Baca Read online

  Most were early-offs from work, but I recognized three of the ones at the bar as three who had been playing pool in Siberia when I had my little run-in with Frank Meadows and Carl Rakes. They wore jackets, and it wasn’t cold in here or outside. I figured that since I was wearing a jacket and had a gun, then everybody in this place who had on a jacket was probably heeled, too. I checked out the other patrons and there were only four jackets in the entire place, and I was one of them.

  I didn’t know if they had recognized me or not, but I was careful not to make any moves and attract attention. I sat there for a half hour and saw several patrons leave and a few others come in. The three men at the bar didn’t move. I ordered two more beers and downed them at ten dollars a pop. Right when I was rising to leave, another dancer came out. Enrique Iglesias sang through the speakers about wanting to be my hero as a strawberry blond Mexican woman danced toward the pole. She looked like one of the women we’d seen in the canyon. She was naked, not wearing a stitch and her tiny body was tight and taut. I watched her routine and when the song was almost over, I walked to the steps leading off the stage. When she came down, I could see I’d been wrong, that she wasn’t one of the women at the canyon but an older version of them, someone in their thirties.

  As she smiled at me and stepped down to pass I said, “You’re from Durango, right?”

  Her smiled faltered a moment then caught again and she said in perfect English, “No, I’m from here. But I’ll give you this, that’s the oddest come-on line I’ve ever heard.”

  “I apologize. You looked like someone I know from there.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Maybe I can cheer you up with my next dance.”

  A drunk staggered to us and spilled part of his full beer on my pants as he looked with adoration at the woman. He wore a pale blue uniform shirt with Calvin embroidered over the pocket. He held a five-dollar bill toward the woman and tried to push me out of the way, “Thass my woman, buddy, thass the woman I love.”

  I went with his push and he fell like he’d leaned against a door and missed. The glass tinked and clunked on the floor and sprayed beer across the feet of two men coming out of an office door.

  One of them was a tall, very lean man with a slim, silver-headed cane. He wore a black Armani suit that matched the wet-looking, combed-back black hair. The hair fit his skull like a helmet.

  The other man was Carl Rakes.

  The small woman stepped back as Carl jerked Calvin off the floor with one hand and slammed him against the wall. Calvin’s feet fluttered six inches off the floor as if he was walking on air.

  Carl said, “You hairshid piece of horseneck face!”

  I snorted and Carl pointed to me with his free hand, “And you, I nod forget you, Baca.”

  I spoke to the other man, “You want to rein in your puppy? This poor guy was drunk, that’s all.”

  He stepped to within three feet of me and held the slender cane across his thighs in a relaxed pose. The right hand stayed on the silver handle. He wasn’t just lean; he was thin to emaciation, with a gaunt face, hollow cheeks and eyes as black as a vampire’s. His deep voice had an east European accent as he said, “I do not tell Carl what to do. He vill do as he pleases.”

  “Bella Lugosi,” I said.

  He frowned, “What?”

  “You know, Dracula, from the old black and white movie they show on late night TV. You’re trying to sound like Lugosi. Try this,” I did my best Dracula imitation, “Listen to them, the Children of the Night, Blahh.”

  He took it in for a moment, then the smallest smile appeared. It looked like a death rictus. “Carl, let the customer go.” Carl started to say something but the dark haired man spoke in a foreign language and Carl dropped Calvin like a piece of dirty laundry. Calvin scuttled off on his hands and knees like a crab and disappeared into the darkness between the tables. The man said to me, “It will be best if you go, too. Carl doesn’t always do as I request.”

  I stuck out my hand and said, “I hate to leave without introductions. My name’s Ronny Baca and you are...?”

  He didn’t take my hand, but said, “Simon Mortay. Leave.”

  I took his advice, but as I left, I saw Carl grab the strawberry-haired woman by the arm and jerk her into the office. Simon Mortay, Old Mister Creepy watched me until I went out the door.

  There was a place in the back edge of the parking lot where I could see both doors, so I pulled the Corvette into place and settled into the seat.

  Four hours later when the sun was setting, I decided I had to leave and find a place to pee. Those three beers I’d had were knocking on my bladder door and demanding to be let out. As I started the car and pulled away, the club’s back door opened and the strawberry-haired woman walked across the lot.

  So much for relief. I turned the wheel and followed her to a green Lexus. She recognized me as I got out, “Mister, you crazy? They got video on this lot, and if Carl or Mr. Mortay see you...They don’t play by the rules, you understand?”

  “Okay, get in and come with me, we’ll go someplace safer.”

  “Don’t you get it? I don’t want them to see me with you.”

  “Did they hurt you after I left? I saw Carl grab you, take you into the office.”

  “Look, I don’t like to see people hurt. You gotta go.”

  “One last question.” And it really was the last question unless I didn’t mind wetting myself in public.

  She rolled her eyes and sighed, “What?”

  “I thought Carl Rakes worked for Frank Meadows. What’s he doing with Mortay?”

  She shook her head and got in the Lexus. Before she closed the door she said, “You don’t know shit, do you?” She drove off before I could say, No, I don’t. I got into the Corvette, which because of my bladder being the size of a weather balloon, felt small and uncomfortable. I drove as fast as I dared until a Mickey D’s sign appeared and I slid into a parking place and trotted inside. When I finally got to the urinal, it was such a relief my eyes watered. I sighed when I finished, then went to the sink and was about to wash my hands when the door opened and the three jacket-wearing men I’d seen at The Caspian Diamond walked in and stood behind me. There was no one else in the bathroom. One of the men leaned his back against the door.

  I filled one hand with the pink liquid pump soap as I looked at them in the mirror and said, “I’m not who you think I am, I’m his twin brother.

  The biggest one said, “Ve know you, Baca. Is nod to fool us vith your talk smart mouth.”

  I angled myself at a forty-five to them, the soap cupped in my left hand. “Okay, Boris, what were you told to tell me?”

  “I am not Boris, and we were to tell you nothing.”

  “Well okay then, I guess I’ll be going. You three have a gay old time here in the bathroom.” I looked at Not Boris and said, “That’s a joke, get it?”

  “We have a joke, too. Our joke is to beat you.”

  I figured that meant talk was over.

  I shot my left hand to Not Boris’ eyes, jabbing my fingers and the soap deep in them. He yelled and put his hands to his face as he fell back. I pivoted as he fell and sent a side-kick to the throat of the second one. He backpedaled into a stall, holding his neck as his eyes bulged out. The third one came off the door a little slow and reached under his jacket. I hit him a solid shot over the heart with the heel of my right palm. He made a croak and dropped to his knees. I punched down at his jaw, laying him face down on the tile.

  I reached under his jacket and pulled out a Beretta, then went to the other two and did the same. I stuck the guns in my waistband and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Like William Holden heading for the last shootout in The Wild Bunch. I went to Not Boris, who was trying to get water out of a toilet bowl to clean his eyes.

  “Just thought I’d tell you,” I said, “That’s used water you’re putting on your face. Somebody forgot to flush.”

  He felt around and found the flush handle, pushed it a
nd said to me without looking up, “I ged you for this.”

  My nerves were still jangling and that pissed me off, so I snap-kicked the back of his head hard enough to drive his nose into the edge of the toilet. Bright crimson drops pattered the water like a leaky faucet, each one leaving a tiny pink octopus with tendril arms floating on the surface. Not Boris raised his head and pinched the nose shut with a thumb and forefinger.

  I said, “You tell Mortay any more of this and I’m coming for him. I won’t be playing, either.”

  Not Boris said, “Mortay did not send us.”

  That stopped me. “Okay, who did?”

  He shook his head and said, “You know nothing, Baca.”

  I was getting tired of everyone telling me that. “You don’t work for Simon Mortay?”

  He shook his head, “Stupid, stupid man.”

  “You want me to kick you again? Tell me who sent you.”

  I could hear the others stirring behind me.

  He wouldn’t talk, but smiled at me with pink teeth and terrible bloodshot eyes. I waited as long as I could, then I left before all three were back on their feet and I had to shoot somebody.

  I gunned the Corvette and was on the road in seconds, squirming all the way as the pistols dug into me like sharp sticks.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I was waiting at the office when Hondo and Hunter came back. Hunter went to a chair and sat down, saying, “I aged ten years today.”

  Hondo was carrying a bag of Julio’s and a jar of salsa.

  I sat up, looking from Hunter to Hondo. “Where’d you get that?”

  Hondo said, “We were at the courthouse, and when we came out, the Mayor, the Governor and our own Sergeant Vick Best were holding a press conference at the front of the building. Hunter and I went around the edge of the crowd and happened to walk by the Sergeant’s personal vehicle.”

  “How’d you know it was his?”

  Hondo said, “Remember the barbeque you threw for him last year, where he backed his Bronco into that orange Chevy?”

  “Yeah, I told him the orange in the dent made it look like a Hook-’Em Horns brand.”

  Well, he never got it fixed, so the orange still shows in the dent, and it still looks the same.”

  “What’s that got to do with the chips?”

  “I saw them in the front seat and took them.”

  I rubbed my forehead, “You broke into a Deputy Sheriff’s car?”

  “It’s not like we aren’t friends.”

  “Wasn’t it locked?”

  “That’s a relative term.”

  Hunter said, “He picked the lock before I even knew what he was doing. He said, ‘Hey, look, there are Vick’s chips,’ and then he squatted down and pulled me with him and had the door open before I had time to wet my pants.”

  “Wasn’t the alarm set?”

  “Heck yes. It was wailing away when he snatched the stuff. He handed it to me and closed the door. Did it so fast it was like the door never opened. Then he told me, ‘How about some double-time duck walking,’ and he banged on a half dozen cars as we went, setting off their alarms, too.”

  Hondo said, “Caused a little delay in the speech as people went to their cars and zapped them with the alarm buttons on their key chains. No big deal, they always blame it on kids, anyhow.”

  I felt a headache coming on. “Are you going to eat them?”

  “We could, I guess. What I thought is give them to Vick, that way you’ll only owe him one more bag and jar of salsa.”

  “But it’s the same bag.”

  “Not to him it isn’t.”

  “You may have a point there.”

  Hunter said, “You two are going to be the death of me.”

  We put the chips and salsa away and Hunter said, “I contacted an investigator friend of mine at Immigration and he’s working on getting the woman in Durango to call me. He said he’ll call me and let me know when to expect her.”

  “Is she going to call you on your cell?”

  “Seemed like the best way.”

  I nodded. “Any time frame?”

  “He thought maybe today, for sure tomorrow. A friend of his works out of the Juarez office and is in Durango this week, not far from where the woman lives.”

  “That would be good.”

  Hondo said, “You should have heard Hunter talking to him, all sweet and saying ‘Doll’ this and ‘Sweetheart’ that.”

  I felt a little prickle, “You got something going with this guy?”

  “Don’t you even start, Ronny Baca.” She leaned over and whacked Hondo on the shoulder, “And you, Mr. Troublemaker, quit taking my words out of context.” Hondo rubbed his shoulder and grinned.

  Old Hondo. Ha-ha. I asked him, “You find out anything?”

  Hondo said, “The Sarana Corporation is partner in twenty-two pieces of property in the LA area, everything from buildings to warehouses to vacant lots.”

  “Who owns Sarana?”

  “Other corporations, about a dozen of them, and those corporations are, in turn, owned by other corporations. We didn’t have time to run out the trail to a person’s name.”

  “So they’re covers.”

  “Can’t be anything else.”

  “You copy down the lists of the properties?”

  He gave me a paper and said, “Hunter and I have copies, too.” As I looked over the list, I saw The Caspian Diamond listed. Hondo said, “How about you, you do any good?”

  I told them what happened, and for a few minutes, we discussed how it all fit together, then decided we needed some Chinese for brain food. I volunteered to go and slipped on my Patagonia. I was two steps from the office door when it opened and Mickey flew in and hugged me tight, her face going like a magnet to my jacket as she bawled her head off and said in quivering, muffled sobs, “She-she fired me, she fired me.”

  “Who?”

  “Bond.”

  “That’s Landman’s office.”

  “Sh-she ran me off, told me I had no more business in Bob’s office or his life or on the studio lot.” Mickey hawed and rolled her head back and forth on my chest.

  I patted her back and said, “Hey, we got fired, too. Don’t worry.”

  She looked up at me and I felt my eyebrows rise. I hadn’t seen but a blur of Mickey’s face when she ran in, and this was the first real look. Frankenstein would have been proud. Mickey had used some sort of pea green eye shadow and overdone clumpy mascara that mixed with all those tears to form a gloppy paste that obscured one eyebrow and coated half her forehead and one ear. Yummy.

  She said, “You’re fired, too?” I nodded and she wailed again, “Oh noooo! Now Bob’s got no one to help him.”

  “Mickey, we got fired, but we haven’t stopped looking.”

  “Y-you haven’t? You’re going to find Bob even when you’re not being paid?

  “Uh-huh. Just makes it easier since we don’t have any Meadows people telling us what to do.”

  Mickey hugged me harder and said, “You are so noble. Like a chivalrous knight from the old days.” That got an eye roll from Hunter. Mickey sniffled and pulled back. I handed her my handkerchief and she dabbed at her eyes and touched her hair, aware for the first time of Hunter in the room. “I’m sorry, I must look a mess.” I pointed to the bathroom and she disappeared behind the door.

  Hunter said, “You as Sir Galahad,” she shook her head, “God-o-mighty.”

  Hondo said, “That windbreaker will be so threadbare after another cleaning you’ll be able to see through it.”

  I took it off, careful to keep my fingers out of the wet spots and dropped it on the floor by my desk.

  When Mickey came out, her eyes were red and puffy and she looked a little pale. She said, “I’m glad you’re still on the case. If you don’t find Bob, no one can.”

  I said, “Tell me what happened.”

  “Well, I was at my desk and was through with everything I could do, so I went into Bob’s office and looked around for anythin
g that might help us. There wasn’t anything startling, the last thing he made notes on was the need for preparation for Ninety Notches.”

  Hunter looked at Hondo, who said, “A Border Patrol movie that’s in the works.”

  Mickey said, “Bob made several notes about immersing himself in the role, of getting the feel of what it’s like.”

  Hondo said, “Like the picture we found, the one Valdar was painting.”

  “Sort of, but more intense, more thorough. Bob told me many times that he has to live in the role before playing it. Like once, when he was to portray a small town police officer, he used an alias and some faked papers to get a job as a real policeman in some town in New Mexico and worked there for two months. He arrested people, gave out tickets, broke up fights, everything a real cop would do. The studio almost had a stroke when they found out. That’s the kind of thing he does to prepare.”

  I said, “So, to portray a Border Patrol Agent, what would he do?”

  We were all silent, thinking it through when Hunter said, “He’d do it in stages.”

  “Like what?” I said.

  “He’d start with the uniform, the gear, then get a feel for working outdoors.”

  Hondo said, “Yeah, then he’d read up on things—hey Mickey, in the script, what would he have been trying to do?”

  “The bad guys were some smugglers, a gang of them and he was going after them.”

  “Uh-huh. Bob would get some angles on smuggling, do some reading on it and see what was happening in LA.”

  Hunter said, “He wouldn’t try to impersonate a Border Patrol Agent, it’d be too risky.”

  I said, “Yeah, the uniform would clash with his hair.”

  Hunter and Mickey frowned at me. The corners of Hondo’s mouth went up a quarter inch.

  “Okay,” I held my hands up, “No more hair jokes.”

  “Why would it be too risky?” Mickey asked.

  “A couple reasons, the big one being it’s a felony to impersonate a federal officer. I’m surprised New Mexico didn’t file on him for impersonating a police officer.”