Zia Summer, Rio Grande Fall, Shaman Winter, and Jemez Spring

  Raven relaxed, looked at Sonny. “Burn? Yeah, burn the brujo. Why not. Let the fire burn his soul.” He grinned. “You hear that, Baca? We’re going to make a bonfire. Roasted Baca!”

  He laughed and reached forward to tear Sonny’s shirt. He gasped when he saw the Zia medallion wasn’t hanging on Sonny’s bare chest.

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s safe.” Sonny smiled. “It’s safe and it’s no longer yours. The Zia sun is ours!”

  Raven’s slap drew blood from Sonny’s lips.

  “Stupid! You think because you’re not wearing it I won’t get it? By not wearing it, you leave yourself open to death. Yes, the fire will burn away your soul. You have no protection!”

  He stepped back and shouted at Tallboy and Sweatband. “Burn him! Burn him now!”

  The two quickly made a pile of old papers and wooden crates. “Dry as kindling,” Sweatband said with a grin.

  “The floor’s saturated with oil. It’s going to burn fast,” his accomplice added.

  Raven laughed, and the fiendish sound echoed in the empty warehouse. He grabbed Sonny’s hair and shouted in his face. “A sacrifice to the sun!”

  He took a lighter from his pocket and touched it to the pile. It flared up quickly. Then he leaned close to Sonny. “Enjoy, Baca,” he said.

  He took a black feather from his shirt pocket and stuffed it in Sonny’s. “This fire’s going to do to you what the arroyo did to me. You’re going to feel your flesh burn before you die.”

  “Come on!” Gilroy shouted, and pulled at him.

  The four men turned and ran into the adjoining garage. Sonny heard a car start and roar away; then all was quiet except for the popping of the quickly blazing fire.

  He struggled against the ropes, but it was useless. He was tightly secured to the steel beam. In front of him the fire roared up, engulfing the dry wooden crates and filling the room with thick, dark smoke. Then the fire ignited the oil-soaked floor and began to spread, its fingers racing toward him, its black smoke filling the warehouse.

  Sonny coughed. The smoke would probably asphyxiate him before the flames got to him. That would be more merciful than burning alive. They had left the garage door open, so there was a draft that fed the fire, and the place was a tinderbox.

  Sonny cursed, then shouted for help. He pulled at the ropes again. The thick smoke burned his eyes. In this part of the warehouse district, he thought, people would see the smoke and pretend it wasn’t there. In this part of the city, one didn’t get involved in the dealings. Even if someone sounded an alarm, it would take a long time for the Juárez fire department to arrive; it would be too late. He shouted again, then closed his eyes and prayed.

  “Oh, my God, I am sorry for all my sins … and for being such a lousy son.”

  He thought of his mother. Was she all right? His mother had pleaded for him to give up detective ways, marry Rita, go back to teaching school.

  “You’re a good teacher … the kids need you. It’s steady work, you have the summers free, so what if the kids are wild. They need a strong hand. Quit running around like your brother, Mando.”

  He had wasted his life. Yes, like his brother he had accomplished nothing.

  Diego and his family depended on him. They would have to go back to the river camp.

  And Rita. “Rita,” he murmured. Lord, he would never see Rita again, never hold her in his arms. He had gambled and lost.

  He opened his eyes and squinted through the dark smoke.

  “Don Eliseo!” he shouted, coughed. “Where are the Lords and Ladies of the Light? Los Señores y Señoras? I give them my soul! Let them return me to my ancestors.”

  The old man appeared in the swirling black smoke. “The fire is an element of los Señores de la Luz,” he said. “Every element of the universe is filled with light, participates in light, and returns to light.”

  Too many things left undone, he thought as he inhaled the thick black smoke. He coughed and his head slumped, and just before he passed out, he saw a shadow hovering over him.

  “Charlie Chan!”

  Rough hands shook his shoulders, he heard the snap of a switchblade, and the ropes fell away. Marcos, the cabbie, draped Sonny’s arm over his shoulder and dragged him out of the roaring inferno and out into the street to safety.

  “You okay, bro?” he asked as he pushed Sonny over his cab’s hood.

  Sonny coughed and gasped for air. “Yeah,” he sputtered, gulping the fresh air, which cleared his lungs.

  Behind them the warehouse was a blazing inferno, the oil-soaked wood burned with fury. Somewhere a siren sounded.

  “Let’s not wait for the cops,” Marcos said, and helped Sonny into the cab. He got into the driver’s seat and pulled away, leaving behind them the crackling and exploding fire and a rising column of smoke.

  The fresh air revived Sonny. His lungs and eyes felt burned with smoke; he was coughing, but he was alive.

  “Gracias, bro,” he whispered hoarsely when he caught his breath.

  “De nada.” Marcos smiled. “They worked you over, huh?”

  “A little,” Sonny answered, and gingerly touched his neck and the back of his head, where painful lumps had appeared. They hurt, but it didn’t feel like anything was broken. “I heard them say you had split.”

  “Nah,” Marcos said. “When I saw those two drive up, I went around the block and parked. When I saw them drive out and saw the smoke, I knew you were in trouble.”

  “Yeah,” Sonny said, and slumped back into the seat to cough out the smoke. He owed Marcos his life, the way his bisabuelo Elfego Baca must have owed Billy the Kid his life the first time they hit Alburquerque.

  Elfego and Billy were only sixteen, fresh off the ranch, and they got mixed up with a bad constable in the city. Elfego saw the crooked constable kill a man, and if it hadn’t been for Billy, who drew on the constable and made him back off, Elfego, who had witnessed the event, would have been next.

  They say that’s why he became a lawman later in life, to set things straight.

  Maybe I am the reincarnation of the Bisabuelo, Sonny’s jumbled thoughts told him, come back to fight on the side of law and order, and Raven is part of the evil we’ve been fighting all along.

  “Checkpoint Charlie,” Marcos called out.

  The border, la frontera for the teeming millions, the new space known as Aztlán to the Chicanos, and the bridge across the invisible line, México/U.S.A. The bridge binding two nations, and separating them as well.

  Hundreds of Mexicans were returning home to the colonias of Juárez; after earning the pittance for a day’s work, they returned home to their shanties. Silent masses of Mexican workers hurrying to their homes, the dark faces of the mestizos and Indians returning with one day’s meager hope in their pockets.

  Sonny blew his nose and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The Customs agent looked mean.

  “Citizenship?” he asked, peering in on Sonny.

  “U.S.A.,” Sonny answered.

  “What were you doing in Mexico?”

  “Just having a good time,” Sonny replied. “I guess I drank a little too much …”

  “Got proof of citizenship?”

  Sonny dug through his empty wallet and fished out his driver’s license. “I didn’t know it’d be a hassle just to cross over and have a drink,” he protested.

  Marcos frowned in the rearview mirror. His look said, Don’t you know you’re supposed to act obedient? They can make life miserable for you if they don’t like the way you look.

  “You saying this is a hassle, Mr. Baca?” the agent asked, looking up from the license. His voice was cold, his look stern.

  “No,” Sonny whispered.

  “Looks like you’ve been in a fight, Mr. Baca.”

  “No, just had too much to drink. I tripped. You know the sidewalks, full of potholes.”

  He tried to grin, but the agent wasn’t buying it.

  “Would you mind stepping out of the vehicle?”


  Sonny stepped out and the agent lifted the car seat.

  “Pop the trunk,” he ordered Marcos, and looked in. “You bringing in any liquor, Mr. Baca?”

  “No, nothing,” Sonny answered, and lowered his eyes. Marcos’s frown had told him to be cool, play the dumb role.

  The agent put his sunglasses back on and turned to Marcos. “Lemme see your license.” Marcos flashed his license but said nothing.

  The agent flipped the license back, said, “Move on,” and signaled the next car in line to come forward.

  “Cabrón.” Marcos seethed. “They act real macho. Like to make us squirm. Jodidos,” he cursed, and drove away.

  “Hey, we made it.” Sonny calmed him. He didn’t like having to play games with the agent, but that’s the way it was.

  Marcos looked in the rearview mirror. “They tried to kill you. Was it Carillo’s boys?”

  “No,” Sonny replied, “I think even bigger boys.”

  As they entered El Paso, he told Marcos part of the story.

  “So they get the stuff to ’Burque and put it in hot-air balloons. Then what?” Marcos said as they drove into Segundo Barrio. “I don’t get it.”

  “I don’t either. What I’m thinking is that the balloon thing is a diversion. They make a lot of noise, let everyone focus on the balloons, then slip it out some other way.”

  “Makes sense,” Marcos agreed.

  “Hey, where we going?” Sonny asked.

  “What time’s your return flight?”

  “There’s a flight at four. Gilroy probably made that one. The next is at eight. I’ll take that one.”

  “And you’re broke, right?”

  Sonny nodded. “I can send you the money when I get home.”

  “Hey, if I wanted to make money I could do that by pushing the stuff you’re trying to stop. Yeah, I did a little of that. But now I’m married, have kids, I straightened out. So we’ve got till eight. How about a fría and fresh air. The day’s shot, man, so let’s pick up my familia and go out.”

  Sonny smiled. He was still clearing out his lungs, and he couldn’t think of anything else he’d rather do than sit back with a cold Corona. “One problem,” Sonny added. “I’m still broke.”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it, man. One homeboy helps another here.”

  Marcos lived in Segundo Barrio, a Mexicano barrio. The streets bustled with the steady movement of people. Sonny recognized the Spanish in the sounds on the street and on the signs above the talleres and restaurants.

  Linda, Marcos’s wife, was a warm, pleasant woman. Marcos told her the story, and she fussed over Sonny, making sure he drank plenty of water. Marcos’s children had just come home from school, five kids ranging in age from six to fourteen, and they also wanted to know about Sonny.

  “He’s a friend,” Marcos explained, “and we’re going to take him downtown.” The children cheered. Downtown was only for Sundays, a once-in-a-while visit. Today their father had rescued someone from the state of New Mexico, and they were going to celebrate.

  Sonny called Rita and explained where he was, and that he would take the evening flight back to Alburquerque. Not to worry, he was in good hands, he assured her. He told her he had followed Gilroy to the warehouse, but nothing about the encounter and the fire. And he told her he was with Marcos and his family.

  “Juárez,” Rita said. “I wish I was there.”

  It was one of her favorite shopping places. The Mexican decor in her restaurant came from the Juárez shops. “Next time, amor,” he said.

  Marcos packed his family into the taxi, and they drove downtown. The October sun was sinking over the Juárez colonias to the west, infusing the barrio with a muted glow. Neighbors visited on the sidewalks in the late afternoon as workers arrived home. Marcos joined the parade of lowriders that crawled down the street.

  The people in the barrio knew Marcos, so they waved, called hello. The kids waved at their friends. It was a special occasion, to drive downtown in their father’s taxi. A very special occasion they attributed to Sonny.

  Marcos drove with a smile on his face. He sank back into the seat and played the role. “Wish I could fix up the car with lifters,” he said, “really make it rock and roll.”

  “Cool, Dad,” one of his kids said.

  “You’re too old to be a lowrider,” his wife kidded him.

  “Ah, no, vieja, a homeboy’s never too old.” He smiled, and they all laughed and sank back in the seats to enjoy the ride.

  Near the Mcllvoy Hotel was a small hole-in-the-wall taqueria that, Marcos said, had the best tacos in El Paso. And the coldest beer.

  “Sabroso,” Sonny kept repeating as he ate the hot tacos. Each corn tortilla was packed with different ingredients: lengua, pork, brains, beef, chicharones, and all liberally spiced with hot salsa. He washed the tacos down with cold beer.

  “I like New Mexico,” Marcos said as they talked. “The manitos are a little weird, you know, very Spanish, pero buena gente.”

  “We’re okay,” Sonny replied.

  “Yeah, you’re okay,” Marcos agreed. “I was in Taos once, met a bunch of locos up there. Called themselves la Academia de la Nueva Raza. A place called Embudo. Sabes donde ’stá?”

  Sonny nodded. The old activists from that area had done a lot of community work in the seventies. Now only the Arellano Newsletter continued the work.

  “Hijo, bro, I had a good time. Stayed drunk for days, danced at Taos pueblo, finally someone put me on a bus and shipped me back home. That’s before I was married.” He glanced at his wife.

  “A real playboy,” Linda replied.

  “The raza’s pretty much the same all over,” Sonny said.

  Sitting in the small cafe, enjoying beer and taquitos was the same, the sounds and concerns were the same. He thought of Rita’s Cocina. Marcos and his wife would fit right in. So would the kids.

  “Come on up next summer. We’ll go to Taos or to Jemez, do some fishing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Let’s, Dad!” the kids shouted.

  “Sure, just pack the familia in your cab and get on the interstate,” Sonny offered. “We’ll take good care of you.”

  “All right.” Marcos smiled and gave Sonny a high five, their hands meeting over the table. “We’ll do it, bro. Qué no, vieja?”

  “Seguro que sí,” Linda agreed.

  The sun disappeared and the street grew dark.

  “Take the kids fishing. Yeah. Blue mountains, big pine trees. The kids would like to play in the mountains. No gangs, no hassle.”

  Linda nodded. The kids had spread to another table to eat their tacos and drink their Cokes. The mood was quiet, pleasant. “It’s a dream,” she said.

  “A homeboy’s gotta dream.” Marcos smiled.

  When they finished eating, they drove Sonny to the airport, parting with the vow to meet again. Yes, Sonny would bring Rita to visit someday, and if they came to New Mexico some summer, they would go fishing in the mountains. In parting they exchanged abrazos.

  “I’ll look for you in the summer,” Sonny promised.

  “Hey, stay alive,” Marcos whispered. “The boys you’re playing with are bad dudes.”

  “I’ll stay alive.” Sonny nodded, then hurried to catch his flight.

  By nine he was back in Alburquerque and driving to the North Valley, exhausted from the day, but thinking about the linkages in the case. So Gilroy and Raven were in the deal, but who was the boss? Stone?

  He dialed Howard and found him home.

  “Hey, compadre, where you been?”

  “It’s a long story,” Sonny replied. “What do you know about William Stone?” he asked.

  “William Stone?” Howard asked. “The CIA William Stone?”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a pause. “I know he’s in town. Por qué?”

  “He used to do business in Nicaragua.”

  “Wait a minute,” Howard said. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  Sonny waited. He knew H
oward had gone to his computer and was pulling up a file. Howard could mainline right into the city police computer bank.

  “Yeah, I remember reading about him. Here it is. ‘Code name: Bill Bonney,’” Howard said, “‘Billy the Kid.’ He and a few other cowboys used to run with Ollie North. They all took cowboy names. Ollie, as you know, was busted, but they couldn’t get to Stone. His group, called the Liberators, or Libertad, traded arms for dope.” Howard paused. “Holy mackerel!” he exclaimed. “A big deal’s coming down, and Stone just happens to be in the city. Why hasn’t someone tied the two together before?”

  “Good question,” Sonny replied.

  “Did you know that during the Reagan years this man had the ear of the president? You’re not talking shrimp, compadre. Listen to this. Reported to have taken a Sandinista prisoner up in a helicopter and dropped him into the Managua lagoon, after what was called in those days ‘interrogation.’ Recalled to D.C. when the Gilroy affair blew up. Too much media pressure. You’re onto something, Sonny, but whatever it is is bad news. Do you hear what I’m saying? The man is a heavyweight.”

  “Anything else?” Sonny asked.

  “These are newspaper clippings, man. You can also get stuff through Freedom of Information, but to get the real stuff …”

  “Right,” Sonny replied in the pause. The real stuff lay in top-secret CIA files.

  “Don’t do it, bro. If those boys even think you’re after info on one of theirs, they’ll shoot first, then ask your name later. To inscribe on the tombstone. That’s rule one, Sonny, those boys don’t like anyone looking in their files.”

  “I know,” Sonny answered. “Dig some more. Let me know if anything else shows up. Buenas noches.”

  “Take care,” Howard replied.

  Sonny said good night, shifted gears, and got off the freeway on the North Fourth exit. Raven and Gilroy had tried to kill him. He had to find them quickly. That meant taking chances. He couldn’t go to Garcia. The chief would laugh in his face, call it fantasy, ask him to back it up with evidence. Sonny had not one iota. Oh, he had Raven’s feather stuffed in his shirt pocket, but so what?

  He rolled down his window and let go of the black feather, releasing it to the cold night and darkness.