Adios Angel (18 page)

“What’s the
plan, Jimmie Joe?  How are we going to get in?  How are we going to get out?”

Jimmie Joe
wiped his hands on a clean kitchen towel and tossed it carelessly into a
corner.

“I thought
you’d never ask.  Take a seat in the living room.  I’ll show you.”

The Diablo
Blanco disappeared into a bedroom.  He returned with a notebook, the kind Ángel
had used in school.  He laid it out on the coffee table and opened it.  The
first page was a detailed sketch of the top of the credit union building.  The
next page was a map of the ventilation shaft leading to the vault that held the
safe, a safe that for the last five years had a broken lock.  Above the vault
was a small grate with a notation indicating it was twenty inches by sixteen
inches.  Page three had the floor plan of the inside of the credit union. 
Large black X’s marked the spots where armed guards would be posted.  

“Where did
you get all of this information?” asked Ángel.  “No one except people who work
inside that building knows about this stuff.”

“Let’s just
say I had some inside dope,” replied Jimmie Joe. “I got a little birdie to sing
for me.”

The Diablo
Blanco’s sinister howl made Ángel cringe.  People who knew the inside secrets
of a bank didn’t give out that sort of information unless someone had a gun
pointed at them.  And some people, like his grandfather, the proud Felipe
Madrigal, would take a bullet in the head before giving up such information. 
Ángel’s heart stopped.  

The Diablo
Blanco had gone to his grandfather’s house to let him know his Ángel was okay. 
Ángel’s heart sank even further as he remembered one lonesome night in the jail
cell when he was thinking about his family.  He had talked to Jimmie Joe about
his grandfather.  He had confided everything about his grandfather’s truck
driving days for the mines, his foot injury and how the mining company gave him
a job as a security guard at the credit union in Morenci.

“My
grandfather would never betray the mining company.  He would never do that.  He
loved his job at the mines.  He would never give you all this information.”

“Take it
easy.  He didn’t do it for me, my little muchacha.  He did it for you,” said
Jimmie Joe.  “He just wanted to make sure your life was going--somewhere.  Let
me put it another way.  He was looking out for your future...as well as his
own.”

The Diablo
Blanco’s remark confused Ángel.  The scheming laughter didn’t.  Unless Jimmie
Joe had threatened his grandfather he would never have given him any
information.  Ángel was afraid to ask the details.  He shuddered at the thought
of what Jimmie Joe might have done to Felipe.  Another shot of tequila flowed
down his gullet.

“Don’t worry
about your grandfather.  He’s a righteous dude.  He did his job. It’s time you
started thinking like a rich man.”

Jimmie Joe
opened a street map of Morenci and laid it next to the floor plan of the credit
union.

“It’s a
simple plan, one even you can follow, my little muchacha,” chided Jimmie Joe.

Ángel’s
heart beat faster with every word.  He would drive the big truck into town and
park in the alley behind the credit union building.  Jimmie Joe would hop out
and scout the alley while Ángel waited in the truck with the guns.  When he was
certain it was clear, Jimmie Joe would return to the truck, put on the flak
jacket and slip the four handguns into the pair of double holsters he would be
wearing. 

“You can
carry your .22 in your pants along with your knives.  You though I didn’t know
about that shiv you carry in your boot?  And that little pouch in the back of
your pants?  You think you could hide that from Jimmie Joe’s eyes?”

Ángel knew
now that nothing could be hidden from the White Devil.  He had eyes in the back
of his head.

“At the
other end of the alley is a fire escape,” continued Jimmie Joe.  “It goes up to
the top of the building.  The roof slants toward the alley, away from the
street.  We can move along the top of the buildings without being seen.  Once
we’re up there we have to go across six buildings before we get to the credit
union.”

Jimmie Joe
flipped a page in his notebook to a detailed drawing of the roof of the credit
union.  Dead center was a large air conditioning unit.  Next to it was an air
exchange vent.  It led directly to the vault.

“We could go
in through the air vent…if we have to.  But there is a better way,” said Jimmie
Joe.  The big man tapped the drawing with his deformed hand.  “Next to the air
vent is a trap door.  “It leads to the top floor of the building.  It’s old and
weak.  I plan on yanking it open with my hands.”

Jimmie Joe
smiled and winked as he flexed his big, tattooed muscles for Ángel.

“Why do you
think I spent so much time lifting weights in the slammer?”

Ángel nodded
remembering him lifting big weights in the prison yard.

“But just in
case it’s padlocked from the inside, we’ll take a crow bar with us.  You can
carry that.  When we get inside--”Jimmie Joe’s voice became calmer the more
excited he got. “--when we get inside, we go right down the stairs and, BINGO,
we are directly over the top of the vault.”

“How do we
get in?”       

Jimmie Joe
turned another page.

“Here.”  His
mutilated hand once again tapped the page.  “In the crawl space between the
vault and the ceiling is the air duct that leads into the vault.  It’s sixteen
by twenty inches, just like the one inside the vault.  We can cut it open with
metal shears.  My little friend, you are going to crawl through the duct, kick
off the grate and get the money.”

Ángel would
put the money into two laundry bags and push them back up through the vent to
Jimmie Joe.  The escape route would be the reverse of the way in. 

“Do you
think I can get into a space that small?” asked Ángel.

“If you
can’t, we’re doing this for nothing.  I’ll bring a can of grease along, just in
case.”

“If we
aren’t going into the bank where the guards are, how come we need so much fire
power?”

“Better safe
than sorry, amigo.  I’d just as soon creep in like a gato and sneak out like a
thief in the night.  But you never know who or what might screw up.  That
includes you.”

What was the
Diablo Blanco thinking?  That Ángel was going to double cross him?  Why would
he?  They were partners in this deal.  They would both be rich when it was
over.  There was more than enough money for both of them to live the rich man’s
life until the day they died--a day he hoped wouldn’t come soon.

With Deputy
Steele at his side Sheriff Hanks replayed the tape recording for the umpteenth
time.  This time, however, it was different. This time Zeb held in his hand the
note Kate had found in Felipe Madrigal’s chair.  When he was certain of his
next step, they made the short walk to his prisoner’s cell.  Felipe Madrigal,
head in hands apparently lost in thought, did not hear them approach.

“Mr.
Madrigal, I need to ask you a few questions,” said Sheriff Hanks.

Felipe kept
his eyes averted, his lips remained sealed. Zeb handed Kate the note she had
found in Felipe’s chair.  She handed it to Felipe. The prisoner took the piece
of paper in his hand without looking up.

“Have you
ever seen this note before?” Sheriff Hanks’ voice was firm, direct.

The old man
could not escape the question.  His weary eyes, bloodshot from the fatigue that
accompanies uneasy sleep in strange surroundings, slid the paper into focus. 
His aged hands clung tenuously to the note as though it might explode.  He
shook slightly.  His voice was a stutter.

“I d-don’t
know.  Maybe.”

Sheriff
Hanks gritted his teeth.  It was as close as Felipe Madrigal had come to
admitting anything other than making the phone calls.  The sheriff knew this
note was the key to getting him to talk.  He chose his words cautiously.

“Deputy
Steele found it at your house when she went to get your rosary and your Bible. 
Maybe it’s a sign from the Holy Mother.  Maybe the Blessed Virgin wants you to
talk to us?”

Deputy
Steele nodded in agreement.  Felipe returned the piece of paper.

“I would
like to make confession,” mumbled Felipe.

“Of course,”
said the sheriff. 

“That would be
good for you,” added Kate.

“I see a
priest?”

Both Kate
and Zeb were taken aback by the request for a priest.

“Are you
sure there isn’t something you would like to tell me first?” asked Zeb.

The old man
closed his eyes and shook his head.  He would only talk to the priest.

A call to
Father Ortiz brought no immediate solution.  The priest apologized for his busy
schedule.   He had a wedding service, a church service at the Desert Rose
Nursing Home, and he had to hear confessions.  Saturday, he said, was even
busier than Sunday for a priest.  He could be there by twelve-thirty on Sunday,
earlier only if someone was dying and needed Extreme Unction.  The law would
have to wait for the Lord. 

Zeb reminded
himself to be patient.  Seeking to change the ways of the Lord would only
create anxiety.  Justice moved at its own speed.  Yet, his entire investigation
of the bombing would move forward so much more easily if Felipe would just
talk.

“Deputy
Steele, I need to clear my head a little.  I believe a cup of tea over at the
Town Talk might just do the trick.”

“Sounds
good.  Bring me back a cup of Doreen’s best coffee, would you?”

“You got
it.”

Zeb headed
out the door to the Town Talk.

Kate
remained at the office.  She wracked her brain, thinking of how to break through
Felipe Madrigal’s stubbornness.  Her musing was interrupted by the ringing of her
direct phone line.  It was Eskadi reminding her of their date.

“Have you
ever been to the cowboy rodeo?” he asked.    

“I’ve never
been to a rodeo, not even once,” replied Kate.  “But if it’s as good as you
claim, I can hardly wait.”

“It really
is a lot of fun.  Let’s get there early.  Some of the reservation boys are
riding the big broncos.  I don’t want to miss that.  There’s a street dance
afterward.  Geronimo’s Cadillac, the only all Apache rock and roll band on the
planet, is going to be playing some good ol’ rock and roll.”

For the
first time in weeks Eskadi carried genuine excitement in his voice.  His tone
was beautiful compared to the anger and jealousy he had been exuding lately.

Eskadi gave
her a rundown of the events.  His animation rose as he described bareback
riding, bucking broncos and calf roping.  It came to a fever pitch when he went
off on a tirade about the history of rodeo clowns, their importance to the
rodeo and how they had originally been a part of the sacred Indian culture.  He
even jokingly hypothesized the whole idea of rodeo clowns was yet another idea
co-opted by the cowboy White man from the Native Americans.  When he laughed at
the silliness of his own statement, Kate felt maybe Eskadi was once again
becoming the man she had fallen in love with.

“Oh, there’s
one more thing,” said Eskadi.  “You know that tape you had me listen to?  The
one with the bomb threats?”

“Yes.  We’ve
got the man who made the calls in jail.”

“Everyone
knows that,” said Eskadi.  “That old Mexican, Felipe Madrigal.  The old men up
here on the reservation who worked with him down at the Morenci Copper Mine say
he was the best guy they ever worked with.  He would hang out with the Natives
because the Whites didn’t like him anymore than they liked the Mestizos or
Mexicans.  They would eat lunch together every day.  Felipe’s wife, who was
both Mescalero Apache and Mexican, was a great cook, and she made food for some
of the guys who weren’t married.  Old man Madrigal even learned some Apache
language. He would tell a story in Spanish, and they would tell him the same
story in Apache.  Telling all those stories in two languages and listening to
his wife’s accent is how he got the Apache accent in his voice.  He even claims
he has a little Mescalero Apache blood in his veins.  I believe him, even if it
is only because he married into it.”

“Did they
say anything else about him?”

“Not much
else except he was a better mechanic than any of the White guys.  Oh, there was
on other thing.  He used to bring his grandson, a little pipsqueak of a kid,
with him in the truck.  When that kid wasn’t even ten years old, the old man
used to let him drive that big truck all by himself.  I guess that little
squirt was a hell of a good driver.”

Eskadi
promised to pick her up by five o’clock.  Kate hung up the phone.

By the time
Kate got done with her paperwork it was three o’clock and Zeb was back in the
office.  He handed her the cup of coffee she had requested.

“Before
everyone heads off to the rodeo, did you learn anything new on your rounds
today?” he asked.

“I got four
more complaints about fast drivers.  Some fella in a big truck has been going like
a bat out of hell…pardon my language…out that way.  But I didn’t see any
speeders all afternoon.  I sometimes think those ranchers out there complain
just to have something to talk about or somebody to talk to.”

“I imagine
some of those folks go for weeks without talking to anyone new,” he added.

“You know
them better than I do,” said Kate. “And then there was one old couple who said
a young Mexican kid came to their door asking for water for his car’s
radiator.  The car was parked down the road a piece so they couldn’t say for
sure if it was a Vega, but it was yellow.  The wife thought she might have seen
a second person sitting in the car, but she couldn’t be sure because the kid
came to the door by himself.” 

“I’d sure
like to find the kid driving that yellow Vega and figure out what that is all
about.”

“We will,”
said Kate.  “What was the word over at the diner?”

“I didn’t
think I was ever going to get out of the Town Talk.  Every time I stopped to
talk to somebody all they wanted to talk about was the rodeo.  By the time I
get cleaned up and Doreen and I get up there, it will be five or six.  The
rodeo starts at two.  I would hate to miss three or four hours of it.  It’s
Doreen’s first time at the rodeo with me.” 

Kate was
glad to see a little less stress on the sheriff’s face.

“It goes on
until nine or ten,” said Kate. “In fact Eskadi told me most of the best events
are after five o’clock.”

“I guess
you’re right.  I sure don’t want Doreen to miss it when they let the bulls out
to chase the clowns.  I know she will just love that.”

“I would say
it sounds more like you who doesn’t want to miss it, Zeb.” said Deputy Steele.

The sheriff
chuckled.  She was right. Ever since he was a little kid the bulls chasing the
rodeo clowns around the arena had been his favorite part of the rodeo.

“Eskadi told
me the clown show was at seven-thirty,” Kate continued.  “He says that’s the
best part.”

“It is a
heckuva lot of fun,” replied Zeb.  “Enjoy yourself.”

“You too,
Sheriff.  Relax.  Have a little fun.  Not much bad can happen at a rodeo.”