Adios Angel (12 page)

“Hey!  Hey, Ángel.”

The harsh order from Jimmie Joe’s mouth yanked him
from his peaceful place.

“Are you sleeping on the job again or just daydreaming
about being a gringo?”

The Diablo Blanco screeched out a fit of hideous
laughter as Ángel opened his eyes.  Standing by his side was the White devil
with his hairy, tattooed arm draped around the fat woman, cupping her enormous
breast.  He pointed a deformed finger at Ángel.

“This here little fella,” said Jimmie Joe nodding
toward Ángel.  “He falls asleep when he’s awake and daydreams about his darling
Juanita.  You can tell just by the look on his face that is exactly what he was
thinking about.  Did you ever see such a stupid looking grin?”

Ángel smiled politely at the obese, smelly woman who
was too drunk to pay attention to Jimmie Joe’s ramblings.  He noticed she was
barely able to stand without the big man’s support.  Ángel worried that the fat
woman might fall on top of him and crush him.

“Here.”

Jimmie Joe spun the woman around and pushed her down
onto Ángel’s lap. Ángel grunted as he braced and steadied himself under the
enormous weight of the fat horse-faced woman.

“Maybe you’d like a little piece of dark meat as an appetizer?”

The stout gringo woman reeked like a dirty bathroom
floor.  Drool rolled through her lips as she nibbled on Ángel’s ear.  He
swooned at the wretched odor of her stale perfume and offensive body odor. 

“I don’t think I want to…” began Ángel.

“Wha..?” belched the woman.  “You don’t like what you
see?  You don’t like these.”

She lifted her mammoth breasts and shoved them into
Ángel’s face.  Ashamed, he looked down.  He saw only the dirt under the chipped
polish of her broken fingernails. 

“No, señorita, it is just that…”

His mind raced to find a way to explain to her about
his beloved Juanita.  He was in love.  As a woman, even a drunken, ugly woman,
surely she would understand.   Ángel looked up to see the angry fire in Jimmie
Joe’s eyes as he lustily ogled the woman’s drooping breasts.  Ángel could only
find false words for the plump woman.  He told her she was beautiful and
offered her a drink and some cigarettes.

“Are you shaying you don’t want me?   You don’t want
this?”  

She lifted up her filthy skirt, showing off unshaven
legs and pair of filthy panties.  Her slurred words were carried on the air of her
hideous breath.  Before Ángel could answer a hand came out of nowhere,
walloping him across the face.

“Well, I never!  I never been turned down by no
greasy, little Mexican taco.  What are you, some kind of fudge bunny?  What
kind of man turns down a woman like me?  Maybe you like boys instead of girls? 
I bet that’s it. Faggot.  Sex freak!”

Before Ángel had a chance to answer, she slipped off
his lap.  Crashing onto the floor, her large rear end went ass over teakettle
sending her shoes flying into the air.  One of them smacked against Jimmie
Joe’s forehead. 

The ruckus caused the two old men sitting at the bar
to turn just far enough to see the woman sprawled over the floor.  Unimpressed,
they turned back toward the television.  In silent unison they reached for
their beer glasses, tipped back their heads, and swallowed their beer. 

The bartender walked out from behind the counter.  He
helped the drunken woman to her feet.  She cursed at Ángel, flipped him off
with her middle finger and stumbled into the ladies room.

“We can’t have that kind of ruckus in here, young
man.  You had better leave now,” said the bartender.

“But I didn’t do nothing,” protested Ángel. 

“And you had better go with him,” he said to Jimmie
Joe.

The bartender pulled back his vest, revealing a
holstered pistol.  Ángel knew the knife hidden in his right boot would not be
much of a defense against the big gun.  For half a second he considered cutting
the man, slicing him across the wrist or in the face near the eye.  Then
suddenly, Juanita came to mind.  He envisioned her smiling face, the silver
cross he had given to her before he had gone to prison, gleaming on her beautiful
skin as it hung around her tender brown neck.  He reached down and touched the
identical necklace she had given him.  If he wanted to see Juanita, he needed
to stay calm.  He glanced toward Jimmie Joe whose hand slowly began creeping
under his jacket toward the back of his belt where he carried his gun.  Ángel
jumped to his feet.

“It’s my fault and I am terribly sorry.  We are
leaving now.  Come on, Jimmie Joe.  Let’s go somewhere else and spend our
money.”

Jimmie spit on the bartender’s shoe.

“Next time,” he said glaring into the bartender’s
eyes.  “I might not be in such a good mood.”

The outburst of laughter from Jimmie Joe brought a
relieved smile to the bartender.  The old men at the bar shook their heads ever
so slightly as the strangers made their exit.

“We don’t need no trouble, Jimmie Joe.  Let’s get out
of town.  It is bad luck for us here.”

Jimmie Joe seethed.  Turning into the alley, he
grabbed Ángel by the throat and stuck the gun against his temple.

“Don’t you ever tell me what to do.  I make the
decisions for both of us.  I should have shot that son of a bitchin’ bartender
right between his fucking eyes.  But I didn’t know if you were with me or not. 
You screwed up in there.  Don’t ever let it happen again--that is, if you want
to live long enough to see Juanita.”

Instantly, the effects of the alcohol on Ángel’s brain
passed. 

Morenci and Earl’s Firebelly Lounge were bad luck. 
Morenci was the town where Ángel’s father had died almost twenty years
earlier.  He had been run off the road and killed by a drunken gringo.  Even
his blessed grandfather, who worked so many years for the Morenci mine, had bad
luck here.  The town was a cursed place for his family.  Ángel closed his
eyes.  His prayers to the Blessed Virgin were juxtaposed by the cold steel of a
gun barrel against his temple.  Jimmie Joe slowly ran the barrel of the .38
around Ángel’s ear, tickling the cartilage, caressing the lobe. 

In prison Ángel had heard one well-placed shot
directly behind the ear would kill a man or, worse, leave him a vegetable. 
Juanita would not want to spend her life taking care of a cripple.  Ángel would
not wish that on her.  He always knew the day might come when Jimmie Joe might
kill him.  Ángel prayed harder.  The cold steel of the gun penetrated, it
seemed, all the way to his brain.  Sweat rolled down Ángel’s cheeks and onto
his lips.  An insane explosive peel of laughter shot from his partner’s mouth.

“You look so worried, my little muchacha.  You think I
am going to waste a bullet on you when we are so close to being rich?   Ha ha
ha.  You little fucking idiot.  You don’t even know how close we are to the
money right where we stand.”

Ángel looked down the alley and across the street. 
What was Jimmie Joe talking about?  Next to the bar was a clothing store, the
gas company, a drug store, a small building with hand painted sign in the
window that he couldn’t read and a bank.  The bank?  Was the Diablo Blanco
crazy?  Ángel wasn’t a bank robber.   

“The bank?  You think we are going to rob the bank?”

Jimmie Joe doubled over with laughter at his own
question.  

“No, no, no.  Not the bank—next door—the little
building.  Get in the truck, I’ll show you.”

Turning to look over his shoulder as he put the truck
in reverse, Ángel noticed the left taillight glowing brightly as it reflected
in a store window.

“Shine the headlights on that store with the writing
on the window.  Go ahead, put the bright lights on.”

Ángel looked up and down the street.  It would be
stupid to be noticed flashing high beams into a storefront.  A cop might take
notice of what they were doing. He said nothing, knowing that Jimmie would only
beat him down for questioning anything the he said.

“See,” laughed Jimmie Joe.  “Read that window.”

The whitewashed sign in the window came into view. 
Ángel stared at the words and the reflected white spots from his headlights.

MORENCI RODEO AND PIONEER MINING DAYS

OCTOBER 25
^TH
AND 26
^TH

As Kate headed toward the door on her way to the Garcías’
place, Helen handed her a pair of day old phone messages.  She apologetically
explained to Deputy Steele that the messages had been accidentally stuck to the
bottom of a file. 

“Sheriff Hanks is on his way out to Felipe Madrigal’s
property.  He said you would know what it was all about.” 

Both of the pink message slips had brief notes.  The
first read, ‘Please call Eskadi Black Robes’.  The second note was just as
direct.  ‘Please call Josh Diamond’.  Deputy Steele surmised Josh had decided
after all to take the county up on paying his hospital bills and was calling
her about the paperwork.  Eskadi’s was likely personal.  She decided to handle
them after she took a little trip out to the Garcías’ to see if she could glean
any more information.

As Sheriff Hanks approached the home of Felipe Madrigal,
bright morning sunshine streamed over the top of the Peloncillo Mountain range
sending short shadows over the peaceful landscape surrounding the run down
adobe house that the jailed man called home. 

A low groan escaped from the old windmill.  Unlike
earlier, Zeb was not there to bring in a suspected killer, yet his body
tensed.  For a brief second his mind shot back to a day at the Mexican border. 
He, Josh Diamond, and the now dead Darren Wendt were on routine patrol on that
fateful day of Darren’s death.  For another, longer moment, he thought of
Doreen and the loss of her husband and son.  His mind began to spin with all
the things in life that could go wrong and too often did.  Then quickly, he
remembered that he was on home turf, his turf, Graham County, and for all
intents and purposes this was his own back yard.  He breathed a few easy
breaths when suddenly an ominous foreboding came over him.  Could this be the
day he breathed his last breath?  He had received a bulletin from his old border
patrol commanding officer on this new thing called PTSD, post-traumatic stress
disorder.  He had read it briefly and tossed it in the waste basket.  Now he
was having second thoughts about what he had read.  “Don’t be an asshole,” he
told himself.  “Just be smart.  Nothing to worry about.  Stay calm.”

In the low arroyo behind the house, an otherworldly
presence seemed to beg for communication.  Ears piqued, he stilled himself and
listened.  After a moment he shook his head knowing the present moment called
for logical, rational thought, not superstition and fear. Sheriff Hanks
breathed more easily as the old man’s fire pit and a garbage dump caught his
eye.  They seemed too close to the house until he remembered Felipe Madrigal’s
limp and the difficulty with which he walked.  Closer inspection revealed neat
stacks of tin cans, glass bottles and miscellaneous unburnable items.  The yard
itself was full of junk and these neat stacks seemed out of place.  They were
probably for recycling.  Maybe the old man made a few bucks this way? 

Plentiful coyote, raccoon and skunk tracks lead to and
away from the trash pit.  He imagined the kind old man to have befriended the
local critters.  He assumed Felipe Madrigal suffered the fated malady of many
old people, too much time, too little to do.   

In the yard a skeleton of a rusted backhoe, some old
machinery tires, flattened junk metal and a broken down chair were strewn
about.  It was a mess which likely made perfect sense to the owner.  Zeb drew
back from the thoughts in his head.  He was beginning to feel a little too much
compassion for someone who might have killed his deputy.  He reminded himself
yet again to stay focused and do his job.

Parked by the rustling mesquite tree was Felipe
Madrigal’s truck.  The tire iron still propped up the hood.  Approaching the
truck cautiously he peeked at the engine, half expecting to find a bird’s nest
or perhaps a sleeping rattlesnake.  At first glance the metal parts told him
nothing. When he looked closer, he saw a detached wire.  It led to where a
distributor cap should be.  He was no expert on car engines, but he knew
vaguely what he was looking at.  The sheriff stepped back and noticed both back
tires were flat.  He thought back to how the old man had described his disabled
vehicle.  He did not say his tires were flat.  He had said his car was broken. 
He had said nothing about flat tires.  Sheriff Hanks bent down near the rear
wheels.  The shade from the mesquite tree made it difficult to get a clear
view.  Casually running his finger along the tire’s edge he felt an indentation
surrounded by an unnatural rough edge.  Closer examination revealed the tire
had been slashed.  A quick walk to the other side of the truck easily revealed
that tire had also been slashed.  A mostly bald spare tire sitting in the bed
of the truck was also flat.  It was obvious someone, perhaps Felipe himself,
had wanted to make sure the truck wasn’t going anywhere. 

Sheriff Hanks walked to the house.  He slowly poked
his head inside and entered.  The interior of the house was unkempt like that
of an old man without a wife.  In the small kitchen on the counter next to the
sink sat a propane stove with an ancient coffee percolator on one burner and a
much used, burn-encrusted fry pan on the other.  At the back of the sink sat a
water glass, a bottle of aspirin and a half-empty prescription bottle of
nitroglycerin tablets with the instructions - TAKE AS NEEDED FOR ANGINA.  He
slipped the medication in his pocket.  His prisoner might need it.  Next to the
coffeepot was a caned chair.  Its sagging and partially torn seat spoke of many
lonesome hours its owner spent staring out a partially open window.  The image
of an old man sitting, sipping coffee, fumbling with the bottle cap on the
aspirin, placing a pill in his palm, quivering as he reached for the water
glass carried the feeling of isolation, loneliness. 

Through the window he had a clear line of vision to
the north toward the road.    The old man had taken the time to remove anything
that might interfere with a straight on view of the county road.  Delbert had
mentioned there was hardly any traffic on this road.  The old man probably did
not want to miss the rare car or truck that happened by. 

The second room of the house was dark.  Both front
windows were boarded up from the inside.  A small commode and sink stood in one
corner.  A curtain hanging from the ceiling partially hid them.  Felipe
Madrigal was either very modest or thoughtful of the rare guest.  Who might his
visitors be?  A closer look revealed cobwebs and layered dirt where the curtain
abutted the wall.  Felipe used little of his small space. 

A dilapidated easy chair with an ancient brass floor
lamp sat in the corner.  The sheriff pulled the cord.  The flickering light
from a loose bulb revealed a stack of magazines, some of them twenty years
old.   As he leaned forward to tighten the bulb his foot brushed against a
rusting coffee can filled with cigarette butts and ashes. 

On an end table next to the lamp sat a dial phone,
some yellowing, framed photographs and a clock radio.  One looked to be a young
Felipe Madrigal in a suit standing next to a delicate looking dark skinned
Mexican or Indian woman in an ornate wedding dress.  It was similar to the one
Felipe carried in his billfold.  Another picture was a baby in a bonnet being
held by the woman in the wedding dress.  Still another was a child in what
looked to be a first communion dress.  The fourth picture in the progression
showed the same girl in a cap and gown--a high school graduation photo. 
Unframed and sitting on the desk was the picture of a fair skinned, long-haired
boy, who looked either, or perhaps both, Mexican and Apache.  The sheriff also
noted the boy was rather feminine in his characteristics.  He also wore a cap
and gown, but looked to be only thirteen or fourteen years old.  Beneath the
young man’s photo were some faded newspaper clippings, yellowed with age. They
had been precisely cut from the Eastern Arizona Courier.   One was a picture of
an unnamed old man and a boy fishing.  The other two were unreadable,
coffee-stained police reports.

Sheriff Hanks turned on the radio and sat in the old
man’s chair.  His big frame sank deeply into its broken seat as the radio
played music from a Tucson Spanish speaking station.   For the first time all
day he felt at ease, incredibly calm.  It was obvious that Felipe Madrigal was
dirt poor but within that poverty he had every material thing he needed…or so
it seemed.  Sheriff Hanks’ mind began to drift.