Adios Angel (17 page)

“Deputy
Steele, why don’t you go back out toward the García place and see if you can
find someone else who saw anyone sneaking around there.”

“But you’ve
been out there.  I’ve been out there. We have talked to everyone more than
once.”

“No buts
about it. It’s an order,” said Sheriff Hanks.  “And while you’re out making the
rounds drop by the Madrigal place and pick up his Bible and rosary.  Would that
be okay with you, Deputy?”

“It’s out of
the way, but consider it done,” said Deputy Steele sensing Sheriff Hanks’
obvious frustration.

“And as long
as you’re out there, ask around again to see if anyone saw a big White male,
sort of a nasty looking guy with a deformed left hand, missing fingers, you
know the description.  Try to shake loose someone’s, anyone’s memory.  We have
him linked…”  Sheriff Hanks shot a glance in Deputy Steele’s direction.      
“…make that
possibly linked
to García’s truck and some stolen license
plates up in that general vicinity.”

“Yes, sir. 
Anything else?” asked Deputy Steele.

“Just do
your job.  People’s lives may depend on it,” said Sheriff Hanks.

“Sheriff?”

“Yes,
Helen?”

“You were a
little short with Deputy Steele.   Are you feeling okay?”

“Other than
a bombing, stolen vehicles connected to the body of a murdered young woman and
Delbert’s death, yeah, I guess all is well.”

“Don’t get
short with me, Zebulon Hanks, I changed your diapers,” said Helen.  “Deputy
Steele is doing her best.  Just because you are frustrated doesn’t mean you can
take it out on her.  You need to concentrate on your work.”

Helen was
right.  It suddenly seemed clear to him that the actions of his brother Noah,
in reverting to his pre-prison behavior of car theft, had been the turning
point.  Just about everything else had been going downhill since then.  Maybe
he was angry at the bombing and the loss of Delbert. Perhaps his frustration
was in the fact that he couldn’t find the stolen vehicles that might be linked
to the death of a young woman.  Maybe the stress of his upcoming marriage to Doreen
who, thanks to her recent revelation, he wasn’t even sure he knew was weighing
on him.  It didn’t matter. Zeb wasn’t being professional and he knew it.  It
was time to change.  It was time to be a man, a good sheriff for the people of
Graham County.

“Helen, you
are right.  I am sorry.”

“Don’t be
sorry,” said Helen.  “Get to work.”

Helen could
not have put it more concisely.  Sheriff Hanks decided it was time to pay another
visit to Felipe Madrigal.  Felipe Madrigal was a lonely man.  He had hardly
anyone to talk to since his wife and daughter had died.  The sheriff knew in
his heart that Felipe wasn’t a bad guy, certainly wasn’t the bad guy behind
this.  Perhaps he was just a guy who had got caught up in something over which
he had no control. 

The sheriff
made the quick walk to Felipe’s cell in the Graham County jail.  The two
briefly talked baseball.  Quickly the subject turned to trucks and cars. 
Felipe loosened up a bit when the sheriff slipped him a cigarette.  The former
truck driver began talking about how he could rebuild an engine from the ground
up in three days.  Talking about pride in his mechanical abilities seemed to
make Felipe a changed man.  The more Felipe spoke the more Zeb realized that he
was talking to a mechanical expert, at least when it came to engines.  Then,
like a lightning bolt it struck the sheriff.  Felipe Madrigal was a liar.

“Felipe,
have you been telling me the truth?”

Sheriff
Hanks tried playing the old good cop routine.

“Sí, Señor Sheriff.
I never tell lie.”

“Are you a
good mechanic?” asked the sheriff.

“Sí, sí, the
best. I can fix anything on engine.”

Sheriff
Hanks left the cell, returned to his office and came back with the tape recording
of Felipe Madrigal calling in and asking to be arrested. Sheriff Hanks played
it for his prisoner.  Felipe said nothing.  The sheriff waited. His prisoner
said nothing.

“Felipe, you
said your truck was broken.”

“Sí, sí, it
was broken.”

“Why didn’t
you fix it?”

“I don’t
have no spare tire,” said Felipe sheepishly.

“That’s it?”
asked Sheriff Hanks.  “No spare tire?”

“Sí.”

Felipe
suddenly looked like a treed polecat.  He began to look around the cell as if
seeking a place to hide from the sheriff’s questions.

“The flat
tires were the only reason your truck didn’t work?”

Felipe
Madrigal held steadfastly to his lie.

“I’m no
mechanic, but I noticed the distributor cap was missing and the lead wires had
been yanked off.  Don’t tell me you didn’t see that?” asked Sheriff Hanks.

Felipe was a
cornered mouse.  He had lied.  Sheriff Hanks could read the falsity of it in
the man’s words, the sound of his voice and the expression on his face.

“I don’t
have no spare parts in my truck or in the house.”

“Don’t lie to
me, Felipe.”

Felipe was
visibly shaken and sweat beaded on his upper lip.

“I tell you
the truth. Only the truth.  That is what I tell you, the truth.”

Sheriff
Hanks stood next to his seated prisoner. He inhaled, expanding all six and half
feet of his height and two hundred forty pounds of his weight.  Felipe cowered.
The look on the sheriff’s face made Felipe wonder if the sheriff was going to
strike him.  Felipe slid to the back of his bed protectively. Sheriff Hanks
paced back and forth menacingly.  He knew Felipe Madrigal was lying to him. 
How could he get him to tell the truth?

“Why didn’t
you have spare parts?  You know your way around an engine.  Why wouldn’t you
have a spare tire or two, everyone does.”

Felipe
shrugged nervously.   “I don’t know.  I don’t have no extra distributor cap.  I
had spare tires.  I thought I did but when I look they were gone, stolen.”

Felipe’s
lies were getting larger.  Not having a distributor cap was one thing, but not
noticing the theft of spare tires was quite another, especially to a man who
had so much time on his hands.  Sheriff Hanks tried to bluff Felipe. 

“I’ll tell
you what,” said the sheriff.   “I’ll call my deputy on the two-way radio and
have her take another look around.   Maybe she can find the distributor cap?”

The prisoner
nodded sheepishly, like a child caught in a lie.  Sheriff Hanks made the call
to his deputy.          

“Deputy
Steele,” said Sheriff Hanks.  “What have you got for me? Did you find Mr.
Madrigal’s religious items?”

“Yes, I
did.  They were right where he said they were, but I found something else too.”

“What have
you got?” asked the sheriff.

“I sat down
in his chair to tie my shoe.  When I sat down, some loose change fell out of my
pocket.  I reached in behind the cushions to grab it.”

Sheriff
Hanks, thinking of his own easy chair, imagined what sort of junk might have
fallen down there over the years since Felipe’s wife had died.

“There was
quite a collection of miscellaneous debris stuffed under there, matches,
half-smoked cigarettes and some hard candy with lint stuck all over it.”

“Is that
it?”

“There was
something else--something that is very important.”

“What is it,
Deputy?”

“A
handwritten note.”

“Read it to
me.”

It took
exactly five words for the sheriff to know exactly what it was.  He had
listened to those exact words a hundred times before.  Felipe Madrigal had
written out the bomb threat.  He had been reading it when he called it in. 
That was why the tone of his voice on the tape had sounded so unnatural. Why
hadn’t he figured that out before?  Now as Deputy Steele read the threat, it
was all very obvious.

“It’s the
bomb threat, verbatim” said Deputy Steele.

“Get that
note to me ASAP,” said the sheriff. 

“Yes, sir, and
Sheriff?  Now that I take a look at Felipe’s handwriting closely...for an old
man, who probably wasn’t schooled in English, he has excellent handwriting.  It
is as neat as a pin.  It’s better than either yours or mine.  I’ll be there in
about twenty minutes.  Goodbye.”

Sheriff
Hanks opened the Madrigal file and turned to the old man’s handwritten
admission of guilt. 

Felipe
Madrigal’s handwriting was barely legible.

Ángel opened
his eyes; instantly he squeezed them shut again.  Certain he had awakened in
the middle of a perfect dream, Ángel made a vain attempt to fool the sandman
and slip back into the sweet fantasy.  It was for naught.  He was awake. 

Slowly Ángel
reopened his eyes, fearful of returning to the reality he knew awaited him. 
Ángel touched his face and rubbed his eyes, looking around the spacious
bedroom.  To his right, a large picture window overlooked the river.  The huge
bed he lay on was soft, crisp and clean.  He sat up and swung his feet onto the
plush carpet nearly kicking over a half full bottle of tequila.  Disoriented,
his eyes darted around the room a second time.  He pinched himself to make
certain he wasn’t dreaming.  Maybe he had died.  Maybe this was heaven.  His
pounding headache told him otherwise.  Where was he?  How did he get here?  A
rustling noise in the next room drew his attention.  Quietly he opened the door
and peeked through.  At the kitchen table he saw the shadow of a large man
cleaning a gun. 

“You trying
to sneak up on me, amigo?”

The gruff
voice was Jimmie Joe’s.  In fits and starts memories came slowly drifting in. 
He and Jimmie Joe had broken into a rich man’s house.  They had spent the night
drinking, laughing and playing music.

Jimmie Joe
turned to Ángel.

“Did you get
your beauty rest, muchacha?  I don’t think it worked.  You are just as ugly as
you were yesterday.”

Ángel
pressed his thumbs against his eyeballs.  The previous night came back to him,
the drinking, the partying, even stumbling into the fancy bed pretending he was
kissing his darling Juanita.

“Coffee with
a double shot of tequila, amigo?  It’ll kick those nasty demons out of your
head.”

“Sure,
Jimmie Joe.”

The big man
pointed with his chin to a coffeepot on the counter.  Ángel grabbed a cup and
pulled a chair to the kitchen table.  A recent copy of the Eastern Arizona
Courier was spread out on the table.  On the paper were the five handguns
Jimmie Joe had heisted on his recent venture into Safford.  Next to the guns
were cleaning push rods, brass bore brushes, solvents, lubricants and patches. 
Some of the weapons were broken down into parts for cleaning.  Others had
already been meticulously taken care of.  The big man worked slowly, using the
contents of the Otis Elite gun cleaning kit to make certain each of the weapons
was perfectly clean and in superior working order. 

Ángel sipped
his liquored up coffee.  Even with missing fingers, the big man deftly
manipulated the guns. Ángel’s eyes fell on the scar tissue around the missing
finger stubs.  The grotesquely misshapen hand was a perfect match for the ugly
face.  Ángel thought back to the story he had heard in prison of how Jimmie Joe
lost his fingers and gained his nickname, Diablo Blanco. Only at this moment,
for some strange reason, Ángel wondered whether it was true.  Had Jimmie Joe
Walker chopped three of his own fingers off with a single swing of an ax?   Had
he taken the three fingers and cooked and eaten them as some people said?  Had
he done such a thing to destroy his fingerprints?  Only a crazy man or the
devil himself would do such a thing.  When other men would ask him why he would
do such a thing, he would only let out a diabolical laugh and brag that the
devil had taken possession of his soul. 

“The big day
is about to arrive.  Are you ready to become a rich man, Ángel?”

Ángel looked
at his surroundings.  He liked what he saw.  He was ready to have the big money
that would change his life. He lusted after the cash that would allow him and
Juanita to raise a family on the beach in Mexico.  He thought about the rush of
the surf lapping against the beach.  The time had come.  Now Jimmie Joe would
tell him what the plan was and when it would happen.  Ángel looked at his
partner who was staring down the open chambers of a .38 caliber pistol.

“One million
dollars each.  That’s what you promised.  Right?” asked Ángel.

“Maybe even
more,” replied Jimmie Joe.  “A million dollars is big money, the kind of cash
that could take care of a man for the rest of his life.”

Holding the
gun in his right hand the big man spread out newspaper with the clawlike stub
on his left hand and pointed at two stories he had circled repeatedly with a
red pen. 

“Read this
story.”

Ángel picked
up a .38 that was covering the article and set it off to the side.  

MORENCI COPPER MINING DAYS BEGIN ON SATURDAY

The 53
^RD
annual Copper Days Festival is set to begin on Saturday, October 25.  This year
the event marks the longest continuously running local event in southern
Arizona.  The Festival kicks off with the Annual Copper Days Parade featuring
ten area marching bands, over eighty floats, and a half dozen beauty queens
including the World’s Best Rodeo Gal, Bobbie Jo Crenshaw, from right here in
Safford.  Starting Saturday afternoon and continuing on into Sunday, the Rodeo
and Roping Events expect to draw over five thousand people.  Cash prizes in
excess of $150,000 will be awarded.

Jimmie Joe
had underlined the $150,000 twice.

“One hundred
fifty thousand dollars in prize money and five thousand people paying five
bucks a head to get in the door and that’s just for starters.  Ángel, my
partner, read this one.”

Ángel’s eyes
darted to the second circled article.

PROFIT SHARING ANNOUNCED

The
Morenci Copper Mine today announced annual bonuses for all hourly employees
will set a record this year.  Over $2,500 will be given to each employee in
conjunction with Copper Mining Days.  The Credit Union will be open both
Saturday and Sunday so union members can cash their checks.     

Ángel set
his coffee cup down.  His hand began to tremble.  Now it all made sense. 
Hiding out in the middle of nowhere for the last few weeks, driving the back
roads, Jimmie Joe’s gun theft, scouting out the town of Morenci.  If Ángel had
known they were going to rob a credit union with guns, he would have run off
with Juanita.  If he had seen his grandfather, he would have been too ashamed
to do such a thing.  He now understood why Jimmie Joe had insisted he stay away
from Juanita and his grandfather.

“There are
over one thousand five hundred employees at that mine up there.  Figure it
out,” said Jimmie Joe.

Ángel
couldn’t do the math in his head. 

“I don’t
know.  How much is that?”

“Almost four
million in bonus money alone.  Even if half of those men pick up their checks
on Saturday, there will be close to two million bucks, plus the prize money of
a hundred fifty thousand, the gate admission of twenty five grand and there’s
always the popcorn and peanut money.  The way I got it figured the absolute
worst we could do is a cool million each.  What do you think about that?”

Ángel’s trembling
fingers began to shake.  He held one hand down with the other.  They could
never pull off such a big job.  It was crazy to even think about the two of
them doing it.  The local police and the sheriff’s department would be keeping
an eye on things along with the armed security that would surely be guarding
the money.  The town would be packed with visitors.

“It’s an
awful lot of money.  I don’t see how we can do it.  I’ve been in that
building.  It’s like a fort,” said Ángel.  “We could get shot by the guards
before we ever see the money.  It’s a crazy idea.”

“Here, have
a cigarette and quit worrying.  I’ve got the whole job all planned out, from
soup to nuts.”

Ángel took a
cigarette from the open pack.  He inhaled deeply.  The tobacco had a soothing effect. 
He began to think more clearly.

The big man
silently cleaned the gun barrel of the .38, sliding with cautious precision the
clean white patch through the shaft of the weapon with a push rod.  Ángel
nervously smoked one cigarette after another.  He put the idea of getting shot
as far out of his mind as possible.  With over four million dollars in cash at
the credit union, the guards would certainly be heavily armed.  He did not want
to die before he held Juanita in his arms.  But he did want to be rich. 

“When?”
asked Ángel.

“Tomorrow,”
said Jimmie Joe.  “Saturday night...round midnight.”

Ángel had
celebrated Copper Days in the past by drinking late into the night.  If this
year was like every other, the partying would rise to fever pitch by eleven p.m. 
The bars stayed open until two or three and the street dance kept going until
the police shut it down. 

“But Jimmie
Joe, the streets are going to be packed with people.  Someone will see us.
Shouldn’t we pick a better time?”

Jimmie Joe
grabbed the smallest of the guns, the .22.  He had already cleaned it.  He knew
it was the perfect gun to be used up close and personal.  It was the perfect
gun for an assassination.  Jimmie Joe was thinking one of the guards might
wander upon them and a quick shot to the head would kill him.  It was unlikely
Ángel would actually shoot to kill, but if his life was in danger, it was best
to be prepared.  Handing it to Ángel he simply said, “Here, just in case you
need to shoot someone.”

Ángel held
the .22 in his hands.  “I’m not going to shoot anyone.”

“Not even to
protect your partner?” asked Jimmie Joe with a malicious grin.

Ángel stared
blankly at Jimmie Joe.  “Well, I won’t kill anybody.”

The big man
pointed the empty .38 at Ángel and slowly squeezed the trigger over and over
again.

“Bang...bang...bang...bang...bang
and fucking bang!  You will if I tell you to, muchacha.  Amigo, you are nothing
short of a fucking idiot.  A crowd is perfect, you dumb asshole.  We can use
them to our advantage,” said Jimmie Joe.  “The more people out on the streets
the merrier.”

“What are
you talking about?” asked Ángel.

A ray of
sunlight sneaked through the open window.  It glinted off the freshly polished
gun barrel.  A zinging ray of sparkling light darted past the corner of Ángel’s
eye and landed on a statue of Jesus.  Ángel was certain it was a sign from God.

“Do you
think for one freaking minute some security guard is going to fire willy-nilly
into a crowd?  They would have to be nuts.  Besides, the way I have it figured
we will be in and out in less than twenty minutes.  No one will be the wiser
until they re-open the credit union the next morning.”

It was early
in the day to drink heavily, even for Ángel, but his boozing reflex sent his
hand reaching for the bottle.  Tomorrow might be the last day of his life.  His
head throbbed.  His heart ached for Juanita. He thought of his grandfather. A
rush of fear sent the little hairs on his arms straight up.  His father had
died in a car accident outside of Morenci.  His grandfather had mangled his
foot while working at the Copper Mine in Morenci.  The town had cursed the men
of his family.  Would the bad luck streak run like a dagger through his heart
as well?  He grabbed the half-empty bottle of tequila. 

“A shot of
courage for my little brother?” asked Jimmie Joe.

Ángel
started to pour more liquor into his coffee but stopped short and downed a slug
straight from the bottle.  The first swallow of the day burned like fire.  A
second swig cut the scum from his teeth.  Once again confidence and ease began
to ripple through his veins.