tattered comforter. Time to get herself looked at and cleaned up.
In the tiny washroom at the back of the trailer she cringed when she saw herself in the mirror. The bruise on the side of her face had turned a dark purple. She splashed some water on her face and straightened her torn clothing as best she could, even tried to fix her hair a little. She laughed silently at herself, here she was with bodies piled somewhere outside, a little girl in trouble in the next room a couple of strangers taking care of them and a maniac, or more, out there somewhere – and she’s fixing her hair.
She was at the end of that thought when her hand slid down to the gun in her pocket. It wasn’t as if she’d actually heard anything. It was more of a feeling, between her and the little thing asleep nearby whom she’d gotten so close to so quickly.
She turned quietly, gun drawn, extinguishing the light as she stepped out of washroom and into the subdued light of the trailer.
“Drop it or I’ll kill the little bitch.” Howie had Tanya wrapped under his arm, his hand across her mouth. He was gripping her so tight her feet weren’t in contact with the ground, his knife so close to her throat she could die accidentally.
“Not a chance, you piece of garbage. If you hurt one hair on her head, you’re a dead man.” Her voice portrayed a calm she did not feel. Her mind raced past the thoughts of how much he already looked like a dead man – face ashen, breathing heavily, blood covering his clothes as though he’d gone swimming in it. “You let her go and I let you go, no other deal.”
She was trying to figure why he even returned to the trailer; whatever he needed it wasn’t there. Maybe he’d thought he could hide out, no one would connect him. Maybe he figured she would help him, patch him up, drive him and his money out of there – maybe he wanted to believe she liked a real man. Maybe nothing more than a wounded animal’s instinct, returning to its lair to heal or die. Rachel didn’t really know why, and she cared less.
“I’m goin’. And I’m takin’ the kid.” He edged towards the door. “Insurance. Once I’m in Mexico I’ll let her go.” He pulled Tanya up tight against him. Fear screaming from her eyes. “You tell ‘em that. Tell ‘em they don’t come after me and don’t tell nobody. I let her go in Mexico.” Howie was out the door as he said it. “Otherwise I’ll kill the little slut before I die.”
Rachel followed him out the door step for step as he backed his way to the cruiser, her gun held steady, two-handed. She told herself she couldn’t let it happen, and wanted to take the chance with a shot, but couldn’t. Howie continued to shield himself with the girl while he slid behind the wheel. He started it up and slipped her to the seat beside him, arm and knife menacingly wrapped around her, her eyes full of tears, as Rachel looked right into them. The headlights blinded her, sand spewing as Howie wrenched the vehicle around for his getaway to nowhere.
Tears running down her face, she screamed for him to stop as she stumbled after them through the sand. She didn’t slow until she saw the headlights coming towards her from the darkness. The two cars passed two hundred yards from her, as she stood transfixed in the glare of the approaching lights. It passed her, sand flying indiscriminately as the vehicle spun one hundred and eighty degrees before heading back towards her.
“Need a ride, ma’am?” Sunny swung the passenger door open.
“Sunny!” Rachel jumped in. “Follow him!”
Sand flew from the wheels, the rear end swinging erratically as they accelerated. “Don’t worry Ms Rachel, I got him in my sights.” He stepped hard on the gas. “You relax now, Sunny’s on the job.”
“The guy ahead of us is crazy, and he’s got a little girl with him. Thank God you showed up.” And that’s when it dawned on her, his showing up in the middle of nowhere. “How’d you find me?”
“I told you I wouldn’t be far away. He noticed her battered face as he continued. “I found real anonymous people lots of times. This Morgan, he’s one famous guy. No problem. Besides, you didn’t check in like you said you would.” He smiled through the darkness. “And I ain’t gonna face Jimmy as a failure, not yet anyway.” More headlights flash on the other side of the fleeing police cruiser. “Looks like we got more company.”
Rachel peered ahead, praying it was Bobby. She hoped he knew, somehow, that it was Howie coming towards him.
Bobby didn’t get the chance to figure it out as Howie suddenly veered off the beach and up onto a dune. The cruiser flew across the top out of control, slamming sideways into a second dune as it rolled onto its’ side.
Jesús jammed his foot on the brake. Bobby was out the door before the truck stopped sliding.
“Take the other side!” He pointed in a direction a little further down the beach as he shouted the words back at Jesús.
Bobby paid little attention to the flames starting their slow circle around the cruiser, concentrating on ignoring his pain as he circled to the back of the dune where Howie had disappeared. He knew Howie wouldn’t get far, and hoped his own strength held up better than he felt at the moment. He was barely able to make the top of the dune before he heard the groans and curses from the other side. He rose silently over the top and put his gun into the back of Howie’s neck. “Hi, Howie.” The nonchalant calm in his voice belied his breathless lack of strength.
“Bobby?”
With the mention of his name Bobby slapped his gun across Howie’s face, both the knife and the briefcase staying tight in his grasp as he rolled a few feet down the dune.
“Amigo.” Howie sounded offended as he brought a smile to his pain. “I got our money. I need a little help to get out of here.” He pulled himself a little upright, coughing blood as he spoke. “You and me Bobby, what do you say? Get me into one of them vehicles. Get me a Doctor. Fifty-fifty.” He held up the briefcase. “You and me. What do you say?”
“You’re not going to make it to a Doctor, Howie.” There was cold calm in Bobby’s voice. “I think I’m just going to kill you Howie, save time, and do everybody a big favour.” He added the afterthought. “Including you.” He walked to within a foot of him. “What do you say?”
Howie didn’t get to answer. The explosion and flames that shot up over the back of the dune had them both cowering in the sand. And when the noise subsided there was just Howie’s sick laugh in its’ place.
“What’s funny, Howie?”
“That your kid back at the trailer?” Howie spoke between his laughter and gurgling blood. “Well I took her in the car with me, and I think I might have left the pretty little thing back there.” A cruel look crossed his face. As Bobby instinctively turned towards the flaming wreck Howie jammed the knife into bobby’s bad leg and used the briefcase to knock the gun and Bobby to the sand. “And I’ll bet she ain’t so pretty any – “
The bullet in Howie’s stomach stopped him in mid-sentence. His eyes bugged out but his legs still held him while the sick smile faded from his face. He turned towards Rachel just as she fired the second bullet. This one took Howie to his knees.
She stepped between Bobby’s prone figure and the kneeling Howie. “You look like you’re praying, Howie.” She put the gun an inch from his face and fired until the chamber clicked empty several times. “Don’t frighten little girls.”
She slipped the gun back into her pocket and bent over Bobby. “Get up!” She pulled him by the arm. “We’ve got to get out of here. Now!”
“Tanya?”
“She’s okay.”
“Wait.” Bobby was on one knee, his arm around her shoulder as he reached across and took the briefcase out of Howie’s hand. “Is he dead?”
“Oh, I think so.” She replied casually as the two of them stumbled across the top of the dune.
He almost lost consciousness as he fell face first into Sunny and Jesús’ arms, the sound of gunfire having brought them back from their search.
“We leave pronto, amigo.” Jesús got his weight under Bobby’s arm. “Muy pronto.” Sunny got on the other side as the two of them half carried and half dragged him to the limo.
Jesús slid him onto the back seat while Sunny got behind the wheel. The cab roared to life, Jesús’ words partially lost in the noise. “We made it, amigo.” He tore his shirt and wrapped it around the knife wound as he spoke. “It was a very good Friday night, my gringo amigo.” Jesús smiled and slapped Bobby on the covered wound. “Good as new,”
The limo fishtailed away as Jesús, laughing his Friday night laugh, made the same kind of haste towards his flatbed.
While the car accelerated, a tiny figure pulled herself free of Rachel and her blanket wrap, squirming up and reaching over the front seat of the cab. “Daddy?”
Bobby opened his eyes enough to see her silhouette.
“Can we please go home now?”
Bobby smiled, and knew there was a God.
*
Last Of The Good Guys – Chapter Nineteen
Hertzel Markovitz’s House
Brownsville, Texas
Late Friday Night
It was late and Howie enjoyed wheeling the cruiser through Brownsville like he was the chief. He was cruising his jurisdiction, thinking about what a good job his men were doing out here on the quiet, safe streets of Brownsville. He flashed back on his own desires to be a cop when he was very young – up until he got his first felony conviction. After that he didn’t think cops were that great. Still, he knew he would’ve been a great one.
His mind wandered to the bitch he left at the trailer. He thought he shouldn’t have been so hard on her. He knew she’d fallen for him, he could tell by the way she came on to him. His whole, perverted, macho self knew it. It was obvious. But he wanted it his way, appreciated his skills at forced sex, and knew women secretly liked a man’s violence and the dominance that went with it. He was doing her a favor; he knew she’d thank him for it. Eventually she’d love him more for it. It was what they all really liked, and this broad was no different. Maybe she’d be better than most, once he’d taught her how to like it his way. She could be the right woman at last, and good-looking to boot. He turned her on, he knew that for sure. That was how it was – if it wasn’t he’d kill her. Maybe he would anyway.
Howie was in and out of himself like never before – the taste of blood in an animal’s mouth.
Through it all he worked his way to the far side of Brownsville and out into the sparse suburbs. He said little aloud, beyond laughing or scowling whenever his paranoia warranted it. He reacted only to things happening inside him.
He knew Hertzel well. He knew about his wall safe; knew the money belonged to him. If it belonged to Hertzel, it belonged to him. He was going to let the weasel bastard die slow. He knew how much Hertzel disliked pain. He couldn’t get on the right side of it like Howie – the validity of pain, the enjoyment, and the need for it.
He focused as he killed the lights and pulled the cruiser part way up the drive. “Welcome to Hertzel’s.” He said it out loud, like a tour bus operator on Hollywood Boulevard. “Gotta collect some money, pay some debts.”
He strode calmly up the middle of the driveway, impressed with the isolation of the surroundings. He pulled the phone lines at the side of the house before ringing the bell, standing there as if he was important and expected.
The door opened. Howie slapped the sleepy-eyed giant, Charley, full in the face with one of the pearl handled George Patton forty-fives he’d decided to bring along. It was one of his favourite guns – used only for invasions and outright warfare. Blood, teeth, and a bit of jaw spurted dramatically as Howie drove him backwards, pistol whipping him about the head with each lunging pursuit. The pummelling continued even after Charley had slumped to the floor. Howie never did like the fat man. He gave him a few extra belts for old times’ sake.
“What’s going on out there?” Hertzel got a full view of Charley’s bloodied face as he opened the study door. “Howie!”
Howie smiled back at the horrified look on Hertzel’s face, bent down and put two bullets through Charley’s groin. He straightened up, laughed, and spit on him. He bent over again and jammed the gun into his mouth, about to finish him right then, but didn’t – the pain and terror racing across Charley’s face gave him too much pleasure. Besides, he needed to make it to Hertzel before the panicking prize got away.
By the time Howie walked through the study doors, Hertzel had retrieved a pistol from his desk and stood there petrified, the gun shaking in his hand.
“Hertzel, Hertzel, Hertzel.” Howie smiled. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. Just came for the money.” Smiling, he shook his head as he moved slowly forward. “You ain’t gonna shoot me, are you?” He said the words simultaneously with the gunshot that ripped into Hertzel’s arm. “See. You ain’t gonna shoot me.”
Hertzel couldn’t stop moaning, holding his arm and looking faint as he lunged towards the panelled glass doors to the garden. He was still fumbling with the lock when Howie grabbed him by the back of the neck, squeezing him immobile. “I know I said I wasn’t gonna hurt you Hertzel.” He smashed his head through one of the panes, jerked him back and hissed the words into his face. “But I lied.” He smashed his head through another pane, spun him around and jammed him against the doors, laughing maniacally while he talked. “You like it? Like to play with Howie?” He licked blood from Hertzel’s forehead, his lips and teeth turning red while he beamed a smile. “Bet you’re surprised to see me, eh?”
Hertzel just kept whimpering for his life.
Howie dragged him back to his desk, leaned him over backwards and fired a bullet through his kneecap. Howie let go of him and Markovitz slumped to the floor clutching his knee, dragging himself towards a door, whining and pleading.
Howie walked after him slowly, and put his weight on the shattered kneecap. “Wrong way.”
Hertzel’s eyes started to roll back into his head. Howie eased up, didn’t want the man to pass out – not yet. He knelt beside him, his voice full of concern and consideration. “Relax. We’re just gonna open the safe.” He helped him caringly to his feet. “But it’s over here, remember?”
Howie pushed Hertzel across the room, behind the desk. He propped him against the wall and hurled the picture from the front of the safe. “Just one chance here, Hertzel. I don’t have a lot of time.” Howie sympathetically straightened the twisted glasses. “You open it up for me and I won’t hurt you no more. Promise.” He caringly wiped the blood away from his eyes before turning him to face the safe. Hertzel turned the numbers without hesitation. “I didn’t mean to hurt you in the first place, guess I just lost my temper.” Hertzel nodded agreement as Howie watched each spin of the dial.
“Time’s up.” He stood Hertzel aside, held him by the throat with one hand as he turned the handle, and pulled. He stared a long moment at the sizable pile of bills. “Thanks, Hertzel.” He smiled again, as if it was genuine appreciation. “You can sit down now.” He put a bullet through the other kneecap. He laughed as if everybody should get their kicks this way. “Your papers?” There was a business-like tone in his voice as he dumped the contents of Hertzel’s briefcase over him, and emptied the safe in seconds.
“You stupid gringo shit.”
Howie spun and watched the smoke of Enrico’s gun as the bullet hit him. He felt the warm, sticky blood oozing from his side. Screaming with rage and firing without direction, he saw a hole appear in the forehead of Markovitz’s wife as she cowered on the lower part of the stairs. Still screaming and firing, he flailed his way towards Enrico’s second shot – the one that put him down.
Howie’s eyes were still open, his body twitching to the sound of Hertzel’s moans. He watched Enrico’s legs moving towards him, all business, two-handing his revolver like a television cop. He foot-slid the forty-five and the briefcase from Howie’s reach. Enrico stood over him now, laughing for a second before the vicious kick to the face blacked whatever remained of Howie’s senses.
Howie didn’t appear to feel the second kick, kind of an afterthought on Enrico’s part. “Fucking scumbag!” Enrico walked the short distance to the slumped Hertzel.
“Help me.” Hertzel pleaded through his pain. “Get me a doctor, Enrico.”
“Okay, amigo. Just a minute. You aren’t hurt so fucking bad. I seen worse.”
Hertzel kept whining, grabbed Enrico’s leg, blood rubbing onto the expensive fabric.
“My pants gringo, my fucking pants!” He kicked him roughly, looking like he was ready to kill him for soiling the suit. “Don’t touch me.” Enrico kept talking, but in Spanish, mumbling under his breathe as he turned to the desk and picked up the phone.
“Nine one one!” Hertzel yelled. “Just dial nine one one!”
“Oh, that’s very good, amigo.” Enrico’s sarcasm wasn’t hidden by his accent; he kept dialing while he talked. “We could have lots of help then. Ambulances. Doctors. Cops. Lots of help.” He looked down at Hertzel with disgust. “Maybe you should ask how your wife is. Eh, puta?”
Hertzel glanced across at his wife’s body sprawled awkwardly on the stairs.
“It’s Enrico. I must speak to Luis, now.”
“You’re phoning Houston!” Hertzel was irate. “I’m bleeding to death and you’re phoning Houston, you fucking Chicano bastard!”
“Just a moment.” Enrico turned and kicked Hertzel hard in the side of the head.
Hertzel yelped and crumpled as Enrico leaned over slightly, his voice soft. “Please be quiet, gringo. Can’t you see I’m on the phone?” He turned back to the receiver. “Sorry, someone needed attention. I know it’s late.” His voice took on a tone. “Wake him, now.”
As Enrico waited by the phone, some fifteen minutes away in Howie’s isolated trailer, bodies had been sorted, wounds tended and players identified.
“I didn’t kill your brother. Is that why you shot me?” Bobby queried as Jesús bandaged the leg with strips of semi-clean sheeting.
Rachel felt foolish. “No. I thought you were Howie Morgan. I think he’s coming back here.” He looked directly at Bobby. “But if you had murdered my brother then yes, I would have killed you. With pleasure.”
“Howie murdered your brother. I was there, but not when it happened. You’ve come a long way to get bad news.” Bobby silently noted her bruises as he motioned for Jesús to get her something to put on. “And it looks like you’ve suffered a little, too.”
“I want that pig dead. I want him to get what he deserves.”
“Me too.” Bobby said it matter-of-fact, but there was a lot more in it than words.
Rachel pointed to Bobby’s leg as she dressed. “Sorry about that.”
Bobby just smiled dryly. “I’ve had worse. I guess you owe me a drink.”
Rachel seemed to move with some pain as she slid a little closer to Tanya. “You just take care of our business here.” Her eyes told him that more words were unnecessary. “Get me to an airport and I’ll get us all out of here – and the drinks are on me. She managed a smile at the tearful little girl who sat sobbing quietly beside her bleeding father. “Come here honey. I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was your daddy. I’m sorry.”
Tanya looked over at her father. He nodded for her to go to Rachel. She slid herself across the floor and into Rachel’s arms.
“Do you know where he went?” Bobby tested the leg as he spoke. It hurt, but not so much he would lose his agenda.
“He muttered something about getting his money from the junk dealer. Making him pay up. Markovitz, Hertzel Markovitz. I met him this morning. A fast-talking shyster scumbag.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Can’t be more than a half hour. You missed him by minutes.”
Bobby looked at Jesús. “I guess I’ve got to go over there to collect as well.”
Jesús nodded. “I tell you long time ago I don’t like these gringos, amigo. We go together now, I think.”
Bobby looked back at Rachel, noticing for the first time the beauty under her bruises. “You okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“Will my girl be okay here with you for a little while. I think we better catch up to him before he gets back here.”
Rachel squeezed Tanya like a mother, smiling down into her face. “We’ll be okay, won’t we honey.”
“You come back soon, daddy.” She was worried, but a lot of her fear seemed to be absorbed by the warmth of Rachel’s grasp.
“Daddy will be back real soon. Then we’ll all leave, and never come back here, honey. Never.”
Tanya nodded despite her battle against more tears.
They were at the door when Rachel spoke. “I’ve got a friend out there from New Orleans. I’m not sure where he is, but knowing him, I’ve got a feeling he’s close by and looking for me.” She looked hard at Bobby. “He’s driving a limo. Don’t mistake him for someone else.”
It took only ten minutes with Jesús behind the wheel, including the stop at the phone booth for Markovitz’s address, before his flatbed sat quietly behind the cruiser. By this time the house sat in complete silence, giving no indication of trouble, past or present – except of course for Howie’s borrowed cruiser.
“It’s appointment time, amigo.” Said Jesús.
Bobby watched Jesús’ still outline sitting across from him. “Give me ten minutes.” Opening the cab door, he winced with the dull throb of his leg wound, hurting enough to make him wonder about his ambitious intentions. He pushed the thought away, finding relief in the fact the bleeding had stopped. Thank God for small caliber handguns, he thought.
“Amigo, what if you no back in ten minutes?” Jesús’ face carried a smile that belied the seriousness of his question. “You want I should come looking?” The smile broadened. “Cost you more for search service.”
Bobby paused. He hadn’t wanted to think of the possibility. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, leave.” He paused again. “Take Tanya back to the Sister Maria like we agreed, and get the woman to an airport.”
“You a strange hombre amigo.” Jesús shook his head. “You think I leave you here. I owe you too much for too many times you take care of me in the old days.” He shook his head. “Honor amigo. I cannot live without my honor.”
Bobby smiled at the his companero “Honor man. Honor among thieves.” Both of them chuckled as he limped off into the darkness.
Bobby got around behind the house to the double doors leading into the study. The carnage was obvious. Bobby’d never seen the man on the phone. Howie was lying very still on the floor and Hertzel was whining for help – Bobby knew them too well. He decided it wasn’t a good idea to enter through the study doors and headed further along the back of the house. The warm wetness on his leg told him he’d started leaking some blood again. Howie’s painkillers didn’t let him notice too much else.
Once inside he followed the dull sound of voices, passing the body of a dead woman on the stairs as he stepped over Charley’s unconscious form. He knew the whine belonged to Hertzel and the Mexican-American accent to the stranger on the phone, but he wasn’t close enough to see them yet.
“I understand Mister Estaphan.”
Bobby was very close to the study door now, getting himself an unobstructed view.
“Everything will be taken care of.”
Bobby wondered who was on the other end of the phone.
“I will be in Houston tomorrow morning.”
The man put the phone down and turned to Hertzel. “Don’t worry my friend.” He sounded callous. “Mister Estaphan knows our situation.” He smiled coldly. “He’s concerned about all the questions the police will ask.” The smile disappeared and his face took on no discernible expression.
“You don’t have to worry about me, Enrico. I’ll tell them anything you want me to, just get me some help.”
“Don’t worry Hertzel.” The snake-like smile returned. “Mister Estaphan knows you. Told me I should make you my biggest concern.” He bent over, his head nodding as he extended his hand to help Hertzel to his feet. “He told me to take very good care of you, my friend, do something about your pain.” Enrico grabbed the top of Hertzel’s head with his extended hand, jammed the gun through the terrified man’s teeth and fired two shots that exited the back of the his skull. Hertzel didn’t even twitch.
“Si, amigo, I’m sure that takes care of your pain.” Enrico stepped back, grinning with his words. “No loose ends.” He broke into a sick laugh as he leaned over and wiped the barrel of his gun on Hertzel’s tie.
Bobby was debating his move when a hard slash across his wrist knocked the gun from his hand. Another vicious hit and Bobby careened across the floor, almost to Enrico’s feet. “This prick was spyin’ on ya.” Charley staggered into the room, bleeding from the groin and in obvious pain. “What the fuck happened here?” He saw Hertzel slumped against the wall. “Hertzel?” He looked at Enrico. “Is he dead?”
“That fuck Howie killed him.” Enrico motioned to the study doors. “It’s okay I took care of him.” He reached down and pulled Bobby up by the throat. “And you, who the fuck are you? You come looking for money, too? The only thing anybody finds here today is bullets.” He raised the gun to Bobby’s mouth just as Bobby caught a shadow by the window. “And I will give you all you can eat, mi amigo.”
Bobby winced suddenly, thinking the gunshot was coming into his face. Instead, Charley was the recipient, jerking awkwardly backward before spinning around and firing blindly behind him. Jesús fired three more shots into the giant’s chest as he kicked his way into the room. Charley stopped suddenly, swaying with an aimless motion before falling heavy and awkward to the floor.
Enrico pulled Bobby up close to him like it was a slow dance. “Put the gun down, or I’ll kill this fuck!” In the moment of hesitation Bobby grabbed his gun hand, clutched a letter opener from the desk and jammed it deep into Enrico’s ribs, driving it up towards the heart with all his strength. The two of them danced a macabre promenade as Enrico fought for breath and the strength to turn his gun back on Bobby. Bobby’s leg gave out and the two of them crashed to the floor, Enrico on top, eyes bugging.
Enrico’s dead weight pinned Bobby motionless, their faces pressed close together. Bobby didn’t have the strength to roll him off, the man’s weight on his bulleted leg hurting through the painkillers. A long second passed before Jesús’ roughly pulled the hood’s head up by the hair and twisted the body away.
“You okay, amigo?”
Bobby nodded weakly.
“I think maybe this hombre love you very much.” Jesús’ smile broadened as he helped Bobby to a sitting position. “The way he try to kiss you like that.” He shook his head. “Amigo, people will talk.”
Bobby smiled back without much enthusiasm. “It’ll be our secret, okay?” The respite lasted seconds before the sound of an engine roaring to life threw Bobby’s eyes to the spot Howie had quietly vacated. Bobby wiped Enrico’s blood from his face.
Like Lazarus from the dead, Howie had risen and gone – him and the briefcase.
*
Last Of The Good Guys – Chapter Eighteen
Howie Morgan’s Trailer
South Padre Island, Texas
Friday night
Rachel sat motionless, hiding her terror inside the silence. The side of her face showed a dark, swollen bruise where Howie’d struck her a couple of hours earlier.
She stared at the corpses in front of her. Alvarez, the nice young cop, whom she’d watched die for an hour and one other she didn’t know.
“Want an introduction?” Howie pulled his head back from the pile of cocaine. “Juan, meet the bitch who was gonna bring me to justice.” He paused while he sniffed hard up both nostrils. “Bitch, meet the wetback who was supposed to kill me.” He swallowed, shivering. “I hate the taste of this shit.” He guzzled tequila from the bottle. “They think I’m stupid. Hell I’ve taken people up to the farm and they never came back, why should I?”
Howie was insane, if not before then – now for a certainty. Rachel knew without wondering; it wasn’t too difficult to figure out. What she didn’t know was why she was still alive, suspected it wasn’t necessarily good news, but was glad to be breathing for the moment. She tried not to look at him sitting a few feet away, naked from the waist up, mumbling curses and talking to himself about having the last laugh -fucking everybody up.
His acrid sweat permeated the heat of the trailer. His eyes were glazed and distant. When he caught her looking, a bizarre smile crept across his face. The intense yet distant stare scared her outright. She knew there was more to come, knew he enjoyed it all too much.
“Why don’t you kill me?” It had taken nerve, but she said it. She knew she had to start somewhere.
“Don’t kill ladies, baby.” He leered across the room at her, chuckling while he spoke. “And when I do, it’s after I’ve tried to fuck ‘em to death.”
“What are you planning to do with me?”
“You’re the woman, ain’t ya? The one lookin’ for her brother, eh?”
“You know about my brother?” Rachel forced herself to be calm, pretending the situation was perfectly normal. She was sitting in her living room, maybe. She was used to having dead bodies strewn about her feet and having a conversation with a psychopath. It was perfectly normal.
“I know who killed your fuckin’ brother, lady. This whole bullshit is cause of them, both of them assholes. But the bastard drowned. If he hadn’t, I would have killed him.” He stood up like he was going to attack her, but laughed as he spoke, “I would have killed him just for you.” Rachel sensed a small opening as Howie kept talking. “Look at all the dead people cause of their bullshit!”
The actual statement of Robert’s death hit deep. It hurt – the loss, the confirmation of it. She tried to keep the anger and pain to herself, telling herself she already knew. But it showed up anyway, in her eyes.
He stood directly over her, his nostrils flaring with each breath, his eyes glaring with every word. He reached down and tore open her blouse. His voice was soft and merciless. “You bitch! Quit feelin’ bad ’bout it. You owe me for tellin’ ya the truth.”
He turned away while he kept talking to himself. “Always good to have company.” He laughed and waved the gun. “A woman and a gun. Unbeatable combination.”
“What do you plan to do with me?” She was repeating herself, but it was an important question.
“Well, I gotta visit a friend of mine. A piece of shit junk dealer. And I’m gonna take his money and kill him.” He turned back to face her, his face distorted into a sick smile. “Kill him real fuckin’ slow.”
Rachel steeled herself and repeated her question. “What are you going to do with me?”
Howie fell back into his chair, took another long pull on the bottle of tequila, let it spill out of the sides of his mouth. “I’m gonna fuck you lady.” He had a way with words. Like I said, probably fuck ya to death.” He couldn’t hold back the laugh. “And if I don’t fuck ya to death, I might keep ya, or kill ya.” He grinned. “Depends how good a fuck ya are.”
Her terror battled her wits. A long moment passed. Something she couldn’t identify made her stand up slowly in front of him. Conclusions and decisions came about automatically as she slid the tattered blouse from her shoulders. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind fucking you, Howie.” The words came out just right. She had no struggle with them; her mind had gone back to the many nights on the street long ago. The nights she just lay back, closed her eyes, and let them have it so she wouldn’t get hurt.
Howie’s face showed suspicion. “Aren’t you scared? You should be. You should be terrified. That’s what I really like.”
She heard him. “Yes Howie, you scare me.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But that’s the way I like it, too.” She kept moving into the greatest performance she’d ever given. “I like real men, Howie.”
She slid her pants off and felt the little pistol resting in the pocket as she folded them neatly onto the back of the couch. She steeled her way into total commitment. For a certainty, it was the great performance in the midst of her terror. “Real men.”
Howie sat there, watching her naked but for her bra and panties. He watched as she stepped across the bodies lying between them. She slid to the floor in front of him, her hands moving to his crotch, unzipping his pants as she kissed his stinking belly.
“What shit is this?” He jerked her head up by the hair, she squealed with pain, and faked the pleasure.
“You want a woman. I can be your woman.” She looked into the glaze in his eyes. “If it’s going to be my last moment, I’m planning on enjoying it with a real man’s cock, Howie.”
He grabbed her violently and flung her across the trailer. She whimpered in pain as she fell across the bodies already there. “You lyin’ slut!” Howie was much too paranoid to buy anything she was selling. He flipped her on her stomach and tied her hands behind her. “You wait right here bitch. I got some business and when I get back we’ll se just how bad you want to fuck me.”
She heard him thrash his way out of the trailer as she lay there looking at her pants and the little gun that they contained.
Bobby sat in the passenger seat of the flatbed, his daughter nestled under his arm as Jesús pushed the truck northward. Tanya and Bobby spent two hours of that late Friday talking and kidding – both of them safe in each other’s company. Both of them thinking everything would be all right now that they were together. Bobby didn’t mention the agenda ahead, just kept telling her they’d never be apart again – they were going home together and would stay together forever. It was all she wanted to hear. The little angel with the blond hair didn’t care where it was, just so they were together.
She fell asleep before he did, still nestled under his arm, soft and warm – he’d brush her hair and accommodate her as she’d wriggle into a new position. Bobby got tears in his eyes several times on that silent drive north.
Jesús mentioned she was a fine young daughter, someone worth fighting for – like his own little girl. Like his son too and his wife. Family was all you had. It was sacred to both of them and they respected each other for it. When it comes to children, fathers aren’t separated by nationality.
“Amigo.”
Bobby heard the voice through the depth of his aches and dreams.
“I have a present for you.”
His eyes opened straight into the barrel of a gun, so close to his face he could smell the powder in the bullets. He didn’t get too excited. It wasn’t the first time he had his nose close enough to smell powder. Besides, this could be part of some other reality. It was something he almost hoped for. No matter how scary dreams were, he never got hurt, at least not until he woke up.
His lack of reaction made Jesús look disappointed. It was hard to see in the dark of the deserted street, but it was there. The Mexican laughed despite the failure. “Maybe this make you more happy, amigo.” He handed Bobby some papers, Mexican ID for Tanya in his own daughter’s name.
Bobby pulled himself upright, fighting his way through the ache as he gently slipped his arm from around the soft, fragile body of his sleeping daughter. He took the gun and checked it quickly – the mechanism, the bullets, the line of sight. Setting it aside, he scanned the paperwork on Jesús’ own little girl.
“One gun for one hundred dollars.” Jesús’s broad smile filled the dim cab as he pulled a second handgun into view. “Two for one hundred fifty dollars. Expensive, but it is very late and I did get papers too, eh?”
Bobby nodded while he got his bearings. “You did good amigo, thanks.” He wasted little time getting to questions about location and getting him across the border.
“Matamoros.” Jesús pulled a beer from a bag he’d brought along. “The amigo, he gave me a bonus with the guns, instead of change.” He held one out to Bobby.
Bobby turned him down. “We’ve got to get across the border.”
“Si.” Jesús smiled. “You have a Gringo problem because you have no paper. Big Gringo deal.” Jesús laughed. “Mexicans cross these borders many times with no paper, like we walk into a room of our house.” His head nodded his own acknowledgment. “Come here. I show you something.”
Bobby stuck the gun in his beltless pants and stiffly followed his travelling companion to the passenger side of the flatbed. Jesús bent over and pulled the cab running board forward as if it were built for the job. He stepped back and proclaimed with pride. “Jesús’ immigration, at your service.”
Bobby couldn’t fight off the smile as he crouched for a look; saw nothing but three thick straps running under the width of the cab.
“Your paper is in order now, amigo.” Jesús laughed and pulled on his beer, extending his arm like a maitre d’. “Now you ready to visit tus delincuentes en Los Estados Unidos?” He smiled as if he was offering Bobby a first class seat on the Concorde while he pulled a dirty rag from his pocket, soaked it in beer, and handed it to Bobby. “For dirt, and smell. It makes a more pleasant ride. Mucho, amigo.”
Bobby left the rag dripping in Jesús’s hand. “What about Tanya?”
“Nada problemo.” Jesús looked at Bobby like he knew nothing. “She ride with me, a pequenito Mexican girl sleeping beside her papa. Border guards don’t worry that. I have her papers amigo.” He shook his head, “You a sleepy guy tonight Bobby.” He winked. “They too busy worrying for bad guys like you.”
Bobby hesitated, nodded and walked around to the driver’s side. “Sweety. Wake up.”
Her drowsy eyes barely opened. “Are we home, daddy?”
“Soon, my little lady. Soon.” He stroked her hair as he talked gently to her about playing a little game, fooling everybody, doing exactly what his friend said, pretending she was asleep the whole time.
“I am asleep, daddy.”
Bobby smiled and kissed her softly. “That’s my girl. Soon we’ll be home.” He pulled the Indian blanket over her and silently asked God to keep her safe.
Bobby returned to Jesús with the wrappers of cash and handed him the remaining fifteen hundred dollars. “For your trouble, amigo. You get us across and we’re even. Something happens and you bring my girl back to the sister.”
“Gracias Bobby.” Jesús took the money while he talked. “Si Bobby, I take her home for you no worry. Gracias. But I think maybe I stick around a little, si? The two of them stood in that deserted street eyes on each other, saying nothing; and saying everything.
“The gun, amigo.” Jesús eyeballed Bobby all over again. “Maybe we hit a bump and you blow your balls off. Maybe it drop out at the customs.”
Bobby looked under the cab a second time and silently acknowledged the possibility. He pulled the revolver out of the top of his pants and handed it to the Mexican.
“You a smart hombre, Mister America. I like you mucho. You always have the balls, amigo.” He pointed the gun at Bobby as he joked. “And now you keep them maybe, eh?”
The two of them laughed softly as Bobby’s face disappeared behind the cloth he fitted over his mouth and nose. He tied it tight, pushing bits of crumpled napkins into his ears as he crouched. He looked back at Jesús, nodded his head, and proceeded to slide wedge-like under the cab. Once under, his back hung no more than three feet from the road. He already imagined the tandem axle doing three or four thousand rpm’s a few inches from the middle of his spine.
“No move, hombre.” Jesús swung the cab step back into place. “You are here one hour.”
The noise of the manifold pounded through the crumpled ear wadding and into his head as Jesús cranked the engine to life. The exhaust raced into his lungs despite the bandanna. It was going to be a hard hour. He lay rigid, squeezing the two welded handgrips as if he was doing a horizontal extension forever. He closed his eyes to fight the sting from the exhaust. He focused on his agenda. He’d been through too much to end up being an axle snack.
Twenty minutes of twisting and turning with the truck’s motion found them at the border. He could tell from the slow crawl of the truck and the spotlights flashing off the asphalt. ‘Bambino’ comments filtered through the English-Spanish conversation during the walk around inspection. A tedious string of amigo jokes came from Jesús, none of which Bobby could hear clearly through the residual buzz in his ears. There was a bright side to everything. The whole time he fought back the gagging cough that struggled to erupt from his lungs. When the truck finally pulled forward Bobby figured it was the jokes that made them want to get rid of him – just another idiot Mexican. The noise and exhaust fumes built again. Bobby closed his eyes, coughed a lot, and breathed as little as possible.
Another twenty minutes and the truck whined to a stop. The step-up slid away and Jesús gleefully pulled Bobby, feet first, from his entombment. Bobby moved Tanya gently as he climbed into the cab, thinking she’d slept through the whole ordeal.
They were in Brownsville and Bobby ran off directions to South Padre Island like he’d been born there. He knew where Howie lived. It seemed like a long time ago.
It wasn’t long before Bobby was directing Jesús to kill the lights and pull up short of the trailer. The washed-out roads hadn’t hindered their progress much – the beach route was the only one Bobby had ever travelled with Howie. With his gun cupped in his hand he had the door open before he spoke. “Remember, if anything happens to me, you get this one back to Ciudad Victoria.” He stared hard into Jesús’s eyes as the Mexican nodded his head almost imperceptibly.
“No worry Bobby. Everything good here. No worry.”
He was steps away when he heard her voice.
“Daddy?” Little people have a way of sleeping with their ears on. “Where are you going?” She reached her am out for him, “Daddy?”
Bobby put his fingers to his lips. “Ssh, honey. Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.” He kissed her on the cheek and tucked her under Jesús’ arm. “You stay with Jesús, and do exactly as he tells you.”
“Daddy?” He heard her little voice filtering after him as he disappeared into the moonlit shadows.
Bobby’d taken his time with the approach, not knowing what awaited him at the trailer. He saw no lights and thought he might end up waiting for Howie to arrive. Either way it didn’t matter to him. He moved quietly around the corner of the trailer.
Inside, the approaching truck noise had roused Rachel. She hadn’t expected Howie back so soon. Maybe he’d forgotten something. Maybe he’d decided to kill her. Whatever the agenda, she struggled desperately to loosen the cord around her wrists as she wriggled across the floor to her pants. Unable to free herself, she did manage to get the gun and pull herself into a partial sitting position. Awkwardly, she turned herself sideways and pulled her arms as far around her as possible. The pain from the cord blended unnoticed into her other hurts. She was happy to have the pain because it made the gun face the door now.
Bobby was right inside the trailer when she fired off two shots in quick succession.
Apart from Bobby’s moans everything went silent in the darkness. Rachel knew he wasn’t dead, she could hear him struggling. She estimated where he lay and pulled herself around to finish him.
“Daddy!” The voice kept repeated itself and grew louder as it neared, Daddy!”
Rachel froze as Tanya’s silhouette crashed through the open trailer door and threw herself, hysterical, onto the man who sprawled across the floor.
It was only the child’s voice that had kept Rachel from shooting her too. She might have mistakenly done it anyway had she not been focusing on finishing Bobby.
“Drop the gun, Senorita.” The Mexican spoke the words almost simultaneously with the gun barrel shattering the glass in the small window at the end of the trailer. “Drop the gun or I will kill you, dead.”
*
Last Of The Good Guys – Chapter Seventeen
Brownsville Police Station
Brownsville, Texas
Friday Afternoon
The trip from International Salvage into Brownsville took an hour. Frustration from the news of the sinking and anger from the condescending stonewall Rachel had been given by Markovitz left her options shortened and her determination heightened.
There was of course no forwarding address kept with the secretary. Rachel knew Markovitz could locate him any time for the right reasons. The man reeked of deceit, all polish and duplicity. She wanted to think he lied about the Lady Inca, too, but brought herself to accept it. There was just too much pleasure on his face when he said it. The loss of the crew left her nothing but Morgan.
She thought again of giving it up. Then she pictured Markovitz sitting in his office chuckling while he counted his money. The vision chased the thought from her mind. She wouldn’t give up until she found Morgan. Besides, she didn’t like it much when people rendered her ineffectual. She wasn’t the entertainment, never had been. That alone got her energy cranking.
“You okay, Ms?”
“Yes.” Privately she admired his sensitivity. It reminded her of Jimmy and how well he could read her. “I’m okay. Thanks, Sunny.”
“It’s a strange place for a lady like you to be visiting.” His eyes caught hers through the rear-view mirror. “I don’t know who you saw inside, but the fellas hangin’ round me were some kind of mean.” He flicked his eyes back onto the road. “Lots of guns.” He paused. “I ain’t trying to pry into your business, but that’s a serious place.”
“Sunny.” She paused to collect her thoughts. “I appreciate your bringing me down here.” She knew he was right and wanted to let him off easy. “Maybe when we get to Brownsville I can give you something for your trouble and you can get yourself back to New Orleans. You’ve done a lot for me, and I thank you. I couldn’t have made it here without you. At least not when I needed to.”
“Oh no, ma’am.” Sunny kept his eyes on the road. “I’m not saying I want out of it.” His tone stayed very intentionally casual. “Whatever it is.” He reached under his seat. “Just wondering if you got a gun?” He lifted a snub nosed thirty-eight. “‘Cause I do. Jimmy told me to be serious and pay attention.” He still sounded matter-of-fact, watching the scenery as if it was a Sunday drive home from church. “You’re welcome to borrow it.”
“My brother disappeared. I’m trying to find him.” She watched his reaction as she talked. “I guess it could be dangerous. No need to be involved. No reason for you, Sunny.”
“My beautiful lady, you don’t quite understand. This is duty, duty to Jimmy. Some day when we have time I will tell you all about why I owe him my life and a lot more.” He smirked at her. “I got some reasons. Maybe I should hang onto the gun, become your official body guard?”
“Can you use it?”
He smirked. “The gun?”
“The gun?”
“I know how to use a gun Ms Rachel.” He looked at her in the rear view mirror, “Like I said, maybe when we have time I’ll tell you why I owe Jimmy.”
“Keep the gun, Sunny.” Rachel reached into her purse, held up a small handgun where he could see it. “I’ve got my own. A single woman regulation, unofficial of course.”
Finished with the employment negotiations, Rachel got into the reality. She was more than a little afraid, but she’d known fear before. She was tough and serious; it was in her background. She could even get a kick out of the excitement. Once, long ago, she actually enjoyed the rush, at a time when hoods and vice hovered around her at their convenience.
In Brownsville proper, now, Sunny made a stop to locate the police station. Rachel had stayed locked in her thoughts since the conversation.
“We’re here.” Sunny had a knack for sneaking up on police stations, she thought, a good sign.
Rachel got out of the cab, walking past a wired-looking degenerate and his fat buddy as she entered. She made a point of ignoring the obvious leer.
Brownsville didn’t qualify as big by any real city standards. There was only one police station and no maze of halls and cubicles and no way to get lost like in the stations in New Orleans or San Diego. She identified herself to a sergeant – a cowboy cop, hat and all, full of macho manners for a lady in need of assistance. She milked it to the maximum.
The sergeant corralled a young patrolman named Alvarez and ordered him to look after her. She got cooperation. He told her Morgan was no stranger to the police department.
He suggested it was a coincidence as he showed her the fresh deposition, telling her the ink was barely dry. She figured she must have passed Morgan on the way in. She finished reading and told him it smelled funny.
“Probably,” he replied, almost deadpan. This is Brownsville. I know Howie Morgan. Know him well. Most everybody does. He’s trouble.”
“Why’d you let him leave?”
“No reason to keep him.” The officer wasn’t surprised about the deposition, routine in a missing persons investigation, and told her that. “There’s no murder investigation going on here. No grounds for it. You need a body for that to start cooking.” She knew that he wasn’t playing games with her. “Morgan’s supposedly the last person to see him. That’s not against the law.”
“Somebody in New Orleans wants to wrap this up,” he said confidentially. “Don’t get me wrong. Morgan’s a scum, crazy, capable of anything, but there’s pressure from somewhere. It’s just not getting the right kind of attention from New Orleans.” He looked away. “At least not the way I see it.” He looked back at her. “Particularly, with Morgan involved.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“I wouldn’t recommend you take that on Ms Forster. He’s not a nice person.” He said to leave it to the police and told her she shouldn’t go looking for him on her own.
“This deposition wraps it up, doesn’t it?”
He didn’t answer her for a minute, and she kept waiting.
“Without a body, or a witness, or an interested police department, yes… ma’am.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
It didn’t take much to read the determination on her face. He told her Howie had a trailer over on South Padre Island and offered to drive her by the place.
“Thanks, but I’ve got transportation. I need directions.”
“I’m off duty in ten minutes, and we take the cruisers home.” He spoke half jokingly. “Ever ride in a police cruiser?” He got more serious. “The deal is, I show you where and we check it out together.”
She thought it through quickly and realized the police ride gave her legitimacy.
Outside at the cab she worked past the jilted look on Sunny’s face as she gave him the orders. She told Sunny to check them in at the Matador and get himself some sleep. She’d be back in a few hours.
Sunny didn’t let it go until she’d given him Howie’s name, general location and an understanding of what she meant by “a few hours”. Silently pleased that he’d insisted, she told him what she knew.
Rachel and the young cop headed out of Brownsville to Port Isabel and across the causeway to South Padre.
On the way, he talked about punks – Texas-style punks, Gulf punks, Mexican punks, and redneck punks. Howie Morgan qualified as some of all of them. Alvarez knew Morgan well. Everybody on the force did. He was something of a border town legend. “Howie Morgan is the kind of guy whose name can collect in the back of a cop’s mind for a lot of good reasons.” He looked across at her with caution in his eyes. “A crazy, but worse, not stupid crazy. Smart, psychotic crazy. Shrewd and mean.”
By the time the conversation ended they were driving the causeway from the mainland to South Padre. It wasn’t a big island, he told her. It was actually two islands, but only the south was inhabited. A few miles long, and thin, it was nothing more than a couple of sand bars gone domestic. The small talk continued while Alvarez picked his way around the aftermath of the storm.
The whole border area had been hit hard, and the island particularly. Although it served as a community, South Padre never had any real status beyond a random, semi-permanent shift of dune. The less stable parts were created and moved at the whim of the Gulf currents. It was presently missing large pieces, immense gouges washed out of it as storm-created canals ran Gulf water through at random. The few resort hotels had suffered heavily from the storm. What was once their beachfront was now water washing onto patios.
It took twenty minutes to plot their way along the alternate sand roads, evolved since the storm, covering the last few miles along the beach.
“That’s it.”
Rachel strained to see the trailer, heavily obscured behind dunes and struggling brush. A salt-corroded Lincoln sat beside the place, the price of a seaside residence.
“We should take this slow.” Alvarez pulled the cruiser up behind some rolling dunes a couple of hundred yards from the trailer. “I want you to stay back a ways.”
She waited until he’d started the walk before sliding the chrome pistol from her bag into her pant pocket, just in case.
Covering the last two hundred yards on foot, Rachel wished she’d chosen more appropriate desert footwear. A little closer and she could hear music drifting too loudly out over the sand. At the near end of the trailer Alvarez motioned for her to wait. He took the safety latch off his holster, drew the gun and disappeared around the corner towards the partly opened front door.
She waited a silent minute, felt for the gun in her pocket when she realized she wasn’t alone, just before the smell of sweat and alcohol slid into her nostrils, just before the hairy, tattooed arm of Howie Morgan slid tightly under her throat, gagging her as he pulled her close against him. His hot, labored breath and body stink surrounded her. She could feel him tight against her back, his arm choking her hard enough to kill.
“Not one word, bitch.”
Her trapped throat didn’t offer the option.
“I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains all over the sand.”
She gripped his forearm with her hand, tried to ease the pressure, and got choked more. She went limp in hopes the passivity would slack the grip, allowing her to get some air.
“How many cops?”
Her fingers indicated two. She heard Alvarez knock, announce himself and get no response. She heard the door open and then the sound of him inside the trailer. Silence lasted another long minute, the grip on her throat loosened slightly as she concentrated on breathing. Her eyes watched the barrel of Howie’s gun as it protruded from under her arm. She thought of the absurdity of her standing there with a loaded armpit, waiting for whatever might come around the corner.
The minute passed, she heard the door open again, and knew her cowboy cop would come around the corner and walk into a bullet. She thought to scream, braced herself, and prepared for the right moment. She envisioned her neck being broken for doing it, but thought it was going to be anyway.
Howie flexed his grip on her throat, leaving her unable to breathe much less scream, and fired two shots point blank into Alvarez’s chest as he turned the corner. The young cop did nothing, stared straight into her eyes as if she was doing the shooting. He stood there for a few seconds, motionless before falling back.
Howie waited for the other officer, figuring he was still in the trailer with the body he’d already collected that morning. When he realized there wasn’t another one, he loosened his grip on Rachel’s throat just as she was about to lose consciousness. He spun her around and grabbed her by the hair like a rag doll.
She saw his eyes and knew he had gone over the edge.
He pulled her head inches from his and spit words into her face. “Two cops, eh?” He let go of her hair and slapped her backhanded across the face.
“Fuckin’ bitches!” He spit the words at her as she sprawled onto the warm sand.
Bobby sat slumped, semi-awake in the passenger side of the flatbed; driving in Mexico did not really give you the comfort of dozing off. He noticed how rough Jesús looked, a Mexican reality – you didn’t have to be shipwrecked to look like it.
Jesús proffered a half-full bottle of tequila he had wedged under his seat. Bobby gulped it excessively. He felt his throat seize and got into a near gag and puke as it burned its way down.
Within fifteen minutes they were into some populated outskirts.
“Tampico, amigo.”
The Mexican had the words out as the question came to Bobby’s lips.
“How long to Ciudad Victoria?”
“Two hours, no mas.”
“I’ve got to make a call to Sister Maria.”
Bobby had the image of Tanya’s face jarred from him as Jesús veered the flatbed off the road. The wheels seized as they slid across the gravel top of the heat-baked earth. Jesús battled them to an abrupt halt in front of the garish facade of a nightclub Mexican style. The dust followed them in a nuclear billow, engulfing the cab as it floated forward towards the whores and hangers-on in front of the dilapidated neon oasis.
Jesús swung himself out the door. “I telephone the sister. Tell her we coming for the little one. I get you some food you starving gringo. You stay.” He didn’t wait for the answer. Didn’t want the locals salivating over fresh gringo.
Bobby watched him disappear into the choking dust. He figured Jesús knew them. You don’t blow dust on just anybody’s Friday night, not even in Mexico.
He watched him emerge minutes later, arms loaded with tortillas and beer, laughing and throwing curses over his shoulder as if he was Mexico’s entry in the Olympic profanity finals. Dropping the pile onto the seat between them, he jammed half a tortilla into his mouth and popped a beer top with his teeth. “Eat, amigo.”
Bobby attacked a tortilla as he spoke.
“I called the Sister and everything okay.”
“Okay my friend. I find you. I put you some clothes. I clean you up. I feed you.” He laughed as he spoke through his mouthful of tortillas and beer. “What is the deal? Why do I find my friend almost dead on a beach? How you get to that?”
Bobby noticed the lingerers heading towards them.
Jesús’ big body rolled into his laugh, his eyes pointing towards the canteen. “They hate gringos,” he said, throwing a knife onto the dash, “but they like your money mucho.”
The engine roared suddenly to life. “Me, some gringos I like.” Jesús couldn’t hold his laughter. Tears filled his eyes as he revved the engine, popping the clutch. The crowd scattered as he drove through them, a torrential scream of Mexican epithets running behind them, crashing into the gravel spewing from the wheels, burying everything in the dust.
The behemoth Ford settled onto the paved highway. “Okay, now I save you again.”
“Where we go after we get your little one?”
.
Bobby just sat there, saying nothing. Words wouldn’t do a lot of justice to his thoughts.
“Bobby?”
Bobby responded with a strange calm, as if nothing had happened. It was as if he was in a limo, his every word a command. “I’ve got to get to Brownsville. Got to get there tonight.” He filled out his agenda.
Jesús raised his eyebrows as he pulled the beer from his lips. “Time you tell me Bobby.” Jesús looked at him hard in the eyes. “I do anything for you amigo. You know that. But I know you good. Time you tell Jesús what it is he might end up dying over.”
Bobby thought about Gomez and found it easy to believe Gomez was walking around inside his friend’s soul.
“Consider Jesús your wetback Bobby.” The Ford veered sharply. “We take Mexico one-eighty and you see Brownsville in six hours.” He smiled. “If we drink mucho, cuatro horas.”
Bobby sat there in silence. He had nothing to say. He wasn’t in charge of anything at the moment. Fate can be like that. He let the words find him.
“I’ve got five grand here Jesús. If I get to Brownsville I’m gong t collect more.
Jesús laughed real hard. “I like very much this story,” he paused and passed Bobby a wary look, “so far.” Bobby could see the wheels turning inside Jesús’ head. “I like America, very much.” He paused, “Mexico, I have many friends here.” He paused again. “Some enemies, too, but we don’t see them tonight.” Jesús always liked the action.
“Tell me what you need. I get you anything. What you need, Bobby?”
Bobby got a little smile going. “I’ve got to get Tanya. She’s coming back with me.” Bobby didn’t change his tone but the little smile faded. “And I need a gun.”
“You don’t tell Jesús much Bobby. You have secrets, amigo? No? Shipwreck. And you want a gun?”
“I need a gun. Need to get across the border, too.”
“You look for the man who sink your ship, si?”
“Si, maybe a couple of men.” Bobby was impassive, matter-of-fact about the whole conversation. “I got some bills to collect, and some debts to pay.” He looked over at Jesús. “Debts for a friend, a Mexican friend.”
“And you kill them?”
Bobby could hear the amoral quality in the question, the simplistic curiosity on Jesús’ face. “Maybe. They planned it Jesús. We were on fire and they cut us adrift in the gale. I’m not supposed to be here right now and if they knew I was they’d kill me.”
Jesús asked more, his voice coming out of the sun as it shone from behind him, getting a little spooky. “They hurt your friends, too?”
“Yeah, a Mexican amigo, and someone else too, but I didn’t know them.” He adds, almost to himself.
“Any man who fuck up a man like you been fucked up, that man deserve to die.” Jesús got back t practicalities, “When you kill them, you take their money too, amigo.” Jesús looked at Bobby. “It is only right, amigo. Killing someone is big risk. A person deserves the reward, deserves it special if the man need to die anyway.”
“They need to die.” Bobby’s voice was cold. He wanted to ask him if he ever knew a Mexican named Gomez. He didn’t.
“And beside that, they have no use for it anymore,” said Jesús. “The hombres have bambinos, Bobby?”
“None I know about.”
“Is very good. For sure take their money when you kill them.”
The conversation drifted into momentary silence, Bobby’s resignation to the decrees of fate obvious.
“I get you to Matamoros. Tonight. Six hours. No worry, amigo. I get you everything you need. In Matamoros I get you a gun. Get you across, too.”
They drove north, the dying sun coming from the west through Jesús’ window, silhouetting him against the sky. Bobby sat slouched against the passenger door, sipping beer and chewing cold tortillas, watching Jesús lip-synch Spanish to the crackling radio.
Twenty minutes passed before Jesús stopped singing and asked. “Bobby, mi amigo, if we go north and find trouble, why you take the little one?”
“Why?” Bobby didn’t say anything for a long minute. Didn’t really want to talk about it; maybe because it was a good question he didn’t have a good answer for.” But he knew how much Jesús had cared for her in his absence, knew how much effort he’d put into keeping her safe. He owed him an answer. “I was dead on that ship, Jesús.” Bobby spoke slowly thinking his way through the words. I could never have seen her again.” He looked across at his partner. “In the worst moments out there all I could see was her face – she kept me alive. I swore to God that if I lived I would never leave her alone again.”
Bobby couldn’t see Jesús’ face, only the aura the sun threw around the edges of his head. It was as if he was Gomez’s angel. He wondered about any lingering vulnerability to hallucination. He thought maybe he was still at sea, maybe dead already. Or better, maybe he and Gomez were riding God’s flatbed across the highways of heaven. “Why?”
“When you kill them, kill them good.”
“Promise.”
“Maybe I help you Bobby.” Jesús lost the word-of-God tone, “Maybe you take Jesús to America. Maybe we rock and roll in California. Me and you and the little one.” Jesús laughed, sucked long on his beer. “And beside all those good reason, amigo, remember, es Friday night y es Mexico.”
“Si. Amigo.”
The sun was low in the fiery evening sky when Bobby got roused from an exhausted sleep. It took him a minute to focus on where he was, and why.
Jesús helped. “Ciudad Victoria, amigo.” He pointed into the falling sun. Bobby made out the image of a cathedral seemingly growing out of the sunset as Jesús jerked the truck up the winding driveway. He pulled right up to the front door like he was transporting the Pope, making a couple of nuns scurry out of the way for good measure. He leaned across Bobby and pushed open the passenger door. “I be here amigo.” He chuckled while he added, “You look shit, hombre. You gonna scare them good.”
Bobby unconsciously ran his hand through his hair. He cursed and gave it up, heading stiffly towards the big double doors.
He turned from the doors when he heard the children’s voices coming from the side of the building. He walked around the corner and stood watching Tanya playing. He stood silently for a minute, listening to her laughing voice, watching her play. His eyes got wet with the sight. He said her name but his voice choked on him, the words coming out dry and inaudible.
Tanya turned suddenly as though she’d heard, stood looking at him for several seconds.
“Daddy?”
He knelt down and swooped her up in his arms as she ran to him. He squeezed her tight as the wet in his eyes turned to tears and his heart thanked God.
“Daddy.” She pulled her head back to look in his face. “You smell bad.” She got a little girl’s concern going. “And you look bad, too.”
Bobby laughed at her frankness. “Yep. I guess I do, my little angel. Don’t worry. It’s not permanent. I’ve been working.”
“You’re crying?”
“I’m very happy to see you.”
She got suspicious. “Are you leaving again?”
“Not without you, sweetheart.”
Tanya squealed like she’d opened the Christmas morning present she never thought she’d get
“Senor Bobby!” The voice was familiar. Sister Maria, the diminutive Mother Superior had her arms around them before Bobby could turn, the “you look dreadful” expression on her face before he can react.
“I know.” He said. “I look terrible.” He looked at Tanya as he set her down. “And I stink.” He smiled and took Tanya’s tiny hand in his. “I’ve been told.”
Sister Maria laughed as she turned. “Come. Come.” She wasted no time shooing the onlookers and giving some commands in Spanish as she commandeered the two of them to her office. Mother Superiors have that way about them.
“I don’t have a lot of time.” Bobby wasn’t even settled in his chair. “I’ve come to take her with me, Sister.”
Sister Maria smiled with his immediacy. She couldn’t resist. “Some things never change.” She turned her eyes to Tanya. “Honey, I want you to go tell Sister Sophia to bring your bags.”
Tanya gave her father the “don’t you disappear” look as she kissed and hugged him hard before she got down off his knee and left.
The Mother Superior waited until the little girl had left the room. “Okay, my son. Okay.” She walked over to him, took his face in her hands and lifted his head to her eyes. “I’ve known you for ten years Bobby. You’ve got the same mean business look on your face as the night you stopped on the highway and saved us from the malo hombres.”
“The bandits?”
“Si, not ten miles from here.”
He smiled back at her as he replied, “And you remember how angry you were with me because one of them died?”
She smiled, pointing to her habit, “That’s my calling, Bobby.” The smile disappeared just as quickly, “Are you sure this is a good time to take her. She’s quite safe here.”
Bobby didn’t say a word. He just looked at her, his head nodding ever so slightly. Sometimes an expression can tell the best story.
“I understand.” She nodded her head. “You should get cleaned up. Eat something while she says her goodbyes”
“Thank you Sister, but I have someone waiting, and I’m kind of in a rush. He stood up, took the Mother Superior’s hands, kissed them and slipped three thousand dollars in wrapped hundreds between her palms. “Thank you Sister.” There was moisture in his eyes as he repeated himself. “Thank you for watching over her.”
Sister Maria stepped back, looking at the bills. “This is a lot of money, Bobby. I’ve known you for a long time. God knows we can use it.”
Bobby read her fears. “I earned this money Sister. Every dollar.” He held fast to her gaze. “And so have you.” He kissed her hands again. “It’s all I can give you right now, I wish it were more.” He stepped back, smiling. “God’s will, Sister.” He nodded his head a little, looking for agreement. “You should know, you never stopped talking to me about it.” His smile turned into a laugh. “Don’t fight God’s will.”
She smiled at the familiar sermon, nodding as she spoke. “We will use it wisely. Now go. I insist you take the minute to get cleaned up. Look respectable for your daughter.” A last look of worry came over her face. “Be safe and we will see you soon.”
Bobby took the moment to acknowledge her charge. He kissed her quickly on the cheek before she could pull back, smiling at the surprised look on her face. “Always wanted to do that, Mother.”
She shooed him from the room, shaking her head as the worried smile returned to her face.
*
Last Of The Good Guys – Chapter Sixteen
International Salvage
Brownsville, Texas
Friday Noon
Sunny had got them well into Texas before they stopped for the night. He let Rachel sleep in a little on Friday. She couldn’t get herself angry about it. She knew he’d made the right decision. She slept a good part of the morning in the back of the cab, not coming around until he stopped and woke her for a late lunch. Chicken fried steak, a Texas specialty.
That’s when she started to notice the storms’s agenda in Texas as well as Louisiana. Damage and debris had rambled everywhere across the wide ranging Texas scrubland. There were tumbled buildings, flooded roadways, unhappy faces, ditched cars, and fallen power lines. South Texas had paid every bit as high a price, maybe more.
The final couple of hundred miles passed as if they weren’t there. Long-distance driving was like that – after the first few hundred miles things turned automatic. She thought through some of her Brownsville priorities, then tossed the agenda and decided it would show its own order. Everything else had happened that way.
The farther south they got, the more definitive the changes. The landscape, architecture, and even the traffic was different. The cars were ancient, gas guzzling beasts, fenders and hoods detached at random. The driver highballing with his head out the window for vision.
Sombreros and dark skins, culture and influence seeping up from the approaching border. The housing played between redneck trailer parks and Mexican peasant adobe. She’d heard of it before, but now began to realize that to understand Tex-Mex you had to be there.
They rolled past International Salvage, as Sunny took several minutes to ease his way through the kamikaze waves of southbound traffic and onto the shoulder. It took another couple of minutes to get turned around and headed back. She was glad she’d had the foresight to let her agenda detail its’ own timetable. If you happened to pass it, visit. It made her feel as if she was getting a flow to things.
It was a couple of miles before she saw the high metal fencing looming up on the left, and a large neon sign, International Salvage, proudly standing atop the buildings. Barbed wire topped the gates.
A rough cut but uniformed security guard accompanied them as they wound their way towards the buildings. She watched the repair work underway on the place. It was a big operation, this marine salvage business. There was a lot of activity besides the storm repairs. Men, equipment, and acres of indistinguishable chunks of steel mingled in sound, mud and sweat. It was business as usual, looking very legitimate. It intimidated her a little. She questioned her propriety for a second.
The guard ordered Sunny to park in front of the longest and best looking of the bank of buildings. Another guard, this one in a suit, came to accompany them. Someone called him Enrico while he was insisting that Sunny stay in the car, and the guard stay with Sunny.
She got a singular kind of feeling from the man, and it wasn’t a hospitable one. She hadn’t been in the state long, but had seen enough to know if you’re in Texas you’re a cowboy, a uniform, or a peon, not a suit. Suits – shiny, expensive ones – belonged in New Orleans and San Diego, maybe, but not at International Salvage. It seemed out of place on the fringe of existence down here with the burritos and the rednecks.
The whole place extended uneasiness, an uncertain itchy feeling. Cops would have a word for it, she thought to herself. You’re welcome but don’t come, and if you do, don’t stay long.
Enrico left her with the secretaries and disappeared down a corridor. Ten minutes passed. She tried to admire the 1950′s coifs on the secretaries as they eyed her. Just when she started thinking about looking by herself, Enrico returned, smiled his cold, distant smile, and led her back the way he’d come.
A man stood up to greet her. “Markovitz, Hertzel Markovitz.” He held out his hand. She shook it. With a practiced motion he offered her a seat. “Can I get you something, Ms, uh?..”
“Forster. Rachel Forster.” She said it as if she expected him to never forget it. “No. Nothing for me, thanks.” She took him in as she spoke. “I appreciate your making the time to see me.” He was well dressed, a little pimpish, but polished. She could deal with it.
She got a look from him that let her know she should appreciate the time he was taking for her.
“Why, it’s no problem. I understand you’ve been calling our office, wanting information on a ship we had under tow.” He paused only long enough for Rachel to catch the word “had” before continuing. “I’m very sorry to tell you we lost that ship in the gale, lost it Wednesday night. All hands.” Hertzel shook his head as if he meant it. “Tragic. We lost two good men on that ship.”
Rachel sat motionless, uncertain or unwilling to believe it. She hadn’t wanted that news, and watched doors closing all around her. Still, she had expected it from the storm that came close to blowing her windows out in New Orleans. “How do you know?”
“The tug lived. The coastguard search is still underway, but nothing by this time means nothing period. Nothing. If I understand correctly from your messages, you were hoping to locate your brother. Lloyds?” He stood up from the desk, as though he was at an awards ceremony. “He was a Lloyds man? Not one of our crew?” He worked a thoughtful caring into his expression. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink?”
“No survivors?”
He walked to the liquor cabinet. “You don’t mind if I have one, do you?” His back was to her now.
Rachel noticed the smile as he turned from her. Even with his back to her she picked it up, the hint that kept her moving. “Would you know where I might locate a Howard Morgan?” She stood up from the chair while she spoke, turning to face his back. “I understand he was the last person to see my brother alive.” She walked behind her chair, towards Hertzel, dispensing to Enrico the distinct impression she didn’t need perMsion. “He works for you, doesn’t he?” She picked up on Hertzel’s momentary hesitation.
“He did.” Hertzel sipped his drink as he turned around, starting at her presence in his face. “But I frankly couldn’t tell you where to look for him. You need to understand the character of the men who work in the marine salvage environment. A strange breed. They like the danger, the excitement, and the uncertainty. No roots. Rowdies. A lot of them. On the job, they’re just what we need. Off it, they are a world to themselves. We don’t… We can’t keep track of them.”
Rachel judged another door closing along with the conversation. She pushed it a bit. “Has he worked for you before?” Rachel saw the pressure on Hertzel’s face, noted it, and pushed more. “Payroll records? How do you get him if you want him for a job?”
“Just a minute.” His irritation showed significance. He turned to his intercom. “Ms Mendez?”
“Yes, Mister Markovitz?”
“Could you see if we have an address for a Howard Morgan on file?” Hertzel set his drink and moved towards the door, his eyes specifying the invitation to her. “If we have anything on him, Ms Forster, my secretary can give it to you on the way out.” He had busy man written all over his face. “I apologize, but I have a meeting in a few minutes. We’ve had a lot of damage here from the storm.”
Rachel followed his lead with little prompting. “Thank you, Mister Markovitz.” She stayed at her naive best. “I appreciate your help.”
“Anytime. If there is anything else, don’t hesitate to call. I think the police have probably investigated this issue. New Orleans has a skilled police force. I trust you’ve spoken to them. Lloyds as well. They’re both very thorough.” He held out his hand. “If Mister Morgan should be in touch with us, I’ll let you know immediately. Are you staying in Brownsville?”
“Yes, but I don’t know for how long.” She walked through the door, knowing it wasn’t over.
“The Matador.” Hertzel smiled graciously. “I recommend it. Good luck to you, Ms Forster.” He gave her a look she could see the Grand Canyon through. “I hope you find your brother. Please see Ms Forster out, Enrico.” He looked at Rachel in a familiar, share a secret way. “We have dogs here.”
She gave him a hard look, her words trailing behind him as she turned away. “I’m certain you do.”
Bobby awoke into the warm sun and soft breeze of a Friday afternoon, uncertain how long he’d been unconscious. He knew Gomez was gone, sometime in the dead of the night. He felt outrage at the man leaving him – more a statement of Bobby’s way of dealing with separation than any real attitude towards Gomez. He toyed with the idea that he too was gone, just as he’d bargained.
He didn’t want to remember Gomez going, but he knew he did it. He knew he’d reached across in that foul night, spoken to the dead man, cut him loose and slid him free of the raft. After all, a sailor belonged to the sea.
He cried too, whimpered as the body disappeared quietly into the dark of the Gulf night. And he remembered how silent he stayed before throwing himself into the water, searching desperately to get him back. He couldn’t find him and screamed revenge – for Gomez, for The Lady, for everyone and for no one, and for him.
He’d started remembering other bits and pieces from the night before, or at least what he thought was the night before.
He was so pre-occupied with his remembrances of the past two days that he didn’t notice the signs until long after they’d started to appear – birds, bits of wood followed by more prominent chunks of refuse. They were signals of land. That meant people. When he finally did, it made him glad the oceans were sewers. He thanked the polluters for giving him hope. It proved the whole world hadn’t gone down with The Lady.
He spent the afternoon spread-eagled in the bottom of the raft, drifting, getting hot, cupping leftover rainwater from the rubber flooring into his hands and onto his face. He watched the drops as they fell between his fingers, thinking it all magical, life itself.
He didn’t paddle, or get excited, inspired, or agitated. Not any more. He waited with his thoughts, watching the horizon grow as the afternoon passed. He’d never felt better. It all made sense to him. He didn’t have to do anything, just be there. Life would direct him. He knew now he walked with a spirit and always had. The fact he was alive at that very moment proved it, doubtless.
He stared into the sun. It prodded him back into a drifting uncertain state, not quite the delirium of before, more a chosen move. He was comfortable at the moment, and he had time until he got a reason to exit. He stayed that way late into the afternoon, until he heard voices different from the ones inside his head.
When he finally peered over the edge of the raft he saw himself so close to a peopled beach he figured it was delirium. He was so close he could, if he wanted to, step out of the raft and pull it ashore as though he’d spent the afternoon floating in the sun.
He let the raft drift up really close before he tested the reality. He rolled over the side, lying immersed, his fingers twisted around the line that ran the perimeter of the raft. He felt his knees banging the bottom and started to get a grip on the fact it was real.
He stood up out of the water weak-legged, stiff, and with an agenda. He shook off his déjà vu feeling Howie’s dune buggy was about to fly over the top of the sand rim behind him. Stiff and awkward, he pulled the raft up onto the beach. He left it and walked the twenty feet to the side of a dune, out of the sun. He got no more than casual glances from the sun and surf Mexicans. No one was close enough to see the cuts, blisters, and oil smears covering his body.
Everything was too normal, too ordinary, not like the movies at all. He watched them with his eyes half-closed, another day at the beach. He was glad he’d come. It was the right way to spend a day off. Forget the office. His lips cracked more as they curled into a smile, an odd chuckle sliding through his throat.
He closed his eyes. Rest a bit, he thought, deal with his future in a minute – had to find Jesús, he would help him, always had. For now he’d drift around God, meet Gomez, Robert Forster, maybe somebody whose name he didn’t remember from a ship off Halifax. He let the momentum direct the journey, riding it back to The Lady. He stepped onto her decks from the silent calm she had given them. He owed her a good bye, a memorial. He watched her die by the stern as she disappeared into the measureless fathoms. Walking her decks, he felt her sigh – her release. Safe, he rode her down until she settled on the bottom. She was gone. At peace, never to be touched again.
He awoke on a crude cot in a thatched beach hut. It may have been minutes but could just as easily have been forever. Dreams were like that. In fact, it was late Friday afternoon.
An old man walked in as Bobby instinctively felt for the money belt he’d had around his waist.
“No worry amigo, I take nada.” The old man brought him some water in a ladle. “ Yo no tiento a Dios.”
“How did I get here?”
“I carry you.” He pointed through the side of the hut. “Not far.”
“Where am I?”
“Cerca de Tampico.”
Bobby was surprised. Maybe there was a God. He’d figured, if he made it, he would have come ashore further south, closer to Veracruz, but had no problem with his miscalculations. He had a friend, a good friend from long ago. The man who was watching over Tanya for him, Jesús Rivera. He pulled two hundred dollar bills from his wallet and asked the old man to go find him.
The old man shook his head at the money. “Esto Aqui, amigo.”
And with those words Bobby watched as the big, rough cut Mexican took all the sunlight out of the door. “I know you missed me amigo but what kind of way is this to come see me?”
Bobby managed a weak smile, “How’d you find me?”
“The old man found me.” Jesús laughed his big coarse laugh as he threw some clothes on the foot of the cot. “You love me so much, all you say in your sickness – Jesús Rivera. Posada Rosa.” He mimicked a high-pitched voice. “Posada Rosa. Jesús Rivera.” He laughed while he spoke, “You want to kiss me amigo? You love me so much?”
“I need you Jesús.”
“I am thinking si, amigo.”
Bobby cleaned himself up quickly, donned new clothes, left the two hundred dollars on the cot and limped into the old Ford flatbed.
“Where we go, amigo?”
His mind worked time/distance relationships –Tampico, Matamoros, Brownsville. It was six, maybe eight hours by road. It was also no more than three hours along the same coast road to Ciudad Victoria – to Tanya. He wasn’t sure when he made the decision, he just knew he wasn’t leaving Mexico without her – not going anywhere without her any more.
“Ciudad Victoria.”
Jesús said nothing. He knew who was there. He’d been watching over her since Bobby brought her down from Canada.
“There’s more to it Jesús.”
“I’m sure there is, amigo. But first Ciudad Victoria.” He looked over at Bobby. “The little senorita will be happy one today.”
“She’s okay?”
“Si, but she miss you big Bobby.”
Bobby found time to smile before he settled into his thoughts as they careened down the beach. He figured it was payback time. Didn’t spend much time thinking it over. It was automatic, like watching a shipmate die in Halifax and taking it out on a fat man’s suit.
His pain didn’t get a lot of attention. He was running on compulsion, commitment and revenge. Howie’s face stayed on the big screen in his mind.
Payback time.
*
Last Of The Good Guys – Chapter Fifteen
International Salvage
Brownsville, Texas
Thursday Night
“Don’t worry, Hertzel. She don’t speak no fuckin’ English.” Howie grabbed the heavily made-up Mexican girl by the neck, smearing a drunken kiss across her lipstick. “See, Hertzel, she loves me. Wouldn’t tell nobody nothin’ if she could.” He laughed, drunk, drugged, and bellicose. “Love conquers all!” He stumbled on the carpet and fell across the couch, seemingly suffering physical astonishment at the realities of gravity, the young hooker trapped beneath him.
“Where’d you find him?” Hertzel asked Charley. The hostility in his words was aimed at the world in general, for the moment. “And why’d you bring the pig?”
“I pulled him off her in the alley, behind the Starlight.” Even Charley’s voice held disgust. “He wouldn’t come without her. It ain’t easy gettin’ Howie to cooperate anytime. He was pissed and stoned worse than this when we found him. He rubbed his shoulder. “Took three of us. Would’ve been easier without the chaperone along. You know, Howie don’t like strangers to begin with.” Charley threw in his own axe. “What’s this Enrico guy doin’ anyway, Hertzel?”
There was an awkward pause while Charley and Enrico traded cold glares. Hertzel ignored Charley’s question. “You been stuffing that shit up your nose again, Howie?” He wasn’t about to tell him people were worried about his ability to take care of business.
Howie was busy laughing. He tried unsuccessfully to straighten himself on the couch. “I don’t snort no more, Hertzel. Fucks up my nose too much.” Inventive pride slid across his drunken face. “I smoke it now. Sometimes I shoot.” He winced. “But them fuckin’ needles…”
Hertzel stayed focused. “Get the bitch out of here, Charley.” He knew her presence added to Enrico’s anger and didn’t want anything but good news returning to Houston. He still figured he was the chosen one.
As Charley pulled her from Howie’s clutches, Howie resisted with the strength of a drunken bull seeing red. Quietly, Enrico crossed the room and slapped Howie hard across the head with the barrel of a chromed beretta in response to his aimless lunge. The woman screamed as Howie fell back on the couch, and Enrico cuffed her hard with his other hand. Charley dragged her from the room.
The pistol whip had managed to break through the stupor, sobering Howie. Hertzel watched him sway on the couch. When he finally got some dazed eye contact with Howie, Hertzel started. “We’ve got to have a talk, Howie.” He imitated a businesslike calm. “There’s a few problems we need to discuss, some items we need to take care of here. Some loose ends.”
“Like what?” Rubbing the side of his head, Howie centered his eyes on the blood on his hand. “Like how I’m gonna kill that piece of shit for smackin’ me. Throwin’ my lady around. Ruinin’ my love life!”
“Howie, I want you to meet Enrico.”
Enrico kept his glare fixed on Howie and his hand close to the beretta.
“Enrico represents the Senator and our backers in Houston.” Hertzel’s eyes bore in on Howie. “We need to have good relations here, Howie. We can’t be unsettling anyone, fighting amongst ourselves. We’re all working together, here, looking for the same solutions. We’re a team, Howie.”
“Somebody cut me, too.” Howie felt the inside of his lip where a tooth had cut him earlier in the evening. “You call this lookin’ after each other? I didn’t do nothin’, Hertzel. Nothin’!” Indicating Enrico, he yelled. “And keep this asshole away from me!”
“I didn’t say you did.” Hertzel’s voice had the fatherly tone he knew Howie expected at times like this. “Relax.” He’d always impressed himself with his knack for dealing with Howie. “You’ve got to listen. We’ve got business to take care of now. We need you to go to the police tomorrow, give them a deposition about New Orleans.”
“Cops? Go to the cops? You nuts?”
“Yeah, the cops,” Enrico reiterated. “Get yourself straight and do what you’re told.”
“I got no reason to see the cops.” Howie said it to the room, but kept his eyes on Enrico. “Everybody’s dead!” He slid very fast into arrogance. “Everything’s tidy. No ship. No bodies.” He smiled. “No problem.” Getting himself up from the couch, he took a few steps towards Enrico. “Right?”
Hertzel glared at him and Howie stopped, but kept talking. “The ship’s gone. The tug cut them loose like we planned; we know that. And the Coast Guard won’t even find flotsam out there this morning.” He laughed at his own nautical humor. “I’m glad Gomez drowned. Don’t get me wrong, I liked the little fuck. I wasn’t looking forward to killin’ him.” He smiled. “But the other one, that would have been a pleasure.” He looked at Enrico while he finished. “Just another know-it-all bullshit asshole!”
Enrico took the step this time. “This guy’s got a big mouth, Hertzel. Nobody’s gonna like it.”
Hertzel got his words between the two of them. “I want you to stop talking about killing anybody.” His face stayed deadpan, and authoritative. “Somebody’ll stay with you at your place tonight while you get yourself straightened out.” There was an air of consequence in his voice. “Tomorrow you’re going to see the Brownsville cops at three o’clock. Fill out some forms. A deposition.” Hertzel paused for emphasis. “No big deal. You know most of them anyway.” He faked a laugh nobody joined.
“Then he leaves town for a while,” Enrico said, obviously working on Howie’s nerves.
“Take it easy, Enrico.” The bravado was uncharacteristic from Hertzel. “Howie’s a good man. He’ll do what he has to do for us.” Hertzel held up his hand like a traffic cop, stopping Howie from blurting something hostile. “When you’re done at your place, you get Charley to take you up to the senator’s farm for a while.”
Howie didn’t say anything for a full minute – nobody did – as if the question was long dead. “And why am I goin’ to the farm?”
“You tell them what happened in New Orleans.” Enrico said. “Sign it and leave. Simple?” His tone and expression told Hertzel “simple” was just too complicated a word for Howie at the moment.
Howie headed for Enrico again. “I’m gonna rip your fuckin’ head off and jam it up your ass for ya, ya greasy fuck!”
Enrico didn’t appear to move as he sent Howie sprawling into the corner like a sack of potatoes. Before Howie’d stopped rolling Enrico was kneeling over him, the beretta stuck hard into the side of his face. “You’re one stupid motherfucker. Don’t push it. Just tell us what you’re gonna say tomorrow.”
Some things Howie understood quickly, particularly violence. Enrico eased the barrel from the side of his face as Howie spoke. “Nothin’ happened in New Orleans. The fag inspected the ship, signed it off, and left.”
He smiled at Enrico as he eased himself to his feet.
“Don’t call him a fag when you tell them.” Hertzel added.
Charley returned, breaking into Howie’s hate glare. “Juan’s got the broad in the car. We’re ready to go.”
“What about the farm? I got no reason to go to the farm,” Howie said, pressing his ankle against his boot and feeling nothing.
Charley sat the derringer on the desk. “You looking for this? You pulled it on us at the Starlight last night” Charley glared. “You got a shot off too. Damn near killed Juan.”
“Oh yeah.” Howie muttered with sudden recall. “Sorry.” He paused only momentarily. “Okay. I’ll do it. Just like you want.”
Hertzel got suspicions of the sudden cooperation. “Don’t get this figured the wrong way, Howie.” Hertzel tried to reduce Howie’s paranoia. “We’re going to look after each other. One big family.” Hertzel crossed the room, got close to Howie, and worked his confidante number. “There’s a broad down here somewhere, Howie, looking for her brother, the Lloyds inspector.”
“How’d you know that?” Howie said.
Hertzel looked across at Enrico, acknowledging the value of connections. “She’s looking to talk to you as well.” He stood beside him now, an arm around his shoulder. “All you have to do is make the statement. Then disappear to the farm for a while. We’ve done it before.”
Hertzel thought he was being followed obediently. “You know you’ve got a bit of a reputation for being unreliable.”
Howie nodded, showing them his entire good-boy mode. His paranoia talking to him silently.
“So it won’t look out of place that you’re out of town, whereabouts unknown.” Hertzel smiled, buying into Howie’s sudden grip on it all.
“You got anything to drink here, Hertzel?” Howie said. “I got it all straight.”
Nobody spoke. He looked around the room for a bottle. “Who’s this broad, anyway? Why not dust her?”
“I told you, the sister.” Hertzel headed to his desk. “She comes down here. Nobody to talk to. She goes home. She feels good. She tried.” He opened a drawer and threw a wrapped bundle of bills across the room at Howie. “Here,” he laughed. “Vacation pay.”
Howie missed the toss, bending awkwardly to pick it up. He ran his thumb across the tight little bundle, sounding excited. Bullshitting everybody. “Okay! I’m in. I can use the holiday.” He smiled in a friendly way at Enrico, almost a grovel. “Count on me.” He kept smiling. “Sorry ’bout the misunderstandin’, Enrico.” He held his hand out and Enrico shook it. He turned to Hertzel. “You tell the Senator that, too.”
Howie moved towards the door. “Forget the drink.” Indicating the two-shot derringer on the table, he asked, “Can I have my friend back?”
“Not a good idea right now, Howie. We want you going into the cops real clean, eh.” Hertzel slid another insider smile at him. “Wouldn’t look good to have your friend fall out of your boot, would it?”
“Right enough, boss. No sweat.” Howie threw his arm across Charley’s giant shoulder and laughed, “Let’s go, amigo. I mean, roommate.”
“You go out there yourself, Howie, visit your senorita for a minute. Charley’ll be along. I want to set his timetable for tomorrow.”
Howie nodded, still laughing as he left.
Hertzel watched the door close behind him, and waited for Enrico to check it. “Watch him, Charley. Watch him real close.”
“No problem, boss.”
“Take Juan with you. He can sleep there.”
“I said no problem, boss. I mean no problem.”
Hertzel nodded, motioning with his head for Charley to leave. He was more than a little uncomfortable with his knowledge of Howie, and what he was capable of. He didn’t mention it.
Enrico walked to the window and watched the car leave as he spoke, “The guy’s a waste of time. Be rid of him easy. I’ll make it a pleasure.”
Hertzel shuffled his papers, barely hiding his concern. “Don’t underestimate this guy.” He knew Howie wasn’t the kind of guy to take lightly, could get psychotic real easy. “He’s no pushover, Enrico.” He was going to say more, but decided against it. He decided to let Enrico have his pleasure, and hoped he didn’t find out the hard way.
Maybe they’d kill each other, really make Hertzel’s day.
In the late black of Thursday night the breaking seas settled into giant rolling swells, the tiny raft rode them from crest to trough. The worst of it was over. The skies were still cloudy, unnoticed in the black night but for the spitting rain. The wind too remained, cold and blowing.
Bobby still struggled to keep himself conscious, thinking survival. He made up lists and remembered the past. He talked to an incoherent Gomez. He prayed – anything to stay conscious. He kept fear high on that list. It was his best ally, and he had a lot of it. He didn’t hide it well, he never had. He worried he’d do something stupid like get confident and die because he couldn’t find his fear.
Every glance across at Gomez reminded him what happens when you relax, when you let go of your terror and fall into trust with the deceiver. The Angel of Death rode the raft with them, swirling all over his companion – close, waiting to take him.
Things had continued to deteriorate for Gomez, as he bled from old wounds torn open in the tumult. Dying of exposure on a supposed summer night in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico was an unacceptable absurdity.
Stay scared, Bobby, he could hear his shipmate saying over and over through his dulling eyes. Don’t believe my safety. Stay anywhere but safe, because you aren’t. It was a trick and I am caught in it. Fight them, Bobby; fight them for me, my amigo.
And Bobby did. He struggled for them both. The Mexican could not die on him, could not leave him alone. He decided to transfer the wetsuit to him. He untied himself to do it, got the jacket off and went over twice in the effort, once taking Gomez with him, losing the jacket to pull the Mexican back. Now they shared the cold quiver of exposure.
It was a strange environment, a religious experience. Bobby had his first conversation with God in a long time. Here he made a covenant before God. Should Gomez die, so should he. In Bobby’s mind he allowed no other truth. God would not kill him.
They both had children; he bartered. God would not kill fathers. Stand together. He spoke before God, for the two of them, keeping his young child’s face before him while he bargained. He reminded God how she waited for him, needed him. For Gomez, it was the same. It all flowed together, he figured, to God’s table – reasons to live.
Through it all Gomez faded. Pale, cold, moaning, unresponsive, his incoherence fed into drifting delirium.
Bobby knew if they can stay alive the Gulf would carry them home across the shipping lanes. Then he thought maybe it wouldn’t be exposure. Maybe they would both die quickly in the night, becoming part of the froth in some freighter’s bow. Or they could hope the seas turned torrential again. They’d die either way and find God. Work on it the next time around. He’d heard the theory, somewhere once, drunk in a bar maybe.
He could stay awake and watch for shipping, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Instead he dreamt five minutes from eternity, almost like he was chasing Gomez. There’d been a lot written about how to avoid delirium, but when it becomes an authentic, you don’t. It was a very unifying experience. Simplicity. Priorities no longer stepped into place as ordered.
With nowhere else to go that night he slid into the past, him and his daughter, drifting, just for a minute.
*
Last Of The Good Guys – Chapter Fourteen
Sinking
The Gulf of Mexico
Wednesday Midnight
Bobby staggered to the dinghy. The journey forward had been a continuing struggle, the weather deteriorating with his every step. He struggled to collect what little survival gear there was, happy to have the dinghy. It was small, four-by-eight, a minute buffer. People had survived with less, he told himself, not believing it. It was always possible – stay with the positive.
He thought about dragging it astern and tying it off back there. The stern sat closer to the waterline when, or if they abandoned ship. Too late. He’d never make it back. Besides, the engine room was too unstable, could blow her ass right out of the water. He decided to leave it forward. He knew he couldn’t make the trip now, anyway.
He did what he could, wondering how to get back and fetch Gomez. He was cursing himself for not dragging the amigo forward with him. It was then the Mexican showed up behind him, shouting unheard through the howling wind. He gave it up and smacked Bobby hard across the back with his good arm.
“The Lady have flame now, Bubby!” The wind made communication impossible without their shouting nose to nose. “She burn real fire.”
Bobby heard his words, his mind still working to accept Gomez’s survival of the trip forward. Another wave thundered over the storm railings, drenching them. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the hold decks were awash. They were covered for the most part but not lashed or proofed. He knew a good breaking wave could easily bare them. If that happened she would fill fast. It would put out the fire and drown them both in the process. Feast or famine, Bobby thought as he spit salt water.
Only the breaking waves and the occasional freak managed to breach her, pounding down on her decks. It was the freaks that worried him. When the storm turned from adolescent to adult, so would the freaks. A real freak could bury a ship.
Movement around the deck was slow and artificial. Visibility was nil in the intense dark. Only the long, jagged bends of lightning permitted temporary vision a few feet in front of them.
They decided to make their stand below the forecastle, running lifelines back and forth across the deck. The Lady’s violent and unpredictable tossing made it difficult to stay upright, let alone work.
Once rigged, Bobby hooked the two of them to both sets of lines. He crawled, dragging himself and Gomez up under the edge of the forecastle overhang. He figured the winds were well over forty knots now, wave height at least twenty to thirty feet, freaks peaking out at fifty, maybe more. On a healthy ship a gale still permitted on-board control. But once you were past a gale, you moved in survival mode. By then the wind and sea became the master of the vessel – no matter who she was.
They waited now. Talk was impossible, and, for the most part, irrelevant. Hours passed. Both men were paralysed. Nothing existed a foot in front of them. Lightning broke constantly, the ship’s rigging distorting into ghoulish, phantom-like apparitions.
An enormous jolt found the mainmast, ran down it, and sparkled with rage through the superstructure. The Fourth of July. Images you found only in animation – The Headless Horseman running amok in Fantasia. The thoughts merged as the charge ran its course, spending itself a hundred feet from the forecastle.
Gomez was huddled onto his side now, hands clutching the lines across his chest. Bobby heard him moan above the storm, call to his wife, his children, his God. Cursing his own casual meandering, Bobby longed for someone to call to, to save him. For him there was only the ship. He checked his watch as if he might be late for work. It was just after ten.
Through the cacophony he heard The Lady struggle. Her plates ground in defiance. He drifted away from it, drawn into the other sounds around him. He heard the screams from her stern as she fought fire and ocean, possessed devils in conflict for her soul. He wanted her to stop it, to speak to him, to calm his fear, and withdraw the terrible vision from his eyes. He desired her to save him once more, find strength for the impossible.
The Lady heard his plea and pulled him closer to her bosom, holding him as she’d held so many others in their fear. He weaved in and out of her company, riding with her now across seas serene and savage. He ate in her galley, laughed with her crew and stood with each man at his watch. He talked amongst them, knowing them by name. He was one with all of them. He’d heard it happened to sailors before they died.
He returned as she screamed to him. A wave crashed across her beam, broaching her, throwing her to her side. Gomez and Bobby hung vertical with the deck, safety lines alone standing between them and the end. Thrashing like epileptic puppets while the top twenty feet of the freak collapsed tons of water over them, the two twirled in tangled line and black water, lost.
It was anything but peaceful, not the way Bobby’d imagined it many times when he’d thought about drowning. Time slowed while they hovered in a pressurized vacuum. Gomez’s face passed close in front of Bobby, all mixed in with foam and debris. Bobby beheld his mate’s pain – the sheer terror and impotence. His mouth moved as if he was in distorted conversation, chewing air from water.
Bobby’d been a diver for a long time, kept his mouth closed from habit, staying calm. He’d been underwater before with no air. He knew the tricks – everything in slow motion. Make it a movie, a dream. Make it anything but reality. Reality means panic. Play the game, hold your breath until you wake up. There will be air again. He’d done it before, and lived.
He wanted to tell Gomez but couldn’t find him.
And the end did come, as the peak of the wave withdrew, disappearing into the ocean bed as quickly as it had arrived. The sentence was suspended, for a moment, perhaps. Still, Bobby took the offer. His lungs sucked air as he fought the draining of the deck. He struggled through it to Gomez, strangled in his safety line, full of water, and drowning. Bobby heard himself shrieking to God. He pounded Gomez’s chest while a slashing rainsquall pummelled him from nowhere. Gomez gagged, puked watered vomit, and contorted back into life.
The sea screamed for them. Bobby knew without looking the holds had ripped open. The Lady would have cargo at last – too much, to be sure. He sought her out again, entreating her to endure, to keep them with her.
The squall slackened and the waves came on again, growing. Sheering white foam tore in under the brow of the forecastle, his safety line cutting into him hard as the seas tried to tear him from her. Through it he stayed close to her, heard her saying she was tiring. She could deliver no more, could give him only the moment, no more. Wait for the moment, she murmured.
Bobby heard the seven short and one long blast of the general emergency signal. He drifted in and out with it, not wanting to go. He prayed. She blew the signal again, seven short and one long, no mistaking it. Abandon ship.
Bobby moved between realities. The lightning skies talked to him, the wind climbed. Another freak and The Lady would roll right over. There was no doubt.
Again, seven long and one short. Again.
He crawled to Gomez, and shouted into his face, telling him The Lady was dying, they must leave. It was only a question now of how much time, ten minutes or ten seconds. Squatting there under the forecastle it didn’t matter anymore, he didn’t notice. He listened only for her now, for her voice. Again.
And again, she spoke within him, confirming the cataclysm, her Armageddon. Bobby affirmed her voice. He accepted it completely now, as his reality. Leave he would, on command, in her moment. It was what he believed.
He pulled close to Gomez, pressing his face against the Mexican. He shouted at him and hit him, looking far into his eyes, for he was far away. They staggered together to their feet. Floundering, they united in the conflict, cursing and screaming into the rage, the language garbled and universal, spitting bile and anger.
They made the raft. Bobby cut the lines and tied them to it. He was clinging with Gomez to the raft and the rail, the two of them joined, screaming allegiance, screaming it to no one. Clinging to her against all of it, the unceasing pound disappeared inside her voice.
Water was everywhere upon her. Still he waited on her word. Nothing could take them but her command. Lightning broke and showed the sea standing mountains on all sides, breaking the length of their slopes as they avalanched down. His lungs sucked for air through it.
In that avalanche, Bobby died, hallucinating drowning. And in that moment she spoke to him, his eyes opened from death, untroubled, trusting. It was then that the wind stilled, the squall ceased, the waves quelled themselves. A clear full moon sat mute in the sky above him. Everything slowed to a stop. Now, she whispered softly, you are in the eye.
Obedient, he dragged them atop the rail. He turned back to her for a moment and went over, obedient. He watched himself topple, attached and fantasy-like, into the water, under it. It was warm and quiet, all around him soft. Womblike, he transferred into the dream state, knew he must hold his breath a long time.
It was okay, he thought. He had practice. He used to be a diver.
Rachel awoke at nine o’clock Thursday morning. The rain and wind still beat an evil tune against the fifteenth floor window of her hotel room. Rachel’d slept fitfully at best, her mind twisting in the storm, the conversation with Le Clerc, Robert’s whereabouts, and her assumption of the worst. She couldn’t evaluate what rated which percent of her insomnia.
The thoughts brought her back to the tormented sky outside her window. The worst was over, but the clouds remained too impenetrable for her to see the airport, something she’d been told was possible from her vantage point. She’d been told something else – if you couldn’t see the airport, you shouldn’t fly. That narrowed her transportation options for the day.
She tried the phone and got nothing. She tried the lights and the television, and got nothing again. At this point she wondered if she could make the lobby, much less Brownsville.
Her forced impotence bothered her. She wasn’t used to having so little control over her situation. Rachel made herself settle back onto the bed. She began to wonder about her meeting with Le Clerc. What was his purpose? The vagueness frightened her, made her think about the unthinkable. She knew she had to.
Should she just leave, go back to San Diego and wait? Let the authorities handle it? Maybe she would call Barney. Let him know what had happened. No, Barney’d want her out of there right away. If he got on Le Clerc’s case, then she’d have him on hers, again.
If Robert was dead, what she feared was true, what was the point? She didn’t answer the question because she didn’t know. Only continuing might bring an answer. She decided to leave for Brownsville. She didn’t know, but had come too far to turn back now.
It scared her. Le Clerc had scared her, but there were things to know, some kind of answers. It had to be Brownsville. There were really no other leads besides Brownsville. She headed for the shower. She found no water. To her, it was the worst news yet.
She dry brushed her teeth and kept thinking. International Salvage. It was an old habit, her unrelenting desire to push forward. It always made them crazy at the club. That attitude had gotten her the club and made it successful.
She packed and got into the hall. She would have liked to check Lloyds one more time just to be sure, but there were no phones. No phones, no Sunny. It didn’t matter, Brownsville kept giving her a bad feeling, and she would get there somehow. She cursed quietly as she bagged her way down fifteen flights of stairs, civil defence static and emergency lighting her constant companions.
The lobby was a disaster. Two plate glass windows had been blown in, chandeliers were scattered across the floor. Outside, a car had overturned just by the entrance. Hysteria had replaced the tourists’ gleeful curiosity from the previous evening.
And they’d wanted her to come down there for safety; she smiled. Everyone was wandering around half-dressed and fully glazed. Bandages and bloodstains abounded. She could hear management figuring it. Let’s all die in one spot, one great big splat.
She picked her way through the chaos to the hotel entrance. Here the doorman still functioned, incongruous but impressive, opening the door for her.
“Another day another dollar.” His large warm eyes and broad smile said it better than the words.
Rachel valued the unexpected sense of humor and started a conversation. “Does this happen a lot?”
“It’s the season for it, ma’am.” He motioned to the overturned car. “I think this one had a little twister in it.” He glanced inside. “A little something extra for the tourists to remember her by.” He bent, posed a little fatherly. “I hear the situation could be better out there this morning, Ms.”
It was something of an understatement.
“You have any place in particular you’re heading?”
Rachel absorbed his nametag as she spoke, “Charles, I appreciate your concern in the midst of all this. I need transportation.”
“Well. Where you heading’?”
“Downtown, and then out of town.”
She watched his weathered face spread disappointment for her. “I think you’re going to have trouble getting any kind of transportation, anywhere, today, Ms.”
Charles said it the instant before the horn blared, as if there were plans afoot to make him a liar. Sunny’s head hung out the driver’s window as though his windshield wasn’t designed to look through.
“I guess you got friends in high places, Ms.” Charles smiled as he pulled open the rear door of the limo. “Good luck to you.”
Rachel had nothing but a good feeling for the unexpected presence of the young Cajun. “A pleasant sight, Sunny. You’re a pleasant sight. You have no idea.”
“It’s a mutual feelin’, Ms Rachel.” Sunny bent across the seat to greet her. “Thought you might be lookin’ for some transportation today.”
She felt like she’d run into an old friend. “How did you know? I couldn’t call.”
“I never left. I watched you talk to that creep cop.” He looked at her. “I don’t thnk you understand.” He smiled at her. “I owe my life to Jimmy. He adopted me off the streets when he was the champ. It’s a long story.” His head moved with his words as though there was a song playing somewhere jut for him. “He told me to look after you an’ I’m gonna do just that.”
He pulled away from the curb while he spoke, “Where we headed first?”
“First, Lloyds. Old town.”
“The shipping Lloyds?”
“That’s right.”
They pulled away slowly, moving around a lot of things that shouldn’t be cluttering the street.
“They’re gonna be shut down, Ms Rachel.” Sunny kept the car moving while he talked. “I think we check it but I think they shut down. Everything’s shut down today. Maybe tomorrow too. We got hurt bad. Floods. No power. Cars upside down everywhere.” He smiled his big smile, body moving with it. “I’m the only ride in New Orleans today. And you own it..”
“You’re a good man, Sunny. I need you more than you know. What about Brownsville. Can we get to Brownsville?”
“It’s fourteen hours in good weather.” He answered as water splashed high on either side. “If we get out of town, we’ll have a chance. They got hit bad down in the border country. I heard it’s still blowing pretty good south of here.” The bottom of the car banged across tree branches. “If the troopers haven’t closed too many roads, we’ll do it. Doubt we can make it a one-day thing.” He motioned to the dash, “You see what kind of time we’re making right now? Lots more slowdowns ahead. Troopers. Washouts. Detours. When you gotta be there?”
“Today. Tomorrow. Soon as possible.”
“You know what kinda country it is down there, eh, Ms Rachel. Don’t want to be asking questions about why a lovely lady like you should want to visit a border town full of rednecks and wetbacks. You just hang on, Ms Rachel. We’re going to Brownsville – Cajun style. Louisiana invasion. Take us a day and a bit, probably. Be there Friday. I know a nice place to stop over. You can get some local color.”
“Thanks, Sunny.” She leaned back into the seat as they picked their way past a closed Lloyds.
After an hour of inner city post-storm adventures they rolled over the Pontchartrain Causeway, picking up Interstate South. Twice the troopers stopped them, once checking for looters and a second time warning them about the road conditions, discouraging travel.
The rain picked up a little as they headed south, whipping onto the windshield in angry spurts. Rachel felt the sway of the car against the gusting wind. Glad Sunny was driving, she was comforted by the fact he drove a big Detroit car. She didn’t know the make, but it sat well on the road, the back seat big and comfortable.
They encountered little other traffic on the usually well-travelled highway, one small benefit of the conditions. She accepted Sunny’s dictum about an overnight stop. It was just as well. Her sleepless night in New Orleans, not to mention the red-eye from San Diego two nights earlier, had taken its toll.
The motion of the car lulled her, took her mind from her thoughts like medicine, her body melting deeper into the soft comfort of the rear seat, her mind not far behind. Her thoughts worked hard at hanging on to her. She thought about the ship, The Lady Inca due in some time Thursday night. She knew she wouldn’t be there to meet it. They’d get as far as they could. Sunny was looking after the itinerary.
It felt good to let someone else make plans. They’d find a little motel in the middle of nowhere. There was something pleasant about the thought, about anonymity. They’d get there Friday. The Gulf weather wouldn’t allow the ship to be there on time anyway.
International Salvage. Hertzel Markovitz. Howard Morgan. Her earlier calls to the salvage company had gotten her nowhere. Everybody was too busy, a communication stance that always got her edgy.
Hertzel Markovitz. She rolled the name around her tongue and didn’t like the taste. Howard Morgan had a similar flavour. There were lots of things she didn’t know yet.
Three hours out of New Orleans and she had a pretty good idea of the monotony of a fourteen-hour drive through raw cattle range and semi-arid wasteland. The fatigue and the scenery finally got to her. Her eyes turned heavy, her mind roaming the memories of her childhood – her parents and younger brother, the farm they worked before her parents’ death, before the foster homes.
Yes, there were reasons to make the trip regardless of Robert’s status – regardless of the outcome.
It was near noon Thursday before Bobby began to differentiate conscious action from unconscious reaction. Still floundering badly on the seas, Bobby couldn’t believe he was still alive.
The winds and still-breaking waves tossed them, tormented them without consent, without end in sight, helpless in the raft. Fifteen-foot swells chuted them about the Gulf, the lash of intermittent rainsqualls still beating on them.
Several times during the day they were tossed from the raft, Gomez rolling uncontested into the seas. Bobby managed to pull his mate atop, again and again. He labored intensely to keep Gomez with him. He shouted, hitting the Mexican, cursing him, and cursing himself. The sound of his shouts was reassurance that he lived.
The elements slowly continued to slack, but exposure became the new, immediate enemy. It was cold and constantly wet. The loss of body heat worried Bobby. He knew Gomez was victim to it. Bobby was more fortune, wet suited for more than just flotation.
He wrapped loose canvas over his amigo, hitting him on the bad shoulder and anywhere else hard and repeatedly as he tried to draw him back. Even the pain from Gomez’s injuries did little to rouse him. But he did return – almost, for a little while – then went back into his drift.
Bobby watched him to keep himself conscious. He knew if he slept he would return, reliving the terror. Despite his best efforts, he drifted, falling off, falling back into the automatic, gagging struggle of those earlier predawn hours. He felt the innate dread of death by drowning.
Many times the demon dragged him under in the cold, black night, cramming water into him, filling his lungs beyond limits. The sudden, frantic grappling with the seas that mounted them as rapists, too sadistic to just kill. Death would be a relief.
He writhed within the monster’s belly all that night, flailing, spinning about. Miscreant winds pushed the giant freaks over them for no reason beyond devious pleasure. Bobby relived it in his delirium that afternoon.
In death the Lady let them loose on rampaging seas to seek their fortune without her to stand between them and eternity. Faculty and judgment had no place in that dense monstrosity, only instinct was awake. The only law was gravity, nothing more – a law from the same deity who gave them the eye in the moment they slipped away from The Lady. The only moment, the last moment, never to see her again.
But he wasn’t there now. He only dreamt it. He knew not how many times he’d drowned that night, how many times he’d met God.
He journeyed in delirium into that afternoon, not aware when the sun snuck tiny peaks through the horizon.
For Bobby, so much began after it was over.
*
Last Of The Good Guys – Chapter Thirteen
New Orleans International Airport
New Orleans, Louisiana
Wednesday Noon
Like a lot of things that are supposed to be quick and easy, the flight proved slow and difficult. Rachel had gotten little sleep, bumping her way through deteriorating weather as she closed the distance to the east coast.
Rachel had never liked flying, avoided it whenever possible. She preferred limos and trains. She was just short of time at the moment. She couldn’t afford the luxury right now.
She surveyed the city through broken rain clouds. From ten thousand feet it would be a beautiful view in good weather, but to Rachel it was dark and gray, smudged like a black ink drawing left in the rain. She felt as if she could sink into it and dissolve, getting the blues without trying.
She momentarily second guessed her decision to make the trip after getting Barney’s “no news yet” call. All she had been able to get from him was a name, and an unsolicited caution about the New Orleans cop. Barney had given up trying to talk her out of the journey. He’d told her Maurice Le Clerc was a crook and a letch, but if there was dirt in New Orleans, he’d know about it – a nice recommendation for a cop. She wondered what his resume looked like.
It had taken her two hours to pack, and a couple more at the club to delegate authority. Jimmy had driven her to San Diego International, concern written all over him, and since she wouldn’t let him take her along – told her about his man, Sunny. She pretended irritation but he knew she approved.
Five minutes through arrivals and he was there. Sunny, the fast talking young Cajun Jimmy had arranged. Five more minutes and she was in the back seat of the Limo. The swarthy-skinned bayou baby hummed King Creole between city highlights while he careened her through the rain, and to the cops.
She appreciated his energy; it took her mind off reality. He was all manners and attention to detail. She smiled; thinking how Jimmy would have known this guy would suit her.
“No affront intended, ma’am,” he said. But Jimmy was right, he told me to find the best lookin’ woman in the airport.
“None taken.” She smiled into his rear view mirror. “I’m a fine-looking lady who enjoys hearing it from the right people.” Her eyes closed while she said it, fatigue. Sunny seemed to notice and toned himself down. She longed for a full bath, hot and loaded with bubbles – just her, Mozart and some B&B over ice – and the bubbles of course.
She drifted for forty-five minutes that expired like a blink.
Then Sunny’s voice arrived like a stranger from nowhere. “We’re here, Ms Rachel. Downtown Precinct.”
Her eyes opened slowly. “Just call me Rachel, Sunny.”
“The champ told me you was Ms Rachel and if my man Jimmy says you’re Ms Rachel, you’re Ms Rachel.” She smiled at him in the mirror and he smiled back and moved quickly to her door.”
His smile ran right into her eyes. “You take your time Ms Rachel, I’ll be waiting right here.”
She smiled right back. “I should be fifteen minutes.”
“Yes ma’am. You got yourself the most dedicated chaperone in the whole of New Orleans.” He slid his cap back on his head, looking as if he’d just bought the Mssissippi from the French, and planned to give it to her.
“No doubt I do, Sunny.” Rachel looked at him, “No doubt I do. And I could use a friend right now.”
She ran through the rain and into the less-than-state-of-the-art law enforcement building. “One hundred and fifty years proud” the fading wood placard humbly asserted. She wondered if it was the building or the sign. Probably both. Once an impregnable military garrison, the station looked more like a badly fortified barrio.
Crowds, dirt, and a sense of chaotic disorder greeted Rachel inside. She ran the usual police eyeball mentality. No letch like a cop, she thought, as she worked Le Clerc’s whereabouts out of the desk sergeant.
Ten minutes of walking corridors, climbing stairs, and retreating from dead ends finally brought her to the man’s office and Maurice Le Clerc had zero to give her. He’d checked Robert’s apartment, the recent John Does, and Lloyds, and came up with nothing – a little too much nothing for Rachel. She figured him out without much effort. The man was a character beyond even Barney’s description. Fat and shifty, he was a coffee slurper who talked through the side of his mouth.
“Lloyds didn’t expect him back. To their way of thinkin’, he left for San Diego right after the inspection. Not expected to show for work in San Diego til Monday next.” Le Clerc had an obsession for shuffling papers on his disaster desk while he talked. It gave the impression he had something to do, he just couldn’t seem to figure out what it was. “They think nothin’s strange. Didn’t get the insurance documents before he left, but it happens.”
Rachel watched the lust run from him while he talked, his eyes all over her – she half expected him to start drooling like a dog.
“Maybe finished late. Caught a flight. Fax ‘em later. No big deal.” He stopped to rub coffee into his shirt. “Lloyds figured to hear from him only if he got a problem somehow.”
He offered her a chair, and she declined.
“We went to his office. He’d cleaned it out a couple of days ago.” Le Clerc paused, wiped his hand across his mouth, and smeared chocolate doughnut onto his cheek. “I figure your brother just wanted to party for a bit.” He paused again. “I told Barney that. Told him a missing persons was stupid, too.” He stared a little harder at Rachel, his eyes still horny.
Rachel wanted to believe the story, but it wasn’t Robert’s style.
“I can finish up here in a few minutes, baby. Why don’t we go somewhere? Relax a little. You’re all fretted up about nothing. We can talk it out.” Le Clerc straightened his tie. “I’ll show you a little of old New Orleans, just so you don’t think you wasted a trip.” He brought his shoulders up into his neck in a “what’ve you got to lose” gesture.
Rachel had tired of it before it even began. She focused her eyes in on Le Clerc as she leaned towards him, patience running between thin and none at all. Le Clerc pulled himself closer.
“I’m not your baby.” Her voice was soft, seductive, like the kind of snake that hypnotizes before it strikes. “I’m looking for my brother and you’re fucking me around, Tubby.”
Le Clerc withdrew suddenly. “I got lots of work here lady, don’t get two-bit with me, Ms…”
“Forster.” She leaned closer to the shallow, irritated little letch. “Rachel Forster. I haven’t got a lot of time. I’ve been on a plane most of the night. I’m in a pretty foul mood. Do you have a superior?” Her voice had sprung suddenly into a goading, staccato automation. “Did you check out the ship he surveyed?”
“Yeah!” Le Clerc seemed surprised by the aggression. “He was there. He left.”
“And by the way, Barney said to give you a message, if necessary.” Her voice dripped cruel. “You listening, Tubby?” She stood, flashing arrogance and ownership of Le Clerc’s weasel mentality as she stuck her index nail in his chest. “He said he would come here and personally squeeze your tired little balls off if you did anything but help.”
She was still staring through him while he checked the room behind her.
“How do you know my brother was ever there?”
“The ship’s gone.” He backed away from the nail. “If he hadn’t signed her off, she couldn’t have sailed.”
“What if they took him with them?”
“There’s nothin’ out there. No car. Nothin’. You think they murdered your brother? Loaded his car on the ship and left?”
“Did you talk to anyone out there?” She had him.
“I told you, they’d gone. Relax. Brownsville, Friday morning. We checked it out.”
“Where’s Brownsville?”
“South. Fourteen hours by car. You’ve got lots of time. I checked. They’re due Thursday night, Friday morning at the latest.” He paused, closed his eyes as if he wanted to doze off and wake up with her somewhere besides in the middle of his face. “Tex-Mex country, right there on the border. Ya wanna be careful down there. Some nasty men down there, not cops, they won’t have to take any shit from you.”
Rachel skipped the comment. Le Clerc got a paunchy little chuckle going. It didn’t take much to sidetrack his better judgment. She let him roll, own back a bit of his macho, a trade-off as long as the information she needed kept coming her way.
“International Salvage,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Look, uh, Rachel, I got a lotta items to take care of here.”
She let him off. “I need to make a couple of calls.” It was a statement and she was in motion to his phone while she said it. She picked the receiver from his desk. “Well?”
She wanted privacy. He picked it up quickly.
“Yeah, okay.” He moved away as if he had something else to do anyway. “Quick ones.” Gave her the kind of look he needed to justify he was a cop and in control whenever he wanted to be.
“Thanks.” He disappeared from her mind. She called Robert’s apartment, Lloyds and International Salvage. She decided to let Sunny figure out her accommodation for the evening.
Le Clerc had given her the minimum space, all the while glaring out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t help but get the rude tone going again. “Anythin’ else?” He slid back into the leer. “Dinner? I’ll tell you all ’bout being a cop in New Orleans.”
“Barney told me you could be an amazing asshole and I was ready for that.” She was halfway to the door. “But he didn’t tell me you were an obtuse, stupid one.”
Her mind moved through the phone calls as she made her way out – Lloyds, Brownsville, International Salvage. The ship was expected Thursday at the earliest. She thought about the travel time to Brownsville, idiot cops and sleep. Her mind stayed with sleep – sleep and an early flight to Brownsville, wherever it was.
Sunny’s smile found her like radar as she exited the precinct, and guided her like a beacon. “Thought you were never comin’ back, Ms Rachel.”
He was holding the door.
“Thanks for waiting, Sunny.” She patted him on the arm. “Thanks for smiling, too.”
“No problem on either count, ma’am.”
It was well into the afternoon. As the weather kept souring, Sunny related the bad weather warnings, taking charge of getting her to a hotel near the airport. “Someplace respectable” was the way he put it. “No problem”.
He delivered her to the desk, thanked her for letting him be of service, winked, gave her his number and told her he would be waiting. She took the full minute to watch him exit the place. Some things gave you a good feeling even when they end.
In ten minutes she’d settled into the fifteenth floor, ordering up bubbles and B&B but couldn’t get Mozart – not today, not in New Orleans. She figured two out of three wasn’t bad. She slid into the tub and let the hot steamy water comfort her exhausted body.
Events slowed down. She slowed down, caressing herself. Her skin was soft and supple against her fingers, her body soothed and gentle in the water. The luxury of an untroubled bath could always make Rachel fold into herself. She closed her eyes and floated to some distant embryonic place, one a little closer to her soul, maybe.
A bath could do that to some women.
It was four o’clock Wednesday afternoon. Tossed suddenly from his bedding by a harsh list of The Lady, Bobby woke up wet. There had been many lurches, but he’d recovered, and managed to roll himself back and stay buried in sleep, once again fighting to keep himself somewhere else.
But the weather had been deteriorating for several hours, and now the Lady would let him ignore her no longer. The water was beating hard on her and pushing her contrary to the tow. He felt the dread in each shuddering vibration of The Lady Inca as she tore uncontrolled.
Amidst the turmoil he heard her cry from her stern and knew the chains had severed again. He assumed she was burning back there. But for the moment the weather overrode everything. He was sitting in it, soaked. Already there was a squall at the least, maybe worse. He wondered how he’d been able to sleep this far into it.
Gomez and the two-way were nowhere in sight. Maybe it would all go away and turn into someone else’s nightmare. Maybe. Don’t get panicked, he pressured himself, get methodical. The entire reality of the journey was too long-drawn for panic to have a place at this point. Remember the easy money. Who should panic over easy money? Easy?
He set about stowing loose gear. If he was going to panic, he’d do it systematically. He thought about body heat as he pulled his wet suit from the stowage, got into it, and set off in search of his mate. He walked semi-upright, a bow-legged kind of stance against the wind, rain, reel and pitch of The Lady as she struggled.
She was hogging again as she battled the thrash of the seas against her sides, the grating crash and the harsh pull of the towline across her bow. Spray broke across her decks constantly, rolling her heavily with the pounding. She would have been okay in a calm sea, but in a cresting turmoil the seas breached her far too often.
He was far enough astern to hear the shafts screaming above the wind. He could see her engine room smoke, as if she was alive, making steam. She slid and weaved, powerless and without direction, like so many of the drunken sailors who had wandered home to her.
In her struggle, Bobby saw his own. He needed her to stay strong. He rode with her, he and Gomez. He surveyed the sky, dark overhead and darker on the horizon. He knew storms. Twenty knots was only a fresh breeze to a sailor, but she was blowing more than twenty. Fresh breezes can turn to gales, to strong gales, to anything over seventy knots – hurricane weather.
He figured they’d already worked their way into near gale. The thoughts made him shiver as he looked up at the sky again. A good sailor could tell it all from the sky and in that moment the sky told him much more than he wanted to know.
The cascading slam of the sea against the starboard confirmed it, promising bigger and better. But with waves, bigger definitely wasn’t better.
The concerns travelled with him.
Astern, he found Gomez sitting, slouched, head down, soaked through the ratty all-weather gear he’d found somewhere, his Yankees’ cap covering his eyes, legs braced against the pitch and roll. Positioned out of the way of random spray, favoring his bad side, his eyes were closed. He was awake.
“The radio?”
“I call them, Bubby.” His body didn’t move.
Bobby waited for more.
“Grande storm come, amigo.” His head finally moved, motioning towards the engine room companionway. “Mucho fire.” He raised his eyes, widening them. “Which you like?” Gomez laughed, and Bobby missed the humour this time.
He stayed on topic like a good gringo. “Did you tell the tug to take us off?”
Gomez lowered his head, the laughter fading. “Don’t give a sheet, Bubby. They scared for their sheet, too. Relax Bubby; no worry. Maybe we muertos, but no muertos from worry. Si?”
“Gomez!” Bobby had trouble with the ‘muerte’ part. “Gimme the fucking radio!”
“Seet aqui, Bubby.” Gomez motioned with a slight move of his head. “We wait on God. He help us now, no the putas gringos.”
Bobby dropped beside Gomez, and took the radio. He raised static, cursed and dropped it to the deck. Anger chased fear. He looked skyward again. If they were counting on God, the deity didn’t look very happy at the moment. Bobby relayed the thought to Gomez, getting the Mexican chuckle for it.
His mind wandered back to the scale for storms, remembering they had numbers too, not just names. Five to twelve – fresh breeze to hurricane. He figured this one was a strong seven, working hard at hitting eight. It might skip right into a nine if the elements worked hard –that would give them no less than a full blown gale.
The two of them squatted there, braced on their haunches. They watched the smoke and listened to the screams of the engine room build with the growing yawl and twisting pitch. The wails blended into the winds like an orchestra structuring to fortissimo.
The sirens and the seas – Bobby flashed on vague myths from his uneventful days in a classroom long ago. Romulus and Remus. Jason and the Golden Fleece. Something like that. He got irritated with his attitude, and decided to work on reality – survival. He needed to get angry. That could keep a man alive when nothing else would. It had worked for him before.
He got up, keeping himself irritated, working on the anger. It was time to move, get something together. “I’m going forward, amigo.” He said it as if he was walking into his backyard. “Get some gear together.”
His shipmate raised his head painfully, his brown eyes stoic.
“Stay here. Watch our engine room.” He said it as if Gomez had the health to move around if he wanted to. He headed across the quarterdeck, balancing his movements against the action around him. Turning back, he grabbed the handrail to steady himself. “If it blows up you let me know, eh, amigo?”
It got a smile out of Gomez. “No worry, Bubby. I throw water on it.” He laughed and looked out at the tormented seas. “I have plenty help, no worry. Mucha agua aqui.”
It took a lot of effort to get to their gear. Bobby felt better hearing the cable slamming against her side, knowing the tug still had them, at least temporarily. He figured it was a proper gale now, eight minimum, sliding to nine. The wind was over thirty knots for sure. It was halfway to hurricane.
He got to the business, the reality of their troubles. The Lady Inca made no headway, burning in her stern and beaten upon by an enraged and fast-rising sea. There was no ballast to hold her in the water and no power to move through it, to create a cutting edge.
The Lady knew all this. She knew Bobby would fight alongside her, even though she had no more than her size, able to displace only that much of the sea. A mote in the eye of her aggressor, nothing more. Yet, she would not perish cooperatively, the instinct to fight – many years of it, had kept her standing, steel against water. Many times she had withstood the water Satan, many times.
And defeat only once. And then she did not drown, the God of fire took her. A different enemy, not historic. Random. It was not her command to fight fire, never had been. In this the men who sailed her failed. She did not fail them, not then, and not ever before.
It was all a personal thing to The Lady. Heritage, maybe.
Many miles away, in the safety of her hotel, Rachel had finished her bath and eaten. She called Barney Matthews and then went to bed to sleep the night away. She did that at five-thirty. The wind and driving rain beating against her vista windows were working hard at thwarting her plans. That, and the phone call.
“How did you find me?”
“I’m a cop.”
“I’m sleeping, and you’re wasting your time.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, baby.” The nasty edge to Le Clerc’s voice kept Rachel’s attention. “This is business. I wouldn’t bother otherwise. Let you discover things for yourself, but that bastard friend of yours, Matthews, seems to think you’re entitled to more attention.”
“What is it?”
“Not over the phone. Meet me in an hour. The dining room.” The line went dead. More of Le Clerc’s style. The bedside clock glowed seven-thirty. She’d had two hours sleep.
The elevator ride to the mezzanine dining room was filled with tourists talking about their first hurricane type weather.
A window seat in the dining room gave Rachel a looking-glass view of the onslaught. The wind scattering debris, a driving rain, and black clouds full of lightning assaults made her decide to meet him and get back to bed to sleep through it. She tried to stay away from thoughts of Robert in the middle of it. She wasn’t hungry, but ordered salad and wondered how she would get to Brownsville if this kept up.
Her seat gave her a view of the door and let her spot Maurice Le Clerc as he came through it. Nothing about him seemed to have changed since they’d met a few hours earlier – same suit, same stains, and same seedy leer. His appearance was just a little more wrung out, like he’d been drinking – and he had.
He spotted her and stared hard all the way to her table.
“I don’t know what it is, but I get the distinct feeling you don’t like me, Ms Forster.” He smirked. “Something about me not being good enough for you, eh? A bum cop from New Orleans, eh?”
“What’s the point, Mister Le Clerc?” She held her eyes on his. “You’re a half hour late.”
“Still the smart mouthed bitch, eh lady?” He paused. “Barney Matthews saved my life, lady. Twice. I owe him.” He shrugged, as if it was nothing. “He covered for me a couple times. I’m here ’cause I owe him. I’m paying up.” He stared hard at her. “And he told me you phoned him. Said I was an asshole!”
“You are, Mister Le Clerc. What’s your point?” Rachel still knew nothing. “Do you know something about my brother?”
“I don’t know nothing about your brother. Nothing. There’s nothing to know. If he turns up, great. If not, shit happens and he got in the way of some of it.”
Rachel stood up from the table, didn’t see a productive direction for the conversation. “You’re wasting my time. I’m very tired.” Very tired, and irritable. “Excuse me.”
Le Clerc grabbed her as she stepped from the table. “Lady! Go home. Your brother ain’t gonna show!”
She tried to pull away from him. He squeezed her tighter, hurting her. He forced her close to him, her head pulling back from the stink in his mouth.
“These are serious people, lady. Don’t go looking for nobody. Real serious and real connected. Not the kind of stuff you come into town and start asking questions about.”
“Let go of me, Mister Le Clerc.” Her eyes turned cruel. “That’s not my dick pressed against your fat gut.”
He looked down at the tiny chrome revolver. He eased off, as much from surprise as fear. “They know you’re here, you dumb bitch.”
“Who knows I’m here?”
“I checked it out, lady. I got told not to, and I know when to listen.” He backed away from her a little. “If you keep nosing around you’re gonna end up nowhere like your brother.” He pushed a chair out of his way. “You been told!”
Holding her arm, Rachel rubbed it while she watched him leave. Sitting down, she let her heart slow, collecting her thoughts. She waited ten minutes before leaving.
Back in her room she bolted the door and jammed a chair under it. She climbed back into bed and fell into an uneasy sleep, if it qualified as sleep at all. By midnight she was up again, sitting at the window, watching God manipulate hell and thinking about Le Clerc’s warning – if someone knew she was here it was pretty certain he’d told them. She left that terror and returned to God’s manipulation of the theme.
In some strange way she enjoyed the present terror. Maybe because it took her thoughts from the future. Never having been this close to a serious storm, she got riveted by its terrifying magnificence. On the fifteenth floor the weather had the kind of impact a front row seat at the center of creation should.
Frenzied arcs of lightning writhed across the sky, illuminating the torment of wind and rain. Chaotic debris whirled within it, thrashing against the window of her room. She’d never been in a swaying building either – something to remember.
The desk called several times, suggesting she come to the lobby. They called until the lines and the lights went dead. She chose to stay there. If she died in that hotel, she didn’t plan on doing it publicly. Besides, she could handle her own fear better than the mutual terror of dozens of strangers. Staying by herself gave her the freedom to hide under the covers, cry – whatever she needed to do.
At some point in the night, she fell into a kind of slumber right there in the chair, in and out of sleep, dreaming God’s wrath as a hurricane.
*
