Adios Angel (11 page)

Zeb looked at her with alarm.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” asked Zeb.

“Like I am crazy.   I was crazy.  ‘Was’ being the
operative word.  I ain’t crazy now.  In fact, this is as sane as I’ve ever
been.

“Okay, you’re not crazy.”

“Thank you for noticin’. Then one day I got a job
waitressin’ at a local greasy spoon.  I had done it back in high school.  It
was about all I knew how to do.  I made some quick cash, hopped back on my
Harley Davidson and headed south. I was goin’ to ride to the tip of South
America and jump in the ocean.”

Zeb’s head jerked back in astonishment. 

“Cool it cowboy, only kiddin’ about jumpin’ into the
deep blue sea.  I coulda’ done that any time in Alaska.”

Zeb was only half convinced she was joking.

“But as fate would have it, my motorcycle broke down
right here in Safford.  While my Harley was at the shop gettin’ fixed, I walked
up and down Main Street.  I found myself starin’ at my own reflection in the
window of the Town Talk.  I truly saw myself for the first time since my
husband and son had been killed.  I had to change.  In the window of the Town
Talk were two signs,
Help Wanted
and
For Sale
.  I walked right in
and bought the place.  Best move I have ever made.”

“And the Town Talk?  Why did you choose a restaurant
to buy?”

“My husband’s family was in the restaurant business. 
They spent every minute of the day yammerin’ on about their cafe.  I just sort
of listened and learned.  Like I told ya, I worked in diners in high school and
up in Alaska. I figured how hard could it be to run a place like the Town
Talk?  I always took a shine to the idea of a small town diner so I bought the
Town Talk.  And the rest, as they say, is history.  Or, in my case, the
present.”

Doreen felt like an elephant had been lifted off her
chest. 

“I can’t say that I have ever felt as free as I feel
right at this very moment,” she said.

Zeb scratched his head. 

“I love you,” he said trying to convince himself it
was true.  “I need a little time to digest all of this, and to think it over.”

“You can take the rest of yer life to think it over. 
Nothin’ about it is gonna change.  Facts are facts and history is history. 
What you see is what you get.”

Doreen opened her arms widely.  Zeb accepted her
embrace, but something didn’t feel quite right.

“For now, let’s keep this between us,” said Doreen. 
“Sometime we’ll let the world in on our little secret.  But let’s not
complicate things for a while, at least until after we been married a while.”

After their heart to heart talk Zeb tossed and turn
throughout the night.  Doreen’s life story was giving him second thoughts about
their impending wedding. 

“Doreen, I know this is bad timing, but I think I need
some time to work through everything you told me last night.”

“I sort of was suspectin’ you might need some extra
time,” replied Doreen.

Zeb sighed.  He really hadn’t thought Doreen would
take it so easily. 

“We’ll talk about it soon.  Give me a few days.”

“I love you,” said Doreen.

He kissed Doreen and headed to the sheriff’s
department.  It was time to find out for certain if Felipe Madrigal had killed
Delbert.

“Do you think Felipe Madrigal was capable of blowing
up the grade school?” asked the sheriff.

“Do you think someone else is involved in this?  Mr.
Madrigal is a meek, mild-mannered old man.  His voice is full of sorrow when he
talks about what he has done,” replied Deputy Steele.

“Every con man sounds like that.”

“He really doesn’t seem like the sort of man who might
make a bomb and plant it in a grade school, if that’s what you mean.”

“What have you found out about the bomb?”

“I talked with your friend, Josh Diamond,” said Deputy
Steele.  “I take it he hasn’t talked with you yet?”

“I’ve talked with him about the break-in at his
store.  I am up to date on the injuries he sustained.  He’s tough.  He’ll be
fine.  What did he tell you about the bomb?” asked Zeb.

“He called it a well-placed, amateurish, low-power,
pipe bomb.  It was armed with a fuse, a blasting cap and a three-inch pipe
packed with low grade explosives.  Josh thought it likely had a timer.  Whoever
planted the bomb knew when it was going to go off and had plenty of time to be
somewhere else when it did.” 

“So we must assume whoever set the bomb knew it didn’t
have a lot of power behind it,” said Zeb.

“It looks that way to Josh.  He said it was the type
of bomb that anyone who knows how to read a library book could make.”

“That doesn’t narrow our list of additional suspects
down much, does it?”

“No it doesn’t.” replied Kate.  “I’ve been over to the
grade school boiler room and looked at it closely.  The mortar between the
bricks is old and loose.  Only eight full bricks were knocked out of the wall
by the explosion.  One of those was the one that hit Delbert.”

“Well then we have a situation, don’t we?”

“Sheriff?”

Deputy Steele’s response was a stall for time.  She
knew precisely what the sheriff was thinking.  A phone call from a scared old
man sending the sheriff’s department to a crudely made bomb placed in an area
where it should never have hurt anyone did not add up.  It had to be a ruse, a
simple diversion to get the sheriff’s department looking the other way.

“The day the bomb went off…the day of the threats. 
What else is on the crime sheet for that day?”

Kate simultaneously had the same thought.

“Not much…three speeding tickets, one act of
vandalism, a broken window that coincides closely with the phone calls and a
stolen car.  The car was an old junker.  The type kids steal and joy ride until
it runs out of gas.”

“How about the day before and the day after the
bombing?” asked Zeb.

“Only routine traffic violations, a few writs were
served, some divorce papers, nothing overtly suspicious.  Josh Diamond’s gun
shop was broken into while he was in the hospital.  That could have been the
same day or a day or two later.  We don’t know for sure.”

“Let’s have a look at that list of stolen items,” said
Sheriff Hanks.

“Five handguns, four .38’s and a .22 and plenty of
ammunition for all of those guns.  A flak jacket, a double holster, military
style, and a gun cleaning kit,” said Deputy Steele.  “But no money was taken. 
According to your report the cash in the register wasn’t even touched, nor was
anything taken from in or on his desk.”    

“No doubt about it, the thief knew exactly what he
wanted.  Entrance was made through the alley door.  The door was opened using a
thin, but obviously strong piece of metal to lift up a two by four that was
used to barricade the door.”

“I also saw in your report that Josh Diamond noted
only one set of tracks in the alley behind his store,” said Deputy Steele.  “I
agree with your findings that it was a thief, not thieves.  You don’t suppose
Felipe Madrigal is a robber, too, do you?”

“It would surprise the heck out of me,” replied
Sheriff Hanks.  “However, he doesn’t seem like the type who would call in a
bomb threat either, but he did. He admits to that. Have you completed the
background check on Mr. Madrigal?  Work history, marriage, kids, criminal
history, tax liens, anything.”

“I am working on all that. My report will be on your
desk the minute it’s complete.”

“If he didn’t act alone, we need to find a link.  I’ll
take a ride out to his house and search it from top to bottom,” replied Zeb.

“Are you thinking you might find the stolen guns?”

“I doubt it, but I will look for them anyway.  I don’t
exactly know what I am going to be looking for.  I just hope I know it when I
see it.”

“You heading out there now?” asked Kate.

“Yes, right now.”

“What do you want me working on today?”

“We need to triple check to see if anyone in the area
saw Lorenzo’s pickup after it was stolen.”

“What are you thinking?”

“A powder blue LUV pickup like that, somebody had to
see it,” said Sheriff Hanks.

“Do you think Lorenzo’s truck is tied to the bombing?”
asked Deputy Steele.

“I’ve known the García family forever.  They are what
you call a superstitious bunch.  Mrs. García reads tea leaves and palms.  She
even makes predictions about the future.  God knows what thoughts she is going
to put into Lorenzo’s head over this whole deal. I will bet you anything he will
be spooked into believing the dead woman’s spirit is going to affect him.  If
we can explain what happened, it will make a great difference to his peace of
mind.  Did you get any updates on the body they found in his pickup?”

“I got one follow up from Detective Muñoz,” said
Deputy Steele.  “He sent a note saying the body was a Hispanic female, between
twenty to twenty five years of age, approximately five feet tall, weighing one
hundred pounds.  Most importantly the fire isn’t what killed her.”

“What did?”

“She had a broken neck and a crushed windpipe.”

“Murder?” inquired Sheriff Hanks.

“It looks like it.  The message from Detective Muñoz
indicated the investigation is open and ongoing.  The Tucson police department
is trying to locate any missing persons who fit the woman’s description.  They
haven’t had much luck.”

“To them this is a routine case of an undocumented
illegal alien in a stolen truck.” said Zeb.

“That doesn’t make the young woman any less dead.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he replied, realizing
how cold his statement sounded.  “It’s just that the odds of finding out the
who and the why are less likely when you are possibly dealing with an illegal
alien as the victim.”

Kate knew the sheriff was right.

“We have to remember in this case we are here to serve
the victim, a dead young woman,” he added.

Kate’s head told her not to follow her imagination. 
Yet her mind could not shake a horrifying vision of the young woman’s death
scene--a brutal pair of hands gripped tightly around her neck, squeezing her
life away, breaking her neck, crushing her windpipe.  It was not a pretty
picture.

“Maybe your friend, Detective Muñoz, can beat the odds
on this one,” she said.

“I wouldn’t bet against him.  As soon as you finish
that report, why don’t you head out to the Garcías and check around.  See if
anyone remembers ever seeing the powder blue LUV pickup truck with someone
other than old man García behind the wheel, or if anyone saw the vehicle
driving faster than he would have driven it.  Somebody had to have seen
something the day it was stolen.  Someone out that way must know something. 
Jar some memories.  Give me a call on the two-way if you learn anything.”

“Snap to attention, amigo, siesta time is over.  We’re
burnin’ daylight.” 

The half-asleep Ángel felt a rough hand on his
shoulder shaking him back and forth. 

“Come on ass-wipe, we got work to do.”

Opening his eyes, Ángel Gómez yawned widely and slowly
stretched his arms over his head.  The harsh command from Jimmie Joe Walker had
roused him from a pleasant, sweet dream of his beloved Juanita.   In his
dreamlike condition Ángel could practically smell the lovely rose water she
splashed behind her ears and sometimes even between her breasts for him.  It
was her firm breasts that had been the focus of his dream.  His flesh tingled
as he thought of her holding the hemline of her skirt away from her body in one
hand and snapping fingers on the other as she danced a sensuous salsa she
called El Gato Caliente. 

Ángel drifted back into semi-consciousness as he
imagined his lovely woman dancing closer, closer, enticing him to be a man, a
hot-blooded man, making him ready to pounce on her like the animal he was.

“Wipe that silly, shit eatin’ grin off your God-damn
mug.  I said wake up, boy.”

This time Ángel awoke fully.  Standing above him the
man who had become his compadre and master was slowly loading bullets into a
handgun one at a time. 

“One--two--three--four--five--six.   Bang, número uno,
bang, número dos shot, bang, número tres, bang, fourth shot, bang, fifth bullet
out of the gun.  Just one shot left.”  He pointed the gun directly at Ángel’s
forehead.  “Kapow--you’re dead.  Gone to hell forever, my little muchacha. 
Gone directly to hell.”

Diablo Blanco was playing with his guns again.  The
evil game of pointing the gun at Ángel and pretending to fire the bullets
frightened him.  The look on Jimmie Joe’s face was the look of an hombre loco
who might just pull the trigger.  Ángel felt a rush of dread run through his
veins.  In prison he had seen Jimmie Joe do so many crazy things.  He knew the
White devil did not feel things in the same way other people did.  He was crazy
like a rabid lobo and mean like a cornered rattlesnake.  Maybe one day the devil
inside the big White man would make him pull the trigger and Ángel would be
blown to bits.  If the devil shot him, he hoped it would be a quick one through
the head, not a slow one in the stomach. 

“You don’t like to play my little game, chiquita?  Then
you’d better be a real good driver because I don’t want to shoot you--and you
know why I don’t want to shoot you, don’t you?”

Ángel smiled at the apparent reprieve but did not know
how to answer.  Shake your head one way and Jimmie Joe would go crazy, shake it
the other and who knows what might happen.  Jimmie Joe erupted into a fit of
insanely disturbing laughter.  Ángel broke into a cold sweat.

“I don’t want to waste no stinkin’ bullet.”

Jimmie Joe’s smile faded to hard steel.  Bending down
toward Ángel he caressed the young man’s cheekbone with the barrel before
resting the cold metal against his ear.  He rubbed so lightly it tickled.  But
Ángel did not laugh.

“Let’s go for a little ride.  We need some practice in
driving the big truck fast around corners.  You drive.”

“I’ve got to take a leak first,” said Ángel.  Then
I’ll be ready to go.”

Ángel stepped outside the ramshackle trailer and behind
the mesquite tree.  He unzipped his pants and gave a small morado cactus a good
dowsing of yellow water.  As he tucked his private parts into his underwear, he
looked over his shoulder.  He wanted to be certain Jimmie Joe was not watching
him.  Reaching into his boot, he took out his switchblade knife, checked its
action before tucking it tightly into a secret compartment he had sewn into the
waistline of his pants, and untucked his shirt for additional cover of the
hiding place.  Reaching back, he double-checked the positioning of his blade. 
A second knife in his boot was also ready.  Jimmie Joe, sitting inside the cab
of the big four-wheel drive truck, appeared oblivious to Ángel’s actions. 

“Come on, angel face.  Let’s see what kind of action
this machine we stole has,” whooped Jimmie Joe.  “I’ll betcha a dollar to a
dingo it can go one hundred and twenty miles an hour on a straight away and
ninety, ninety-five around corners.  Here, partner.”

Jimmie Joe tossed Ángel the keys.  As the men took
their seats, Jimmie Joe reached into the glove compartment.   Removing an
unopened pint of Cuervo Gold tequila, he handed it to the driver.  Ángel
hungrily twisted off the cap.  One deep swallow drained a quarter of the
bottle.

“Ah, sí, sí.  That is some mighty good juice.  Now I
drive like lightning.”

“Come on, little buddy,” laughed Jimmie Joe.  “Let’s
go for a nice, long ride and break these wheels in.”

“Where we heading?” asked Ángel.

“Take some back roads over to Highway 191 and scoot
down towards York.  We’ll catch Route 75 and cut back up toward Guthrie and
Granville.  I want to see what you can do when you put the pedal to the
metal.” 

Ángel began to better acquaint himself with the big
truck.  Five speeds, eight cylinders, it rode high but cornered well.  It did
not make the ninety miles an hour Jimmie wanted, but seventy even seventy-five
miles an hour without shaking was no problem.  Ángel punched it up to a hundred
and ten on a straightaway but it shimmied badly when he hit an unexpected
pothole in the road.  When they hit the paved roads, one twenty was no problem
and it cornered like a racecar.   Ángel did not know the plan, but he knew he
was the man behind the wheel of the getaway vehicle. 

“About ten miles north of Granville, just past the
Mitchell Peak Road, there’s a dirt road that cuts over through the Rez and
catches up with Indian Route 801.  Eventually it runs into Indian Route 8. 
Let’s head that way,” said Jimmie Joe.  “We need to get to know those roads.”

“Hell,” said Ángel taking another pull on the bottle. 
“I already know those roads out there like the back of my hand.”

“That’s what I am counting on,” replied Jimmie Joe. 
“That’s exactly what I am counting on.”

After three hours of crisscrossing every side road
three or four times, Ángel had every bump and rut memorized.

“Head back over to Duncan,” said Jimmie Joe.  I know a
cut off up that way that will take us to the Blue River.  Rich folks from
Safford, Tucson, Phoenix and even El Paso got fancy houses up that way.  Most
of them are vacant ten months out of the year.  I thought we might like to
“rent” one of them for a few days.  Maybe even drink up some of the rich man’s
liquor.  What do you say to that?”

“Rich man’s liquor?  You mean like Bombay Gin and
Johnny Walker Black Label Whiskey?  Maybe Patrón Anejo Tequila?” asked Ángel.

“Sure.  Maybe even that fancy-ass tequila with the
worm in the bottle.”

“Cuervo Anejo.  The drink of kings,” said Ángel
dreamily.

“We can even sleep in the rich man’s bed.  I heard
every one of those places has feather pillows.  Maybe even sleep with the rich
man’s daughter, eh, eh Ángel?  What would you think of that?  I bet you would
like that, wouldn’t you?  Some real pretty long legged blonde with cha chas grande,
eh Ángel?”

Ángel’s halfhearted chuckle was meant to placate the
evil one.  It was only Juanita that Ángel wanted.  His letters to her from
prison had promised his everlasting devotion.  Nothing would make him break
that promise.  She was his gato.  He was her tigre.  He would see her in a
week.  He could wait for her.  Not even Jimmie Joe could bully him into
sleeping with a woman other than Juanita.  But he knew he had to play along
with the White devil or things would go very badly for him.

The sinking sun shimmered across the lazily flowing
waters of the San Simon River.  Ángel relaxed as he eyed an old man and a boy
standing on the bank, casting for trout.  Ángel honked twice.  They smiled and
waved.  He remembered the days after his father’s death when his grandfather
took him fishing.  “Fishing,” his grandfather said.  “You can go fishing
instead of going to church and it’s okay with the Man Upstairs because he would
just as soon be fishing too.”  Fishing with his grandfather had made the pain
of his father’s death more bearable.  Soon he would again see his grandfather’s
kind face.  He would buy his grandfather a new fishing pole.  Ángel’s spirits
soared as he saw light at the end of his dark tunnel.

“Jimmie, do you like fishing?  I love everything about
fishing.  I love to fish trout, bass, and crappies.  When we’re done with this
job, I’m…”

He almost let it slip but caught himself.  Once the
job was done, Ángel was headed to Mexico with Juanita.  He would never see the
big White devil again.  Ángel was going to change his life forever.  Jimmie Joe
Walker was going to be but a faint memory.

“Maybe you and me will go fishing?  Maybe the big
house we’re going to stay at will have some fishing poles?”

Jimmie Joe cast an evil eye over the San Simon River.

“I hate fishing,” he snarled.  “I can’t imagine one
reason in a million why anyone would eat the slimy little bastards.  I’d rather
eat worms.”

Just ahead the city limit sign of Morenci marked the
outskirts of the small mining town.

“Pull into downtown.  Let’s see what’s happening. 
Maybe get a drink.  How about that, Ángel?  You must be getting a little
thirsty by now?”

The White devil too well understood Ángel’s lust for
alcohol.

“I can always use a drink,” replied Ángel.

Ángel drove slowly through downtown Morenci.  He
wanted to draw zero attention to himself, Jimmie Joe and the stolen pickup. 
Even though they had snatched it in Tucson and changed plates in Benson, Ángel
didn’t want to screw things up when he was so close to being rich.

“You drive any slower and the cops are going to pick
you up for blocking traffic,” growled Jimmie Joe.  “Pull in next to that bar,
it looks friendly enough.  Let’s go in and have an ice cold brew.”

Ángel pulled into a parking spot in the alley behind
the bar.  A faded mural of a pair of muscular men in hard hats covered the side
of the building.  Beneath, a motto read, COPPER--KING OF METALS-- Morenci
Miners Union, Local 616.  The front of a rundown wood sided building displayed
the name of the bar in neon letters, some of which were in working order and
many that pulsed and flashed intermittently.  The sign hanging at the front of
the bar read “Earl’s Firebelly Lounge   Cold Beer   Set Ups”.

“It looks like a redneck joint,” said Ángel.  “It’s
probably dangerous for us to go in there.”

“It is exactly my kind of joint,” replied Jimmie Joe. 
“Rednecks got the same right as everyone else to drink in a bar.  Are you
prejudiced against white trash like me?”

Ángel did not bother to answer that one.  He hated
Jimmie Joe’s guts but needed him if he was ever going to be rich.

It was a dimly lit establishment with a dark wooden
bar; a pair of grizzled old men smoking cigarettes slumped round-shouldered
over the bar.  It smelled of beer-stained carpet.  A jukebox played old
fashioned country music.  The disheveled regulars remained slumped and unmoving
as the newcomers passed by.  In the corner a muted television played a sitcom
with a perfect looking young couple kissing deeply and passionately.  Ángel stood
behind the men and stared at the actors.  The television lovers made him ache
for his beloved Juanita.  The ache was one of both love and desire.  He felt
pangs from his heart to his groin.   

But a few drinks of smooth whiskey would shift his
focus and fill his head with thoughts of easy money and the luxurious life of a
rich man.  The job that would make them rich was less than a week away.  Ángel
was getting anxious for his partner to tell him what exactly they were going to
do and how they were going to get all that money.  

“Tell me, Jimmie Joe.  I need to know the plan.  Don’t
you trust me?”

Ángel feared his partner might think he was chicken
because the job was too dangerous.  Everyone who knew Ángel knew he was not
some sort of stinking pollo.

“You, my young pardner, will find out real soon,”
replied Jimmie Joe.

Sitting at a corner table with his back to the wall,
Ángel ordered another whiskey, this time with a tequila chaser.  He watched
from a few feet away as Jimmie Joe rubbed his ugly paw against the oversized
round bottom of a fat gringo woman.  The woman’s long, narrow face reminded him
of an old caballo his grandfather had kept for many years.  She even seemed to
whinny when she talked.  Ángel watched her push Jimmie Joe’s hand away many,
many times.  Each time it found its way back until the woman ignored it
altogether as she smoked cigarette after cigarette, blowing smoke rings to
impress Jimmie Joe, Ángel assumed.  Ángel would never let Juanita smoke
cigarettes.  It would not be healthy when she started having babies and they
became a real family.  Ángel grinned widely as he imagined himself and Juanita
running on the beach at San Miguel while their beautiful children made castles
in the sand.  He would be a proud padre.  He would teach his son how to fish,
how to play baseball, how to drive, how to fix things with his hands.  Juanita
would teach the girls how to be good people and make sure they had a good
education.  He dreamed of a thousand things they could do.  He visualized the future
he would build around his family.  His heart felt good, at ease and hopeful.