Southtown

Page 9

 

  Seven cars before Erainya Manos reached the drop-off point.

  Wil thought about the first time he’d met Soledad, in the burning fields.

  It had been one of Dimebox Ortiz’s stupider ideas. He’d decided to let this group of il egals out of the truck just before the Border Patrol checkpoint, let them walk a few miles through the sugarcane fields, then pick them up on the other side. He forgot it was March—burning season.

  Next thing, he was cal ing Wil in a panic. Dimebox was at the rendezvous point and the il egals weren’t there. He saw smoke—the whole area where the group was supposed to walk was on fire. Farmers were burning their crops as part of the yearly harvest.

  Fortunately, Wil had been working a deal down in Harlingen, only a couple of miles away. He dropped what he was doing and got there in under ten minutes.

  By that time, he could hear the screaming. And if he could hear it, he figured the farmers and the Border Patrol could, too.

  He ran into the fields, toward the fire, and a young woman burst through the sugarcane. She was coughing, smoke rising from her clothes. She smel ed like burnt syrup.

  She crashed right into his arms and said in Spanish, “There are two more! Right in there!”

  Wil heard a megaphone in the distance. Border Patrol: instructions in Spanish, warning the il egals to get out of the fields.

  “No tiempo,” Stirman told the woman. “La Migra. ”

  He started to pul her toward the truck, but she fought him. Her strength surprised him.

  “You will get them!” she ordered.

  Wil looked at her seriously for the first time. She could have been a special order. She was that beautiful.

  Maybe seventeen. Mayan complexion, large eyes, long black hair. She wore a man’s denim work shirt and tattered jeans. She was barefoot. But Wil could imagine her cleaned up, in a nice dress. Getting her north would be enough to turn a profit from this disaster.

  “Al right,” he said. “Wait here. ”

  He plunged into the fields. The Border Patrol megaphone was getting louder. If La Migra found Wil , or Dimebox Ortiz waiting in his truck up the road, they would start asking questions. Wil would be screwed.

  He found two older women col apsed in the smoke, and managed to get them to stand. They leaned on him, coughing and stumbling, and together they got away from the fire. The younger woman helped him get them to the truck.

  “What about al the others?” the girl asked.

  Wil looked at her, ready to hit her, but he restrained himself. “They are dead, or taken. If we don’t leave now, you wil be, too. ”

  He could tel she didn’t like it, but she let him put her in the back of the truck. Wil got in back, too. He wasn’t sure why. He let Ortiz do the driving.

  As they were heading north, the two older women col apsed in the corner, the girl asked him, “Are you real y going to let us go in San Antonio?”

  Wil was about to give his standard lie, but her eyes stopped him. He wasn’t used to seeing such fight.

  Usual y the young women were placid. They did what they were told. They were too terrified not to.

  He said, “What’s your name?”

  “Soledad. ”

  Loneliness. He liked that name.

  She had a single piece of jewelry—a silver Saint Anthony charm hanging on a necklace between her breasts. Wil ’s cargo rarely wore jewelry. They rarely had any left to wear, after they’d paid him. The medal ion must have been important to her.

  “You’re going to have to work in San Antonio,” he told her. “Work for men. Do you understand?”

  Her eyes bored into him. He started to feel uncomfortable.

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “You’re not going to let me. ”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because of the fields,” she said. “You owe me a debt. ”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  She slapped him across the face.

  He was too surprised to react.

  They sat there in silence, sweating in the heat and the smel of burnt sugar. Soledad ignored him, but Wil kept looking at her, and the more he looked, the more he couldn’t stop looking.

  In San Antonio, he let Dimebox Ortiz take the women to get cleaned up. Dimebox agreed that Soledad would fetch a good price. Wil didn’t like the way Dimebox looked at her.

  After three sleepless nights, Wil showed up at the auction and paid Soledad’s price himself. He outbid his own clients. Five thousand dol ars.

  Something in her eyes told him that Soledad wasn’t surprised. She knew he would come. She grabbed his hand and started pul ing him toward the door, as if he was the one who had been purchased.

  When he hesitated, she said, “Wel ? Are you scared of me?”

  Wil had paid for a lifetime with her. Soledad had lived just over a year.

  For that, someone owed Wil a debt.

  There were now three cars in front of Erainya Manos.

  Wil could step outside, calmly walk over to her Audi. He could get in the back seat, press his gun against the kid’s spine, tel Erainya Manos to pul out of line and drive. That would work—simple and clean.

  Two cars in front of her.

  Wil hated that Fred Barrow was dead. The fact this woman had shot Barrow didn’t make Wil fond of her.

  On the contrary, she had cheated him. She had messed up his revenge.

  The other PI, Sam Barrera—Wil knew how to handle him. Barrera was a dealmaker. He would’ve gotten the video by now. He would fol ow instructions. He’d think he could control the situation without going to the police, and his overconfidence would kil him.

  But Fred Barrow’s widow—she was a wild card. Wil didn’t know her wel enough. He couldn’t kil her until he was sure he would get what he needed.

  One car left in the drop-off line.

  He had sworn on Soledad’s memory that he would not hurt women or children. Never again. He would not become like his enemies.

  He imagined Fred Barrow grinning from his little corner of hel , mocking Wil ’s resolve: Think you’re better than me, asshole? Walk away.

  Wil watched Erainya’s boy get out of the Audi with his soccer gear.

  The carpool attendant clapped the boy on the back. The boy went jogging off toward the building. Fred Barrow’s widow pul ed away and was gone.

  A security guard appeared at Wil ’s car window. Wil hadn’t even seen him coming.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Wil wanted to drive a switchblade into the young man’s throat.

  Instead he said, “Supposed to get my son. I must’ve got it wrong. When’s pickup for soccer?”

  “It hasn’t even started yet, sir. You probably read the drop-off time. ”

  “I probably did. ”

  “Pickup time is two o’clock. ”

  “Oh, hel . Two. Sure. ”

  Wil pul ed out, waving his thanks, and took the school exit at a leisurely ten miles an hour.

  Two o’clock. Time to oil his gun and make plans about the boy.

  No more indecision.

  Erainya Manos would cooperate. Hel , yes, she would.

  Chapter 6

  I was sure Jem’s soccer coach would cause a general uprising by the end of the summer season.

  The guy was an unpaid volunteer who knew next to nothing about soccer. He came in late every day of practice, looking like he’d been up al night doing things a role model for little kids shouldn’t do.

  On the other hand, the school was too cheap to hire a real coach. None of the parents could or would volunteer. So when the kids were close to tears, thinking their summer season might be canceled, this guy had been the only knucklehead dumb enough to commit every Tuesday and Thursday morning, plus Saturday games, for the rest of the summer.

  “Tres!” Jem yel ed as I walked in the boys’ bathroom. Then he corrected himself. “Coach!”

  The Garcia twins were hitting each othe
r with their shin guards.

  Paul had dumped somebody’s clothes in the urinal.

  Jack was climbing over the door of the stal while another kid whose name I couldn’t remember tried to climb underneath.

  The other boys were in various states of lunacy—pul ing shirts over their heads, skating on backpacks, cal ing each other poop-butts.

  I did the only thing a coach can do. I blew my whistle.

  “Ow!” they al said, pul ing on their ears.

  I jumped into the half second of focus I’d created. “On the field, five minutes!”

  They probably heard the first two words. Getting directions across to a group of eight-year-olds is akin to Luke Skywalker hitting the meter-wide vent on the Death Star.

  I ruffled Jem’s hair, told him to hurry out of the bathroom, since I was personal y responsible for his safety, then went to check on the girls. From their bathroom doorway, I heard shril sounds like parakeets being tortured. I yel ed, “Five minutes, ladies!” crossed myself, and headed outside.

  The practice field sat on a ridge overlooking Salado Creek. From any vantage point, the entire city seemed to spread out below one’s feet. Given the school’s wealthy clientele, I was pretty sure the visual message was intentional.

  Unfortunately for frustrated coaches, the edge of the cliff was fenced, so bad children couldn’t go rol ing off into oblivion. It also wasn’t rainy enough to cancel practice, though the sky was heavy gray and the field was spongy.

  I set out cones for a relay race, put al the soccer bal s in a neat line, then watched my plans disintegrate as the troops came charging over the hil .

  Kathleen and Carmen ran screaming straight into the nearest mud puddle and started jumping on top of each other. Paul kicked al the soccer bal s as hard as he could. One of them bounced off Maria, who luckily was the size of a totem pole and didn’t seem to notice.

  Laura hung on my arm. “I’m going to marry Jack!”

  Jack, the object of her affections, lol ed his tongue out of his mouth and barked like a dog.

  “I’m very happy for you,” I said. “Now everybody on the line!”

  No results.

  Even Jem, my faithful sidekick, was right there in the mix, tangling himself in the goalie’s net while the Garcia twins kicked puddle water at him.

  I blew my whistle. “On the line!”

  Nothing.

  “Last one is a rotten egg!” I yel ed.

  A few of them ran to the line.

  “Oh, look,” I announced. “Kathleen’s not the rotten egg! She’s here!”

  “Yay!” Kathleen said, and proceeded to run away, but the others had gotten the idea.

  “I’m not rotten!” said Jack the dog.

  “Me! I’m here!” Laura told me. “I’m going to marry Jack. ”

  Pretty soon I had the whole team of sixteen on the line.

  We practiced kicking around the cones, plowing straight through the cones, picking up the cones, putting them on our heads and singing “Happy Birthday. ”

  We did throw-ins, passes and dribbling, stopping approximately every three minutes for a water break.

  Jack kept barking. Maria kept getting whacked in the head with the bal and not noticing.

  Some of the mothers had gathered on the bleachers to watch and gossip. I wondered: If they have off at this time of day, why didn’t they volunteer?

  I answered myself: Because they are intel igent.

  One hour into practice, it started sprinkling. I considered cal ing an early stop, sending the kids to the extended care building for snacks and board games, but Jem said, “Can we scrimmage now, Tres? PLEEEASE?”