North of the Border
By Irving Warner
Copyright © 2012 by Irving Warner
A Pleasure Boat Studio Book: New York
Smashwords Edition
At the Border
Chigger looked through the shrubbery into the open dance floor of Momma Bomba’s and watched Junior Ricardo on the stage doing his version of Chicano hip-hop. He was surrounded by whores, other hangers on and Chigger hated that rich bastard. He wished he could go over to Junior’s fancy sports car and take his baseball bat to it.
He slumped off with the bat over his shoulder—like thousands of Babe Ruth leaguers in America. But Chigger wasn’t on a team but instead guarded all the cars in Momma Bomba’s parking lot, and the bat was his weapon.
“They don’t give you a gun because you’re stupid.”
This was his mother’s take on things, but she was there each morning to get the tips—that’s all Chigger earned. He worked for the tips. She didn’t like that either.
He came up to Junior Ricardo’s car during his musings and saw a man working at the driver’s door; at once his bat was up, but as he rounded the end of the car, a most horrendous knife appeared—as if out of night air. When the man turned, he wore a mask—and the way he held the knife seemed practiced, even graceful.
“Do you want your balls cut off? If you want to see how, keep on coming. So drop the bat, walk away and tell them you went to pee and the rich prick’s car went missing. Talk and I’ll look you up and then cut your balls off. Now, do it!”
He did as told. If Chigger was stupid, he wasn’t that stupid.
Those Who Sit on the Left hand
“The Editor and the Speedster”
In Rincon County, they are proud to have the most tastefully corrupt officials in the State. None of the citizenry presumes them to be honest, and they are not. What is expected is a guarantee for a general ambiance of public safety and welfare; after that, to keep the necessary public services moving forward. Rincon County residents elect those who mindfully limit all activities that plague honest folk, and can a democracy get better than that? Can you think of a better way to control slackers and evil- doers in a county—or ultimately, an entire nation?
This long established bond of trust began to come apart the evening County Mayor Ernie Ricardo son’s 300,000 dollar Lamborghini was stolen. The infamously wastrel Junior Ricardo had been frolicking at Mama Bomba’s “Crossroads House” just a few miles from the U.S./Mexico border when his luxury speedster went AWOL.
First word of this outrage peeled off the Rincon Announcer's FAX. The Owner/Publisher/Editor-in-Chief, John Franklin, stood sipping coffee in the news/computer room of that twice-weekly county organ. He nearly inhaled instead of swallowing a sip of coffee, and took a second look at the FAX. He had been assembling his highly popular weekend police blotter.
Because of this, everybody would read about the boosted Lamborghini.
A close second to the Announcer’s local sports column, the police report remained absolutely the most information-rich reading in his publication. For county residents it was the best way to keep track of errant neighbors, relatives and no-neck in-laws.
Franklin, along with son Frederick—who most called Fred, save his parents and twin-sibling Claire—were the city, state, national and international desk of the newspaper. John Franklin had been a one-time crusader journalist in the Los Angeles meat market of news and near-news. But within a decade, Franklin had his ass whipped into a proper state of humiliation, encountered the despair of divorce from the twin’s mother, and bailed out of the L.A. scene. With the leavings of the divorce money, John purchased a bedraggled twice-weekly rag in the far corner of the state. In a few years, he managed it into a goldmine.
All he had to do was keep his mouth shut, publish kindly words about the right people and causes— with matching reportage—and the ad dollars poured in, plus he was invited to all the proper places. He could manage that, and in fact, for the last twenty-six years, had.
So on this morning the words coming out of his FAX had self-censorship stenciled across it, for reporting the truth about the Mayor’s worthless son was not approved. And with this new screw up Junior attained the zenith of his worthlessness—having lost a 3rd of a million dollar car. Also, truthful reporting did not curry the favor of Sonny Vernengo, County Sheriff. This Lamborghini nonsense had "toss and forget” wrapped all over it. The protective shield of prominence in a small community held fast.
Franklin left his coffee aside while the outrage of this crime began to settle in.
For starters, anyone who steals anything from the County Mayor’s family—and by that, it was understood to mean his extended family—had to be feeble minded. Either that, or they were operating under the pathological desire for —at a minimum— an array of broken bones. As Franklin took a long gaze at the FAX, he supposed the theft of the machine might only be as idiotic as stealing one of Sheriff “Sonny” Vernengo’s Arabian hay burners. These pricy steeds he proudly rode in county fairs and parades throughout the state.
And John Franklin hadn’t long to wait. His cell phone began a cute melodic ring, and clicking on, he heard the shift supervisor at the Sheriff’s Office, one Sergeant Pico, instructing him to sit on the story. So much for self-censorship.
“Don’t print that. She shouldn’t have faxed that.”
Franklin felt that at least a modest plea should be entered.
“But it is big news. I mean, really big.”
“Big or not, Sonny said to hold it.”
And then the good sergeant clicked off. Had Sheriff Sonny really needed Franklin to know that? The Editor took a patient breath—a healthy one—and remembered a time long ago when such a news break would have him running for the door, a living torpedo of news gathering.
But no longer. He folded the FAX in two, and then tore it, allowing it to drop in the wastebasket. When his son found out, there would be outcries of egalitarianism—even worse when his crusading daughter found out. But both of them had degrees from very fine institutions — in Clair’s case, two of them—because for a quarter century he knew the profitability about when to fold and dispose, and when to publish.
“Sonny and the Mayor”
Sheriff Sonny—a public nickname the popular chief law enforcement officer went by—was enjoying his usual Monday morning business breakfast. He did so at the Rincon Country Club with the country’s co-warlord, Mayor Ernie Ricardo. On this Monday a.m., His Honor was chewing angrily on Sonny’s ear and the nearby furniture. The sheriff endured silently with the confidence one has when a noisy freight train is passing by, for soon Mayor Ricardo would get hungry and eat.
Mayor Ricardo was not known for his composure-under-fire. In fact, Mayor Ricardo wasn’t a man ever confused with the idea of composure. He had a more direct and openly forceful manner about him, a contrasting style with Sheriff Sonny, so the latter was far more feared by knowing parties. One hour Sheriff Sonny might be presenting a Crossing Guard award to an elementary school innocent, and the next watching several of his bag men kick the refrijolies out of recalcitrant coyote, finally asking the victim calmly, “And now, are we better understood.” In Spanish, of course. For like any self respecting official in Rincon County—Sheriff Sonny and His Honor were both “Old Spanish”, and completely bi-lingual, or indeed more comfortable in Spanish.
Being “Old Spanish” was just the short way of saying the family had been resident in this U.S./Mexico border country for many generations, probably back to when it was a portion of Old California, before it was rather rudely "purchased" by the Polk Administration.
More recent Hispanic arrivals from points south, however, were viewed with even less pity than by European or Anglo groups, plus the Old Spanish attitudes were time tested. Also, this old guard had long established money-making methods in catering to the diverse needs of recent arrivals. The matter of their legal status was not considered of great significance compared to financial matters.
Sheriff Sonny smiled kindly at the waiter as he presented platters of Huevos Rancheros to each man —Sonny mindfully thanked the man, knowing he was one of his former cross-border customers, albeit unknowingly, and would have relatives eager to join him. Sonny and His Honor's platoon of coyotes benefited by satisfied customers. Diplomacy was always good business, and in the end, what did a smile cost?
Sonny waited until the waiter had quit the private breakfast nook before offering counsel and observation to Mayor Ricardo.
“If you were fool enough to give that stupid son of yours a $300,000 toy, then what do you expect—of course it was boosted. I can’t put a man on him 24 sevens, Ernie. What in hell was he doing out at Momma Bomba’s? “
The Mayor looked at his marvelous breakfast plate, dragged the condiments over to him, ignoring the negatives about Junior Ricardo. Quite the hearty diner, His Honor was momentarily more interested in breakfast than in Lamborghinis and/or Junior. He talked while adorning his breakfast—a little here, a tad here. Despite the situation, he smiled with the anticipation of lusty cuisine.
“Don’t worry. I kicked his ass around the house two, three times before those goddamned housekeepers of ours saved his ass, the lazy pig.”
Sonny did likewise to his food—being a bit less generous with the relishes—smiling, enjoying the image of Sonny—a former heavyweight collegiate wrestler—drop kicking Junior from one split level of the house to another. His mother Carlita, drinking her morning bloody Mary and reading the morning paper, would be trying her best to enjoy a normal morning in one of her half dozen breakfast dormers. The family servants, all of them old retainers, would be attempting to save Junior’s life—wedging themselves between His Honor and his only son. The Spanish would be flying about freely, until finally Maria—Carlita's old duomo—brought the Mayor under semi-control by breaking something over his massive shoulders.
“You’re a bad piece of work when you get going, Ernie. You’re going to kill that kid someday, not that I’d blame you. Nor would anybody else, I suppose.”
“OK, what about my fucking car? It’s worth a third of a million dollars, and when it gets out it was stolen, I'll look like a horse’s ass before the electorate, and indirectly, you will too,” His Honor looked up steadily, “. . . if someone can steal from us, they can steal from anybody,” here Mayor Ricardo allowed a bit of ironic space, then added, “ . . . Sheriff.”
It was typical of the Mayor to not dilute an ugly truth. Sheriff Sonny had the lid on this county. Years before when he’d been elected after his uncle retired to allow Nephew Sonny a shot at the big money, he’d screwed it down even tighter. New technology helped, and after 14 years with the F.B .I. Sonny knew his business. His uncle, a crafty, good Sheriff, had been out of date.
Sheriff Sonny didn’t like criticism, implied or otherwise, especially from an animated hunk of muscle and suet like His Honor. Their’s was a restless but satisfying business relationship.
“You didn’t answer me. What was Junior doing at out Momma Bombas with a three hundred thousand dollar car? He’s got four sports cars—three are much more expendable. “
The Mayor shrugged, and worked away at the perimeter of his breakfast,
“Getting laid, I suppose. What else? ‘
“Complimentary, too. You know, the old girl complains a lot to Pico and Tony about Junior making a hog out of himself with the free sex out there. He’s made enemies, and that doesn’t help in situations like these. “
The Mayor stopped eating, and pointed towards the border with a fresh tortilla. “That old whore gets her share, has for years. She ever complain to me about giving out free pussy to Junior—or anyone else—I’ll revoke her license for a week or three, see how she likes that,”’ about to resume, he had a sudden afterthought, “... she drags in 4,000 dollars a night out there, goddamnit, not half of that is legit.”
Sheriff Sonny and the Mayor carried on silently. What more was there to discuss? The Sheriff had put Eddy Rodriquez—his best investigator—on the case several hours before, and the outcome was pro forma. They would find which freelance car-pirate and/or agent had blundered their way into massive physical injury by stealing the Lamborghini or even worse if the machine had been harmed.
They would return the prized Italian speed sled to Junior, hopefully before any word got out, and that would conclude the incident. Another Junior Ricardo mess cleaned up via Sheriff Sonny. His Honor, as always, would get further in debt to Sonny, resent it and be sulky for a week or three.
The script was so well defined, that this morning's breakfast could be enjoyed without further digestive upset—and the Mayor, a famous trencherman, and the Sheriff, more stylized in table manner, proceeded to begin their week with this superb breakfast. There was ample business to conduct, some of it always tiresome. With the Mamma Bomba and the Lamborghini business, the workload wouldn’t be any less troubling. Better to enjoy what you had before you.
“Field Troops & Operational Concerns”
Lieutenant Eddy Rodriguez and his fellow investigator Detective Sergeant Casco sipped coffee and ruminated about their fruitless morning. They had checked out every chop shop operator within “jurisdiction” of Rincon County’s which in matters of business protocols, extended to both sides of the border. Every one of the worthy entrepreneurs knew what was expected of them, and Eddy made it clear that whatever lunatic had screwed up and ripped off Junior’s toy, was to return it immediately if not sooner; otherwise, long standing business relationships would be jeopardized. And money was the balm that pacified them all.
Each of the proprietors swore by saints, mothers, fathers—and an entire array of ancestors that they knew nothing of it. They appealed to Sheriff Sonny’s well known business sense via Eddy, the Sheriff’s trusted plenipotentiary: There were few calls for Lamborghini parts in the international and national automobile pipeline, and certainly not for the entire machine. This was a strong, but not invulnerable point. During a lunch stop, Casco aired the counterpoint.
“OK, Lieutenant. Say, what if some Chinese Central Committee big shot or one of his relatives, wanted wheels no other heavy hitter had?”
Eddy wiped his hands clean of drive-thru cuisine remnants, considering the question.
“When that is the buyer, they really tend towards the pricey, highline stuff—you know, Porches, Ferraris. Stuff they see in American movies and TV. Lamborghini is a bit esoteric—also, it would risk raising a higher-up's jealously, you know, zipping around between the rice paddies.”
Casco looked up from his crossword. Always a thoughtful, logical investigator, he considered Eddy’s words, shrugged and guessed,
“OK, then. We’re probably being jerked around in some kind of insurance scam of the Mayor’s. Maybe even Junior himself”, suddenly a new evil occurred to Casco, “. . . . and will we get a piece of the action, fuck no. Sonny is in on it, of course. Greedy assholes. Just like that RV bullshit—do we get a taste? Fuck no.”
This upset Casco so much he couldn’t return to his crossword, but Eddy was anxious to keep the topic off the fleet of eight Motor Homes—the absolute latest in the Mayor and Sonny’s smuggling trade.
“Well, it wasn’t insured. Who would insure wheels like that along the border—even safe gates like our two, especially driven by a dumb shit like Junior. “
Casco stuffed the crossword in the door compartment, looked with a bit more than the usual pause at Eddy—knowing well that the topic of the lucrative RV’s was absolutely off limits amongst the troops. And Eddy was absolutely the Sheriff’s man. A product of the streets along the U.S. / Mexico border towns, Eddy Rodriquez developed a distaste for the chaos of that scene.
Eddy wanted to be a cop—to put some sort of order back in things.
“There had to be order, did there not?”
Years before, Eddy had put it thusly to his brother Roberto, who had shared that life. Though his tough, wiry little brother didn’t feel that urge himself, he understood it in his older brother.
And one day the opportunity presented itself—shone first by the Sheriff Vernengo who hired him—Sonny’s Uncle Victor. Later, Sheriff Victor retirement and Sonny inherited the county by right of election. The patient grooming of Eddy Rodriquez into a professional police officer continued under the expert hand of Sonny.
So Eddy was always loyal to Sheriff Sonny—the entire force knew it, and thoroughly respected it—and Eddy. Loyalty was a prized commodity in the cop community.
The two carried on with their investigation, but at the end of the day Eddy Rodriguez sat back and after reporting fully to Sheriff Sonny, co-theorized with him it was probably a freelancer from a San Diego operator with a special order. Somewhere, they were dealing with a double-dealing contractor. Sonny and His Honor didn’t tolerate a breach of trust within the brotherhood of crooked bastards. This had to be dealt with.
Sonny sighed, and knew this would raise complications. The San Diego group were problematical affiliates, and very good on the international marketing scene. The port of San Diego fed the blackest of markets, richer than crude oil. Through the port, they were one of the main automobile expediters. They specialized in Chinese and Southeast Asia upper crusts making custom orders for the best designer wheels at bargain prices.
Whoever put in this order, knew their bananas, car-wise, and Sonny didn’t buy for a second the alleged Chinese aversion regards Lamborghini's.
“Upsetting thing is, we’ve got a contract with the San Diego group, and they broke it, big time. So,” and Sheriff Sonny shrugged knowing it was a job for a Diplomatic Embassy, probably consisting of Eddy as Chief Emissary, with Sergeant Pico and Ten-Ton Tony Gato along as security. Sonny raised a cautionary hand towards the west, advising, “But, go careful, Eddy. Just a little, but not too much.”
And when Eddy left the Sheriff’s Old Hacienda motif office, he smiled, knowing that instead of minding the time away from more important work, best would be to kick back and enjoy his visit to the San Diego Group. Most were old chums of his, and especially his late brother, who was a master car wholesaler, the current euphemism for the trade.
They went way, way back, and one couldn’t want a more perfect flock of good-natured, thieving ravens.
And, they were a knowledgeable group, keeping up with current street events outside of their chosen circle: He would ask around there —discreetly—about the street talk about this new candy-flavored meth. Some local talk had it, that it was coming over at various border crossings. If the Rio Azure crossings were two of them, they had even greater breaches-on-business understanding.
Unsubtitled
Ten-Ton Tony Gato and Jesus Pico sat in their prowl car at the U.S./Mexico Tres Lobos crossing. Pico had been disappointed about the San Diego trip, for activity-wise, it was a bust. He sighed and watched dozens of RV’s being processed through, all of them returning to the U.S. side.
“So Eddy decides, the San Diego group is clean with him, so we go shopping for our old ladies and I’m out a grand?”
Tony nodded—never a man of too many words; he knew the question was a lament. Anyway, he was out a grand too, for his wife had wanted a new dishwasher—the very best. Tony had impressed the Sears salesman by picking it up, whole chassis so to speak, and stuffing it in the trunk of the prowl car the three had used for their diplomatic mission, “Jesus God! What Olympic team did you escape from?”
The Salesman’s jaws came unhinged while Eddy and Pico looked on, enjoying the moment.
On this, the next day after what turned into a shopping trip, Pico had hopes for their present errand at Tres Lobos. Certainly it would bring them the sort of action Pico enjoyed and where he was most skilled.
“I’m going to enjoy beating the shit out of this little weasel.”
Tony glanced at his superior, and controlled an urge to sigh. The vast shouldered man was the sort of henchman who didn’t enjoy his work; however Pico did. That Pico was going to enjoy beating hell out of the coyote who was skimming off the top was a given.
Tony was always the one to push Pico away when just enough had gone over to too much, as it frequently did with Pico. Greedy characters, he knew, like this coyote, commonly peopled the business world of Sheriff Sonny and Mayor Ricardo’s. Some of these enterprises were less mainstream than others.
In fact, Tony was a little afraid of Pico, but he kept his silence. The sergeant was one of Sheriff Sonny’s most trusted messengers, as bag men were often termed within the inner circles of the Sheriff’s 45-officer-large office.
It was late in the afternoon, and the RV’s continued to pour across from a day’s shopping in Cuidad Rio Azure, the unofficial economic seat of Sheriff Sonny and Mayor Ricardo’s sweep of influence. In Rio Azure were two large, modern shopping complexes, free trade zones as it were. The second ranked cash crop of Rincon County was the full and part timers of the RV/retired set. In Rio Azure, international wholesomeness where shoppers felt safe was the innovation that had paid off big. Decent, church-going retirees could shop in mainstream joy without fear of being exposed to the uglier sorts of border town businesses now common hundreds of miles to the southeast. In Rio Azure, the “scum" and their armed carnages were absent. Peace was just good for business, any business.
So, Pico and Tony watched the herds of elephantine vehicles meandering back to various designer RV parks and exclusive bits of desert view property strewn throughout the U.S. side surrounding Rincon City.
At the conclusion of the winter season—sometime in April, usually—the RV’s would pull out, headed to points El Notre, leaving Rincon County to its first-ranked economic cash provider, agriculture, specifically row crops.
Pico checked his watch and got out of the cruiser.
“It’s time. One thing about George and Betty, they’re always on time.”
A leviathan of an RV rumbled down the narrow, immaculately black-topped two line highway—true to form, prompt to the minute. It was one of eight such RV's owned by Mayor Ricardo’s and Sheriff Sonny. In theory they were rentals making up Rincon Enterprises, catering to those unfortunate enough not to show up with their own class A motor home. Those unfortunates, desirous of keeping up appearances for their fellow wash and wear Mommas and Papas sought this harmless pretense. They could then park their less impressive campers or beater Class C’s in an obscure lot and go first cabin.
But the term for them around the Sheriff’s Department was “pirate” RV’s, massive boxes of aluminum and glitz traveling under false appearances, for each one of the eight smuggled things coming in from Mexico, and things going back in. The most common guess was that northbound things probably had two legs and spoke little or no English. What went back south? Anybody’s guess—and that any speculation was best kept to yourself.
Driver George was retired Navy, and knew the value of a schedule, and Betty —an always cheerful, bubbly lady—was right there nipping at his heels if George lagged. They appeared to be your typical snow-bird sorts, spic and span migrants who wandered south and north in their grossly inconvenient tow-behind trailer, part of a massive herd of wandering retirees.
Like most, they were ambitious for a boost to their retirement incomes, to buy the nice items unavailable to those on a modest strict fixed income. Like the Mayor and Sheriff’s other couples, George and Betty saw nothing wrong with a little smuggling, harmless activity that would go on with, or without them.
In fact, at least for George and Betty, they were doing so well they might skip their hoped for Class A Dorado motor home and instead buy that dream house in Hawaii. Recently, they even began to argue over house plans.
Their passenger this day was one Tito Gutierrez. He’d hitched rides over weekly to report in at Rincon Enterprises Canyon City barns, and was a good, chatty sort they had enjoyed. He advised over lunch they should consider buying a full electrical car, rather than a hybrid. George and Betty were surprised that a Mexican like Tito had pretenses to be an ecology nut, so felt somewhat better about upcoming events.
When they pulled into the comparative privacy in the leeward side of the abandoned Tres Lobos Garage, Pico reached out of the window, and gave the thumbs-up gesture to George.
Stopping it with practiced ease, the hum of an electric motor began, and the back end of the RV came open, revealing a cleverly designed custom add-on, a feature on each of the four-million dollar fleet of the eight wonder vehicles Sonny and Mayor had built. This compartment offered security, physical safety and transport to upscale illegals willing to cough up premium amounts to cross the border reliably—without hassle. So many people in America had a, stubborn image of illegals as peons, creeping over and under fences, through diverse snake-infested deserts seeking U.S. wealth and benefice. In just a few months, this upscale service was "escorting" hundreds across, and from dozens of different countries around the world.
The Mayor and Sonny saw a need, and filled it.
From the clandestine hatch strutted Tito Gutierrez, in reality a senior Coyote who worked many years for Rincon Enterprises—the endlessly useful business euphemism for Sheriff Sonny and Mayor Ricardo’s mercantile enterprises.
Tito wore a friendly smile, typical of the man, and carried the expected satchel, but when he handed it over, Pico hefted it, and looking to Tony mused, “A little light, isn’t it.” Then kicked Tito in the groin, then the ribs—where Tony fielded him from the dirt, and began bouncing him off the side of the RV.
“You think they’ll do permanent damage?” offered Betty, wincing at the sounds coming from the aft section of their ship. George shrugged, pointed out that it wasn’t their RV. He was the driver, the coyote was just a swindler, and the men were doing their job, as were he and Betty.
“Chain of Duty. Really, it isn’t too unlike the Navy, in a way, Honey.”
"Well, George, I meant poor Tito."
"Oh, he'll survive, Hon'."
The RV, despite its great size, rocked a bit with the impact of Tito’s vigorous headers. Consequently, through the false bulkhead, George heard the twenty illegals calling out in alarm, so George switched on the intercom and assured them in awkward Spanish, that there was going to be a delay—but, they’d get to where they were going, no problem.
Actually, there were thousands who would have paid plenty to witness the job done on the repugnant Tito, who in a long career had routinely worked diverse double-crosses on those—mostly Mexicans—wishing to come across on more economical means. However, you didn't double-cross Sonny and His Honor, not if you were a greedy, superficial scum like Tito.
Suddenly, in the strictest meaning of the word “appeared”, around the corner of the old garage, a peculiar looking vehicle appeared—its driver’s side door opened in a strange way, out and up. Exiting was a man dressed entirely in gray, wearing a red kerchief wrapped flat around his head and a coal-black half-mask.
And it was at this moment that El Cazador was born onto the public mythology of Rincon County. On a more practical level, the instant when things began to go seriously downhill for Rincon Enterprises.
What happened after he emerged from the Lamborghini stolen from Junior Ricardo varies in specifics according to who was doing the narration, a problem common in the aftermath of such incidents. But, no matter, generally it was a moment of wonder and drama. It was the fuel by which the coming fires became hot and consuming.
Premonitions
Sheriff Sonny watched through the one-way window into the interrogation room while Dr. Singhra Ligh, assisted by a nurse, sewed Tito Gutierrez’s nose back on. “Oh, Sheriff Sonny, please I cannot do this without a proper operating theater. Please to bring this ailing person here at the hospital at once, and the nose, of course.”
But Sonny wanted the lid screwed down on the messiness that went down at Tres Lobos. And his objective wasn’t consistent with sewing the likes of Tito Gutierrez’s snout back on in a public ER; it wasn’t good business—not until he found out just what in hell happened. And the doctor? He would do as instructed, and indeed, did.
For now it was time for some slow, thoughtful illumination of events. Sonny looked over at his co-observers, and drew a patient breath.
“OK, tell me again. Just plain words,” he looked up at his companions and gestured to George, “. . . you seem to have seen the most, overall, George, so—be so kind.”
Sonny followed up with a polite 'continue' gesture with his hand. In back of Sonny was Tony Gato, George sans Betty, and a downtrodden Sergeant Pico—standing behind them was Eddy Rodriguez. The lieutenant listened though his interests were clearly divided between events and the arcane medical art of sewing a nose back onto a human face.
“Well Sheriff, like Betty said, he just drove up in that little speedster, you know, Junior’s Italian whatever, then after getting out, just big-as-you-pleased, waved at us, “
“Yes, as a greeting,”
Sonny —and all—paused when a young deputy handed coffee through the door, and it was decided who got black, cream, cream and sugar. When Guiterrez moaned again, Sonny —in the interests of audio decorum—reached over and turned the speakercom down. All now served coffee, he nodded to George to resume,
“So, after he waved to you—in greeting: Go ahead.”
“I went for the .45 under the seat, you know, not the scattergun, when I saw him, but he was fast . . . “
“Very fucking fast.”
Pico grunted this interjection—he still nursed a badly mangled ego—and Sonny et. al allowed him that coarser comment; George continued. “Yeah, fast. And he was out of sight, around the corner of the RV, and had that goddamned, hideous Mexican pig-sticker to Tony’s throat before I knew what in hell was going on, you know.”
Sonny closed his eyes, and repeated, “Then he says, ‘to toss down all the weapons’ and everyone dutifully marches down the highway from the old garage as he ordered?”
“Right. He picks up the weapons—and the cell phones, those too—tosses them up on the roof of the garage, picks up the satchel, says something to Tito, cuts off his nose with that blasted machete, gets in Junior’s goddamned car and takes off. It all took maybe five minutes, hell, three minutes—tops, absolutely maximum.“
“And when he drove past, he waved goodbye?”
“Right. After waving goodbye.”
Sonny drank more coffee, smiled and looked over at Eddy. In the interrogation room—now operating theater—Tito’s nose was back on, and the two-person medical team was finishing up.
“Well Eddy, you’re the detective, what do you think? You’ve heard it all, sundry and various.”
Eddy drew a breath, made a face, meaning ‘what else is there to say’ but did as asked.
“That one man with a Mexacali flip-knife held up four people, one of which was armed with a pistol and a shotgun, the other trained police officers with Glock 9mm handguns; then took the, ah, dispatch satchel, and cut the nose off a double dealing asshole named Tito. And, he used a stolen 1/3rd of a million dollar car, as a way of further saying—well, a statement of contempt. A message? “
Sonny nodded in total approval of the summation, looked up to Pico, lifted his shoulders, asking silently ‘Want to add something else’, and waited. Pico pouted, and George, trying to keep his voice hopeful added,
“He would have slit Tony throat, Sonny. He had him cold. We couldn’t do a thing. As it was, he cut him.”
Sonny blinked and his voice softened—became even quieter, then looked sympathetically at Tony, who sported a neat, large bandage over half his throat.
“Do you know, George, what was in that satchel?’
“I assume money.”
“And you assume right, always very important to us. Now, Lieutenant Rodriguez and I need to confer, so Pico, you and Tony arrange transportation for our medical team and, ah—-your mutilated guest. George, that’ll be about it. We’ll keep you informed. And, of course, mum is the word about this.”
When they left, Eddy sat, stirred another packet of sugar into his coffee and groaned just a bit—almost inaudibly.
A side door came open, admitting His Honor who was unusually quiet—or rather, not blustery. He’d heard everything, for in true Sheriff Sonny style, the observation room itself had an observation room, which His Honor utilized.
Sonny leaned to one side, closed the blinds on the interrogation room, and looked sadly at the Mayor. He chewed the corner of his mustache, meaning he was nervous. He had right to be. He tossed a frustrated arm in the direction of the now shaded window.
“Who was it, do you think?”
Sonny looked at Eddy.
"What do you think, Eddy? Do we have the full story?"
"No way. Probably have about seventy five percent of it. They got caught with their pants down, were robbed, and that piss ant Tito did get his nose cut off."
"I'll accept that assessment,” and he looked at the Mayor, shrugging his answer—which was a non-answer.
“Ernie, its all speculation now. Maybe an outside cartel from way down south desiring to be inside. And the why? Maybe they're trying to provoke a war in the world of the established cartels. "
The Mayor knew that along the border—south of the U.S. line, the Mondragons ruled along the Rio Azure, and absolutely called the plays regards the two official crossings, and the countless unofficial ones. But, on the U.S. side, the two official crossings were Sonny and His Honor’s territory.
Mayor Ricardo formed a fist, and rubbed it against an open palm.
“Vultures attacking vultures?”
Sonny winced a tad. His Honor wasn’t keen with his analogies. After all, fighting cocks were his spiritual and intellectual forte. Their moral view was from inside the pot, looking over into the kettle. Anybody with County or Sheriff's Department connections in a supervisory position shared in the lucrative proceeds. There were dozens of minor and major operations under the protective umbrella of His Honor and Sheriff Sonny's profitable world.
And necessity required that all those operations give something of a respectful financial taste to the Sonora Cartel, whose cooperation—active or inactive—was required. Still, the reverse was also true—the Mondragons needed the cooperation of officialdom on the U.S. side.
It pleased Sonny more to avoid vulture imagery entirely—there were better animals. Essentially, the Mayor and Sonny were the foxes, and the Mondragons were the hungry, watchful bears. Very watchful.
And Sonny, for one, was good at being aware.
Sonny looked over at Eddy, hummed a bit of a tuneless melody—thinking a bit, then decided, “OK. Check it out Eddy. But this is touchy stuff—so way back under the hood and be cool, but check it out. So, keep me informed, all the way.”
“Right.”
Eddy exited, realizing that some higher-level conferring was in store.
Initially the conferring was more in the sense of tension than words. For initially the Mayor and Sheriff sat silently—as two men should who might have escaped a catastrophic collision.
“This just wasn’t a holdup. What do you think this masked asshole was looking for? And for whom?”
Sonny squinted and made something of a long face.
“No? He did take the satchel. Didn’t look inside the RV. What bothers me is that he had your son’s wheels. It doesn’t make sense for cartel trouble. A territorial war would be a mess. No one wants a Juarez here."
“How did he find out about Tito and the satchel?,” but after a pause, the Mayor answered his own question—scowling. “. . . . that goddamned Tito has a big mouth.”
And they settled back into ruminations about topics such as big talkers, coincidences and even darker scenarios. They were the old established and accepted mortar of corruption along the U.S./Mexico border. No more, no less, as endemic as heat in the desert.
The county’s chief executive knew what his strong and weak points were. The Mayor was a man of grand physicality, and he didn’t like thoughtful situations at all—he couldn’t sense where to start. He looked at Sonny, always the more insightful of the two.
“Why the Lone Ranger getup?’
Sonny might have tried to explain a larger truth to His Honor, but gave up before starting. The Mayor wasn’t the sort to understand that it was a strange life, their world along the U.S./Mexican Border. It consisted of illusions and changing guises Getups, of one sort or another, were anything but unusual.
So, instead Sonny opined a need for patience to allow the inflow of more information.
The Mayor turned and—just before exiting offered as he probably should not have, "You know, Sonny. I keep tabs on the politics and business ends of things, and security is yours. I'm pretty much relying on you here.”
Sheriff Sonny freeze-framed bringing up coffee to lips—and slowly lowered it back to the table top. As someone might a recalcitrant teenager who'd questioned their parent's judgment, Sonny's voice became instructional and questioning, all in a one.
"You didn't think, that with all the different layers we've put on this wonderful piece of cake we have, it would be all good times and high profits, did you, Ernie? That nobody might not want to cut themselves in, or otherwise take umbrage?"
"I didn't say that."
"Good," he raised the coffee and tasted it, wrinkling his nose in disdain, and then looking up to His Honor, "No sugar. I hate it when it gets cool and isn't sweet," then dropping cup, coffee and all, into a waste basket allowed the lighter, good-fellowship tone to return,
"So, Ernie. Eddy is a good man. He'll find out things. I'll find out things. You'll find out things," and then Sonny smiled and added playfully, ". . . . And who was that Masked Man, anyway?"
And chuckled while the Mayor shook his head and exited. Alone in the observation room, Sonny leaned back, enjoying these few minutes, with bare walls—and more than anything, the rich silence of No Issues Immediate . A royal moment of reflection.
Those Who Sitteth on the Right Hand
The Birth of El Cazador
His given name was Bounty, but at school they called him Howie the Hustler. True to his nick-name the urchin had negotiated a higher-than-usual broker’s cut to sell his sister’s three-dozen chicks at the Rincon City Farmer’s Market. He loved and understood the market, and knew something like it would develop into his career, this despite his eleven years, seven months and six days on the planet.
He emerged very cautiously from the roadside chaparral, and with the box of noisy chicks, looked up and down highway, confirming this was indeed the best place to catch a ride into town. He heard the first car heading his way, and Howie the Hustler had little time to wonder at its strange, delicate sound when it rounded the curve, coming into sight and all in one very cool, noiseless move, stopped. Its engine sounded as he imagined a low, throaty purring of a sleeping lion might.
To the youngster the Lamborghini looked more like—well, Howie didn’t know what it looked like. But it was a car, and it did stop. The weird door opened up and out, like something on a space ship, and the man inside yelled for him to ‘get in’ in Spanish.
“This is a strange car”, observed Howie as he carefully fit first the chicks in, then himself, strapping up. There was barely room for anything. His benefactor wore solid grey trousers and turtle neck, a speckled head kerchief, like the kind they put around their dog Beulah’s neck, and most unusually, a black half-mask.
“This is a very expensive car, little one.” The driver first offered in Spanish, then seeing the boy was Anglo, guessed English would do, switched and repeated the information in English, then,
“And I suppose you are taking the chicks to market?”
“Do you need good laying hens? These are the best. And cheap.”
After all, if Howie could drive an effective bargain here and now, then he could return home and go fishing—a day’s hooky serving double duty.
“And they are all hens, pullets?”
“Oh, of course.”
“I have no need of either pullets or cockerels, youngster.”
And they drove on, and Howie was of two minds—he loved the market, plus he would drive a much higher bargain there. Yet, of all the hitching he did up and down Highway 19, a mostly twisting route that went through the middle of the Sierra Majesticos, this ride was the topper.
“Why are you wearing a mask?’
“Well,” the man thought a bit, “. . . I’m going to a party of sorts.”
Howie looked in the tiny back seat, and his chicks sat well there, actually atop two bundles of papers, or leaflets.
“It is early for a party.”
“Yes. But,” the driver laughed, “. . . better early to a party than late, right?”
Howie laughed, he liked the man, who had a nice smile and despite his strange dress and certainly the car, he pegged right away as a neat guy. He would be a good friend. Howie stuck out his hand; he was a natural marketer.
“My name is Howie, I’m glad to meet you.” They shook hands, and while doing so, Howie asked, very logically, “. . . . and what’s yours?”
At that point, the man put both hands back on the wheel, shifted into another gear as they came out of the last, and longest curve that would take them down into the plateau where Rincon City was. He seemed to be thinking, then,
“El Cazador, I think. El Cazador it is.”
“The hunter. What do you hunt? Wild pigs—peccaries?”
“Oh, I guess, yes pigs”, he laughed, then gesturing in the back with his head, chuckled, “Now, at the market, are you going to lie to the good people, and tell them all those chicks are all pullets, or will you tell them the truth, Howie?”
In a flash, Howie liked the man even more. And the wily urchin put a bunch of puzzle pieces together in his typical fashion and shrugged,
“Well, I don’t know. Well you tell everyone today you are going to a party?’
The two rogues shared a great laugh as the car sped past Edwin J. Arnold, a newly graduated California Highway Patrolman on the job for the first week. The weird car was doing 87 mph in a 45 zone, and was seemingly gone before it arrived.
Edwin was after it at once, and brought his powerful cruiser above 95 mph like a shot. What sort of sportster, or whatever, had that been? Well, he would find out soon enough, and the driver would be looking at a multi-point speeding ticket and a stout fine.
One for Two, and Two for All
Clair and Frederick let Georgio out at Alvarado and County Route 12, a block down from where he parked his car. The minute she pulled away, she lifted her hand from the steering wheel of the car and warned,
“Not a word, Most Holy One, or I’ll smack you a good one.”
Clair was the Chief Administrator of the consortium of social agencies serving the underprivileged in Rincon County, and even across the border into Mexico. Frederick watched as she pulled out her hidden pack of Virginia Slims and had the first of her two-cigarette allotment for the day—her secret socially abhorrent vice. They were twins, and fought about everything yet were unceasingly supportive of each other before others. But even between each other they agreed on two things: Their father, though a genial, good person, was a moral sell out to good living and authority; secondly, the County of Rincon was led by blackguards of the worst sort.
All else was negotiable through debate, including Clair’s dating and Frederick’s non-dating. Dating was the operating euphemism for those like Georgio, a near-do-well tag-in and wannabee Flamenco guitarist. Georgio was one of the males with whom Clair had "an occasional" with. When Frederick had gotten in her car for his morning commute to the paper, he acknowledged Georgio with a nod, and they’d talked a little Buddhism.
Upon his departure, Frederick returned to his mild ribbing of that secret "bad girl" contained within the core of his twin sister.
“Oh, we are a naughty girl, aren't we?! If all your Humanitarian and Social Justice associates knew you smoked tobacco and an occasional blast of wacky-tabaccy—plus did one night stands with guitarists, boy would your stock plunge! For starters, I bet you’d have to eat by yourself—they’d be afraid of taking in 2nd hand smoke off your clothes. Fear for their children’s’ morality, at a minimum. You’d be a pariah. I mean, at center, I have a sister who is a biker-moll.”
She smiled with mock villainy, blew a bit of smoke his way and nodded in the manner of a knowing fellow sinner,
“And if all your meditation and Eastern Religion students knew you spent your four years in Laos kicking the stuffings out of little guys half your size instead of studying to be a Saint, you’d eat alone too, Frederick. Phony asshole.”
He sighed dramatically at the coarseness of it all—the hopelessness of his twin sister’s irredeemable cynicism when it came to “little brother Frederick” (by 45 minutes) . She and Father O'Leary knew of his far-from-romantic charitable activities in Laos, instead accepting the truth—or the basic truth. This truth was, Frederick served four years there, a volunteer with the Catholic Missionary Services. His motives were for good works and to round out his degree in Eastern Religions from Notre Dame.
But a darker activity has developed.
This had developed from his background in intercollegiate boxing. Frederick had raised much money for both the Buddhist and Catholic missions by learning and taking up Laotian Kick Boxing under the tutelage of a half Laotian half Thai retired kick-boxer whose nom-de-guerre wasLic-Loc Rocko. They had meet at the Catholic school and mission where Lic-Loc worked as a general factotum.
Lic-Loc knew betting odds would be long on this Anglo ringer in this cacophonous Laotian variation of Thai Kick Boxing. This prediction proved spot-on through the first year. The partnership had yielded bountiful proceeds for the missions. Finally, the provincial fight promoters wised up, then their nation-wide counterparts.
When Clair had visited Frederick there, she had been unable to watch even practice sessions. But with her his secret was secure, as hers with him. This included even her unlikely fling with Eddy Rodriquez, which officially Frederick didn't know about. But, there was a ways to drive yet this morning, so why not goad?
"You know, every time Eddy sees me, he asks about you. Even told me, you were really hotter than anything remotely like Mama Bomba has working for her."
"Oh, baloney! Eddy wouldn't say that. He's so damned straight-laced."
She laughed anyway at the incredulity of such a statement, considering Eddy's conservative nature. Still, Frederick was fishing around, and he was getting closer to the truth. He’d always wanted to know the entire story, not just part. The situation had stunned him.
For the embarrassing reality was, Eddy Rodriquez and Clair had bolted away on a surprising four day holiday on an alleged test-of-nerves gone too far. According to Clair it happened because of the corrupt Lieutenant’s smugness. She’d wanted to "call his bluff", and it seemed to have concluded with the combatants, as it were, somewhat abashed in opposing corners.
It had happened at a sensitive time for Eddy Rodriquez. His heretofore uncontested divorce from his wife increased in temperature when his wife remarried and moved to Chicago with her new husband. The issue of the children had added a thicker, tougher layer to the proceedings. In the end, Eddy Rodriquez had to take what the court gave, which was very little.
But regardless, he did make his move on Clair. She had a public profile to maintain, plus, she didn't like or respect cops who took bribes, for everyone in the county knew the Sheriff's Department upper echelons were dirty. It was something of a perk that went along with promotion. Yet, there was no room for cops-on-the-take in Clair's world, even personable, charming ones like Eddy.
And she resented smug cops—honest or crooked.
Prior to their showdown weekend, had Eddy guessed that surprise coupled with Clair’s vanity and contrariness might yield results?
It was an expertly timed maneuver, and it was a year ago when he'd launched it. In fact, since he and Frederick belonged to the same Jai Alai Club, she was suspicious: Had Eddy been set up by her sibling’s inaccurate coaching, assuming the embarrassment it would cause, knowing her disdain for cooked cops.
But, she was wrong. It was Eddy’s idea alone.
They had just gotten through with a social services procedure at the courthouse regards a poor family whose father had gone to jail. They were on the courthouse steps exchanging at bit of small talk, when he gestured to the north and asked, "I've been comp'ed to a long weekend for two at Squaw Valley Hilton, so let's you and I go there and live the life of royalty for a long weekend. I'll pick you up after work at your place."
That was in an hour and a half. Eddy leaned back just a bit, then laughed in his completely winning manner. Had he grinned, perhaps gloating over his unlikely surprise—and her shock? He was having a grand male time of it, putting her alleged "Saint Claire" reputation into a sort of comedic send-up—no doubt. Clair was angry and wanted instant retaliation. Knowing of his child custody battle, she was sure it was a bluff. And she squelched his teasing laugh and smugness with an offhand, 'OK, I’ve never been there actually.'
If it was a bluff, her calling it funneled them both into quite a confusing vortex.
And even with Frederick, she'd taken strict and conservative editorial liberty with the events of those four days.
Now, a year later, she still had to evade Frederick’s occasional fishing expeditions regard that extraordinary weekend: Two people, of vastly different stripe, on holiday, as it were. She drew a patient breath, and adopted her sisterly, tolerant tone.
"Eddy, unlike you dearest brother, is a gentleman, and if he knew I told you about Squaw Valley, he'd melt. He was a man in a mean struggle over child custody. He's a father—and a very conservative guy," she paused, lost her smile, and added, ". . . for a cop on the take."
Frederick decided to drop it—once they fought when he tried to defend his Jai Alai opponent, for he liked Eddy a lot. If he was on the take, which he was, it fell in with Sheriff Sonny's modus operandi for his command staff—traditional conduct.
As Clair turned onto the main street and into view of passersby, she carefully stubbed out her cigarette and discarded it in a special designer box. Frederick smiled, despite not looking forward to his work day. Deadline was at 4:30 p.m. In any newspaper office, it was a difficult time. She suddenly remembered a nagging question,
“By the way, did you ever find out what happened at Tres Lobos?”
She was always curious about events of possible illicit activity, so Frederick's newspaper sources were regularly monitored by Big Sister.
“Something un-nice came down out there involving a couple of Sonny’s goons.”
“Nada. Lid is tight on that one.”
Clair slumped a bit. It wasn’t an open county, news-wise. That their father accepted these official ‘lids’ galled both his children.
She had just turned onto the main thoroughfare when here and there—in corners, doorways—they began to notice red sheets of paper. Occasionally a pedestrian would be reading one. Frederick closed his eyes—a lament crept into his voice.
“Oh, I hope they aren’t Johnny Cicero’s doing. Somehow, we always get involved for having printed them up.”
Johnny Cicero’s was a local hardhead with an old beater Cessna 150. Occasionally, he did a massive leaflet drop over Rincon City, advocating one view or another—usually a zoning grievance. He would be busted, fined for littering, and several other diverse violations — usually for not having any one of a half dozen permits. And Mr. Cicero would allow judicial ire to cool for a month or three, then repeat same. Each time during the last year, the fines would get higher—now, jail time was promised.
But, it was news. Each time.
“Stop. Let me snag one.”
And they did, and on the remaining way to the paper Junior read aloud, preparing to render a comic reading of whatever grievance it was, until he was confronted with the Spanish.
“It’s in Spanish,” Clair’s brow wrinkled, and as she pulled up before Announcer offices, listened while — since he was fluent in Spanish—Frederick translated and read aloud,
“Brothers, Sisters. This County is being led by thieves who use their elected offices to make themselves rich at the expense of poor people, betraying the citizens who trust them. Be Informed: Their evil will be revealed. With the liberation and coming redistribution of the illicit funds at Tres Lobos it has begun.” (Signed) A Fellow Citizen
To brother and sister the pamphlet was the beginning of what could only be a dream scenario. Clair snatched the pamphlet away from Brother Frederick, and though poorer in written Spanish—suspecting her sibling of a ruse— began to make her own translation. But it was recaptured by Frederick, who snatched it away, jumped from the car and sprinted to the back door of the Announcer.
“Mine! I saw it first.”
And he allowed himself a war whoop, elevated the leaflet above his head and did an exaggerated high-step into the front door of the Announcer. Clair yelled,
“It’s a hoax!”
Frederick signed off by sticking his head back out the door, aiming at her with the hand holding the pamphlet, “Maybe so, maybe not. Sniff around —get back to me.”
Oh, Clair would sniff around all right; she was a prime sniffer. Even if a ruse, the whole town would be boiling their teakettles about this. Now they’d surely find out what happened at Tres Lobos.
Cubans, Germans and Irishmen
With a free left hand Padre Manuel scratched a four-day growth of grizzled whiskers and looked down at the red pamphlet held in the right. He listened to Mrs. Contes narrate events with unbridled effervescence. She’d seen all the excitement resulting from the wild sowing of pamphlets coming from the market plaza. She reveled in a good story—and if it lacked action, she’d make it so. She punctuated her narratives with gestures, raised eyebrows—lowering and raising the voice to fit various dramatic points.
Now, she lowered her voice, speaking to Padre Manuel as if in gravest confidence,
“And, another thing Father, this man is very good with that car. With these papers flowing out of it, like— “ she cast about for a word, raised her voice, “. .. like laundry, out they go, zip, whoosh, he was speeding around in his little car like the wind …” Padre Manuel raised the leaflet. His expressive eyebrows rose in wonder, then he gestured questioningly at the pamphlet; Mrs. Contes nodded, “. . . right all of the leaflets, are just like that. And he had this siren—different,” she lowered her voice, “. . . oogah, oogah. So, everybody ran out of his way. And the police were after him, and they had their sirens—their lights on—this policemen, that policemen, here—there! But, Father, they never caught him. They could not catch him, and soon he was gone. It was more excitement than six years back when that scandalous fight broke out during Saint Isidore’s Grand Processional.”
Padre Manuel—as any long time resident of Rincon County would—knew this pamphlet meant trouble, unless it was a very bad joke, and even then, there was the car. It was one of the poorest kept secrets, county wide.
“You realize, Mrs. Contes, that he stole that car. This is no hero, but a thief.”
“The car is crazy. That lazy Junior Ricardo spends all that evil money on a car. He deserves for it to be stolen. This man, he liberated the car.”
This was indeed a different morning, along with his morning coffee and Mrs. Contes’ News-From-The-Barrio, came this thunderclap. He’d left his glasses in his room, so could make nothing out of the pamphlet's message and depended on Mrs. Contes paraphrasing, which was something like, “All you politicians are thieves and you’ll pay.’ He would like to attempt a more comprehensive approach—for even without glasses, Padre Manuel could tell there was more information.
“Could you please, Mrs. Contes, bring me my glasses from my night stand—-oh no, not this moment. First please, the coffee.”
She talked on, for her’s was a routine life, taking care of this rectory and three smaller ones—also Monsignor Krauss, then poor Father O’Leary and himself, all—in a way—doing penance at Saint Isidore’s, though after 50 years in the parish, perhaps Padre Manuel's penance was served. The Monsignor and Father O’Leary were both Cistercians priest/monks who’d been ‘banished’ (Padre Manuel’s word) to St. Isadore Parish. This was done in hopes that in this rural, remorsefully priest-poor parish, they would work themselves into emaciated wisps, and never trouble church higher ups again.
Even he, at 81 years of age, took as much of the wide-ranging 18 church international circuit as he could, despite both O’Leary and Monsignor Krauss objections. Monsignor even went so far as to call upon his holy position since he was in charge of the entire parish. Drawing himself to his full Teutonic stature he proclaimed, “I am your superior, and I order you no longer to travel the circuit in total.”
But, that didn’t do any good either.