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.

*