“The best I could do,” Ruth said, “is find his phone number.”
“You got his number?” Sonny said.
“A friend at the phone company,” she said. “Stone is staying with friends. Very rich and conservative folks who fund right-wing militia groups in the state,” Ruth whispered, and read Sonny the phone number.
“You’re great,” Sonny said.
“Anytime,” she answered. “I hope you find Rita soon,” she added. “I’m praying.”
“Yeah,” he whispered, “me too.”
He hung up and dialed Stone’s number.
Overhead the sky was clear. Most of the balloons had landed safely. Nobody shot, no accidents, the fiesta board was in charge again, the fiesta could be saved, the money would flow safely into the cash registers of the city after all.
There was only one more thing to do: find Rita and the girl.
A man answered.
“Billy the Kid?” Sonny said.
There was a pause on the other end. Then, “Who is this?”
“Juan Libertad,” Sonny replied. He knew he had to get Stone’s interest quickly.
“You’ve got the wrong number—”
“Come on, Billy, I’ve got the right number.”
There was only a slight pause, then: “Are you a reporter?”
Sonny laughed. “Would a reporter named Juan Libertad call you? No, I’m not a reporter, but I know who killed Gilroy.”
“Then go to the police,” Stone answered.
“You don’t really want me to do that, do you? Names will begin to fly, and yours might come up. No, I need to talk to you in private, Mr. Stone.”
Sonny hoped he wouldn’t spook the man and lose him. Stone laughed. “You don’t make sense, Juan. What is it you want?”
“I want to sell you information. You should talk to me.”
“Who are you?” Stone asked.
Got him! Sonny thought. He’s interested!
“I told you, Juan Libertad,” Sonny replied.
He paused, waited. Would Stone really take the bait? He was a pro, and no fool. He had survived the intricate plots before the Cold War ended, survived Nicaragua, and now if Sonny was right, he was surviving as an insider in the cartels that provided the world its daily fix.
It was Stone’s turn to appear disinterested, cool. He laughed again. “I don’t know a Juan Libertad. Exactly what is it you want?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“To sell information.” Stone chuckled, still being cautious. “I’m not in the market. If you really know who killed Gilroy, go to the police.”
“I have a photograph,” Sonny interrupted, knowing he was on the brink of losing the big man.
“Photograph? So?”
“In the picture you’re going into a building in Bogota. A brick building. You’re being met on the steps by a man known to be a cartel boss.”
Sonny described the building, then held his breath. It was his last trump. Stone also held his breath, or at least he waited awhile before he responded.
“I took a vacation in Bogota,” he said. “Anybody could have taken a photograph.”
“It’s one of a kind,” Sonny cut in. “Even a vacation photograph has some value. For the family scrapbook.”
Stone laughed again. “Yes, to keep the album complete. You’ve twisted my arm, Juan. I’ll talk to you. Where?”
“Old Town,” Sonny replied. “In the church at twelve. Sit ten pews from the front. You are there praying. Don’t bring anyone with you.”
“I’ll be there,” Stone replied, and the phone went dead. Sonny breathed relief. Ah, the man had taken the bait, was hooked, and hooked men always had something to hide.
Sonny glanced at his watch. Where was Raven now? Where was Rita?
25
Just before noon Sonny drove into Old Town Plaza, circled the plaza twice, then luckily found a parking place on the south side. He watched the traffic. The plaza was packed with tourists. Most were families who had come to town for the balloon fiesta. They strolled in the sun, enjoying the clean, brisk air.
October was the perfect month in New Mexico. The trees around the gazebo held just the slightest hint of autumn gold. Beneath the east portal the jewelry vendors sat in the shade, their wares spread out on blankets in front of them. Indian craftsmen and women from the pueblos who practiced the art of silver and turquoise, basketry, and potmaking sat next to one another. Business was brisk.
On the north side of the plaza, the twin aluminum-coated steeples of the San Felipe de Neri Church rose in the clear, cobalt New Mexican sky. This was one of Sonny’s favorite places in the city. Many a time he wound up in the plaza, just to sit and talk to the old-timers from the area who spent their time on the benches under the shade trees. They told stories as they watched the tourists stroll around the historic area.
Old Town was a peaceful place, one occupied by the Nuevo Mexicanos since the 1600s, but if the dope dealers had their way, their poison would affect even this quiet neighborhood. The kids wouldn’t just be sneaking a marijuana joint, they’d be puffing on crack. Gang-banging.
Sonny glanced at his watch. A quarter to twelve. He had to wait. He reached into his glove compartment and took out the old, worn leather holster with the .45 Colt in it. A few weeks ago he had rubbed the holster with saddle soap. The old leather felt smooth and held a sweet fragrance.
Elfego Baca had once strapped on this pistol. He had put on a sheriff’s badge when others were too afraid to do so, and he had shot it out with a bunch of drunk cowboys from Texas. Taught them to respect the Mexicanos from Socorro County. His escapades were numerous, including a run-in with Pancho Villa in Juárez.
Pancho Villa had arrived in Ciudad Juárez, a victor of the raging Mexican Revolution. Porfirio Díaz, the dictator loved by the imperialist U.S. corporations because he sold so much of his country to them, had been overthrown in 1910. One of the greatest sagas of the twentieth century began, a civil war that was to change the course of history, both for Mexico and the United States.
War ravaged Mexico; Huerta came into the presidency. There were many opponents, including Pancho Villa, whose troops controlled the state of Chihuahua.
Sonny knew a little of Alburquerque history. In 1914 José Salazar, a Huerta general, had lost a battle to the Villistas and escaped into the United States. He was arrested by the U.S. government and put in jail in Alburquerque. Huerta needed his general back, so he hired Elfego Baca as Salazar’s attorney. In November, in an espionage case that became a classic for the sleepy town of Alburquerque, two of Huerta’s secret agents arrived in the city to spring Salazar from the Bernalillo County jail. It was rumored that Elfego Baca helped in Salazar’s escape.
So my bisabuelo played both sides. Sonny smiled as he slipped cartridges into the pistol. Six.
A lot of history here, he thought as he looked for William Stone’s car to appear. If only the walls of the old church could talk; if only the dark silence of the confessional could give up the record of the sins it held.
In 1706 Francisco Cuervo y Valdés, the governor of New Mexico, had the gall to proclaim the farming community that clustered around the church a villa: la villa de Alburquerque. The good governor thought the miserable kingdom of New Mexico deserved another villa. He looked south at the farms and adobe huts peopled by Mexicanos, mestizos, and Indians, and he decided that the families clustered around the farm of doña Luisa were the perfect foundation for a villa.
Ah, but he had to play politics. One way to get a small village of mud huts designated a villa was to please the viceroy in Mexico City, who in 1706 happened to be a direct descendant of the Alburquerque family from Badajoz, Spain. So he named the villa after the viceroy.
The viceroy was pleased, and the junta appointed by him recommended the villa be called San Felipe de Alburquerque, a politically correct decision that honored both Felipe V and the viceroy.
Governor Cuervo, the father of all future New Mexican politicians
, rejoiced.
But who would be the patron saint of the new villa? Governor Cuervo’s patron saint was San Francisco Xavier, but the junta had decided on San Felipe. The Mexicanos of the new villa went on calling the villa’s church San Francisco Xavier.
It was not until 1776, at a time when the thirteen colonies were fighting their war for independence a long way off, that a new priest to the parish found an old, tattered painting that depicted San Felipe de Neri hidden behind the altar. The new patron saint became San Felipe de Neri, and thereafter that’s what the paisanos from la Plaza Vieja called their church.
Now, sitting in the plaza founded almost three hundred years ago, waiting for Stone to appear, Sonny wondered about the workings of the man’s plans. How had he acquired so much power in Central America? Why had he used his position to help Gilroy? Greed. Money. It all boiled down to how much money a man could get in his pocket, and how much power that bought.
If William Stone had information about Rita, Sonny was going to get it from him, one way or the other. He stuffed the pistol under his belt and waited.
At five till twelve a black BMW with tinted windows drew into the plaza and circled slowly.
William Stone has come to pray, Sonny thought, and leaned back in his seat. The BMW slid into a parking place in front of the church, and a tall, distinguished man in a dark suit and sunglasses got out. The man looked around, then strode quickly into the church.
Sonny waited, watching the traffic for signs of Stone’s agents. The man wouldn’t come alone. But the traffic on the plaza seemed ordinary, slow moving. It was a perfect day for shopping; the Old Town stores were doing a thriving business. The morning’s flight had gone well, so all was well with the world.
Time to move, Sonny thought, and he stepped out of his truck. At one corner of the plaza, a parade appeared. As he walked across the center of the plaza toward the church, he saw it was a religious procession. Old women and a few young girls dressed in blue, singing songs to the Virgin Mary, led by Father Luna, the priest of the church.
Sonny knew Father Luna. They had played football against each other in high school. Sonny met him at one of the summer training camps the coaches held at the university. Even then, Jose, the young man who was to become Father Luna, was tough. When he tackled you, you didn’t forget. He was also very handsome. The girls loved him. Sonny remembered the state cheerleaders’ convention was being held on campus the same week. They came around to the field to watch the guys practice, dates were made, and Sonny wound up on a double date with Jose.
Jose dated a different girl every night that week. They really went for him. But the guy wound up in the seminary in Santa Fe. Gave up the ways of the flesh. Why would a guy like that turn celibate?
To each his own, Sonny thought.
Father Luna was leading a sodality, the Blue Angels, a group of women who took care of the church. They had been praying at the Virgen de Guadalupe Chapel, and now they entered the patio of the convent to pray. Tourists quickly gathered around them to take pictures.
Sonny hurried through the arched doorway of the church courtyard, took one final glance around, then entered the quiet church. The muted light inside contrasted with the bright glare of the October sunlight outside.
A few tourists moved in and out of the church, whispering, gawking, and wondering if they should take pictures, feeling the presence of history and the souls buried beneath the floor and all around the church—souls of the Tiguex Indians, whose pueblos had dotted the Río Grande when Coronado first came up the river in 1540. Souls of the Spanish and Mexican colonists who later settled the region to plant corn, squash, chile, beans, grapes, and fruit orchards.
The altar was brightly decorated. Candles burned, tingeing the air with their fragrance. Sonny, pressed against the back wall, took in everything. The dark-suited man seated in the tenth row was William Stone. He had come alone, or so it seemed.
Sonny took out the photograph Alisandra Bustamante-Smith had given him and looked at it. The blurred image of a tall, blonde man with his hair cut short stared back at him. It was the only one of its kind, the only piece of evidence linking Stone to the drug cartels, and Stone wanted it bad enough to come for it.
Sonny felt the pistol tucked under his belt, pulled his windbreaker over it, and started forward. As he passed the font filled with holy water, he instinctively reached out and wet his fingers to make the sign of the cross. Years of going to church with his mother when he was a kid had ingrained the habit.
When was the last time he had been to Mass? Last Christmas Eve, with Rita, here at San Felipe. The church and the plaza were decorated with farolitos, the luminarias of Christmas. Those plain paper bags with the candle inside were a New Mexican tradition. Rich or poor, all could afford to light their driveways on Christmas Eve.
For Rita, midnight Mass was related to the winter solstice, a time for prayer. For her the santos of the church were like the kachinas to the Pueblo Indians, ancestors one should honor.
Sonny slipped into the pew behind William Stone.
“Don’t turn around,” Sonny whispered as he knelt. He put the barrel of the pistol to the back of Stone’s neck and covered it with his left arm.
“Where’s Rita?”
Stone stiffened. “Pulling a gun is stupid. We can talk—”
“I’m not here to play games, you sonofabitch!” Sonny hissed. “I want my woman! You know where she is!”
He paused as a man, woman, and child walked down the aisle. The eight-year-old girl glanced at Sonny. She saw the pistol.
“That man has a gun,” she whispered to the mother, and the woman, who was busy looking at the altar, shushed her daughter, took her hand, and pulled her along.
“Watch Daddy,” the mother said, and the father, with camcorder in hand, kept the camera rolling to record every last bit of detail on the walls of the old church to show family and friends back home.
“I don’t know about your woman,” Stone said.
Sonny cocked the pistol. “I’m going to count to five—”
“Don’t be a fool!” Stone replied.
“One—”
“Look behind you,” Stone whispered.
Sonny turned slowly, keeping the pistol at Stone’s neck. A man wearing sunglasses and a dark suit stood by the door. The bulge under his jacket told Sonny he was carrying an automatic or an Uzi. Another had come up the side aisle and stood almost directly across from Sonny. They must have waited in the car until they spotted Sonny. Now they had him in a crossfire.
“They move one step and you’re dead,” Sonny said.
“Then you’re dead, and a lot of innocent people are dead. Maybe even the priest,” Stone replied. “Is that what you want?”
“Just like Nicaragua,” Sonny spit out.
“But we don’t want innocent people here hurt, do we?” Stone said.
Sonny’s grip tightened on the trigger. The anger and frustration he felt made him shudder, a bitter wave washed over him; he uncocked the pistol and drew it away.
“That’s better,” Stone said confidently. “You’ve never killed a man, have you?” he said.
“I never dropped innocent men and women from helicopters,” Sonny answered.
Stone shrugged. “The stories are exaggerated. There was a war going on. Our country had a vested interest.”
“Like bringing back planeloads of coke?”
“The stuff of fantasy and romance.” Stone chuckled. “Look, Mr. Baca. Or do you still insist I call you Juan?” Stone asked, and laughed softly.
The sonofabitch knows me, Sonny thought. The agency hadn’t lost its touch. One false move from me and his agents move in. He felt his hand sweaty on the pistol.
“Rita,” Sonny snapped. “That’s all I want!”
“I don’t make mistakes, Baca. Holding the woman would be a mistake!” Stone turned slowly, his blue eyes as clear and cold as the winter sky. His hair was thinning, his face wrinkled.
Sonny felt a chill.
Stone’s face was the mask of death. The man had killed a lot of people, the man had no soul. He was the hombre dorado who had looked for the fountain of money in the poor countries of Central America and found it transporting coke, found it by torturing people for the Somoza regime, and later for the Contras, and later for Noriega.
“You’re not very smart, Baca.” Stone smiled. “If you were, you would know I’ve never taken hostages. You can’t transport hostages in the jungle. You interrogate, then—well, you know the rules. If the woman you seek is alive, Raven has her.”
“Where is he?”
Stone seemed surprised. “I wish I knew,” he replied. “Raven double-crosses people. He’s here now, gone the next moment. We’re on the same side, Baca. We both want Raven. You for the woman, me for—other reasons.”
Sonny heard the hate in Stone’s voice. Raven had crossed Stone! Raven took the dope!
“You see,” Stone continued, “we both have something in common.”
“No,” Sonny replied. “We have nothing in common.”
At that moment the bells of the church began to ring for midday Mass, and two altar boys swung the front door wide open. Father Luna, in full vestments, appeared, holding a prayer book, the two altar boys by his side, one holding a tall cross of brass, the other an incense container. Behind them, adding to the clamor of the bells, came the army of women, the Blue Angels dutifully following the priest and singing a prayer.
“Bendito, bendito, bendito sea Dios … Los angeles cantan y alaban a Dios. Yo creo, Dios mío, qué ’stás en el altar … Los angeles cantan y alaban a Dios—”
Father Luna, head bowed, lips intoning prayers, walked down the aisle. A large crowd had gathered behind the women in blue, and now they came streaming down the center aisle, tourists with cameras and camcorders who rushed to get the best shots possible.
“Yo creo, Dios mío, qué ’stás en el altar.” The high-pitched voice of the women filled the church.
As Father Luna drew close, he glanced at Sonny. He stopped and the entire line behind him came to an abrupt stop.