American Blood (22 page)

He sat down and put a dash of cream in his coffee, looked out across the street as he stirred. A tired smile under the lenses, like the world was a tough place and coffee in the sunshine was a welcome refuge.

Marshall said, “You ever tempted to go all out, dye your hair black as well?”

Cohen leaned forward a fraction, laid one thigh across the other. He said, “Can’t say I haven’t toyed with the prospect, but truth be told it’s a dangerous thing to pursue.” He tapped the spoon on the lip of the mug, sound like a wind chime. “Issue is, where does a man stop? Eyebrows, mustache, nose hair. It’s no small thing to undertake a re-color.”

Marshall didn’t answer.

Cohen said, “Anyway. My Mrs. Cohen approves of the status quo, so I won’t be modifyin’ anything, ’less there’s some change of heart. But let’s not go tempting bad luck.”

Marshall didn’t answer.

Cohen said, “How’s the eggs?”

“Fine.”

Cohen nodded. “That’s been my experience of them, too.”

Marshall said, “I still don’t know if I’m trusting you or not.”

Cohen pushed his plate to the edge of the table so he wouldn’t have to twist too far to reach it. “Gave you that stack of Bibles line, didn’t I? Wouldn’t have said it if I was planning on screwin’ you.”

Marshall prodded some food round, like checking for signs of life. He said, “Wasn’t sure you’re a believer. Couldn’t tell if you meant it or not.”

“I meant it.” He tried some coffee, added a splash more cream. “But you’re right. I’m about as spiritual as that lump of eggs.”

Marshall didn’t answer.

Cohen said, “I seen a lot more bad than good, so if they happen to decide he’s keener on misery than compassion, sign me up. But until then.”

Marshall said, “I need to find Troy Rojas, and I thought you might help me.”

Cohen smiled a little as he cut himself some toast. “I can find you some friendlier opponents to play hide-and-seek with. And that’s just on our ten most wanted.”

“Are you interested or not?”

Cohen nodded. “I am. It’s actually his friend Mr. Bolt I’ve been looking for, but from what I’m told it’s a find-one-get-one-free type situation.”

“I’d say that’s more or less what we’re looking at.”

Cohen removed his glasses, wiped a lens with his tie. “You made a good mess of your house last night.”

“Personal best.”

“I spoke to the police lady from APD you saved.”

Marshall had some coffee, watched the street. “And what did she have to say? Other than that I saved her?”

“She said you were looking for a missing girl, disappeared down in Albuquerque.”

“That’s right.”

Cohen gave it a bit of time, in case he had more. When there was just silence he said, “So what she didn’t know was how you’d reached the conclusion Bolt and Rojas or one of them knows something about it.”

“What’s it to you?”

Cohen dipped his head, slipped the aviators back on. “Well, like I said on the phone. Just think it’d be prudent for someone of official standing to know what all the pieces are.”

“I’m not sure I can be entirely frank with you.”

Cohen ate some toast. He used his cutlery like Marshall did, one clean knife stroke at a time. He said, “Get into those eggs or they’ll cool down on you.”

Marshall ate a few mouthfuls.

Cohen turned toward him and in the lenses Marshall saw his twin reflections in convex miniature. Cohen said, “If I was entirely frank with you, would it put you more at ease?”

“It’d help.”

Cohen had some coffee, grinned thinly on the swallow, like downing hard liquor. He said, “Killed a cartel guy up in Farmington couple of months back.”

“Good for you.”

Cohen didn’t answer.

Marshall said, “How’d you manage that?”

Cohen propped his arm along the table, hand hanging easy off the end. He said, “Had a couple of them we were after, two brothers, actually. Got a tip-off one night the younger one was at a motel up there, so we rounded up the staties, moved in early mornin’, got him while he was still sleeping. Never saw us coming obviously, pretty clean wrap-up. So that was fine. Problem was the older guy was coming back from something across the street, food or diner or whatever, sees us paradin’ his brother out of the room in cuffs. And, you know. Of course he’s got a gun with him, so he holds up a car that’s coming through, shoots the driver, boom, two head shots, blood everywhere, takes her eight-year-old son hostage, drags him over at gunpoint.”

Marshall said, “And you shot him.”

Cohen nodded. “I did. Was holstered at the time, so it was a draw-fire thing.” He slid his mug in a small circle on the table. “Not to be heroic about it or anythin’, but that’s how it happened. All sort of frantic and instinct.”

Marshall didn’t answer.

Cohen said, “Bullet went in his mouth while he was talking too, didn’t even clip his teeth.”

Marshall said, “Could have done open casket, rigged up a big smile.”

Cohen adjusted the glasses, a tiny nudge to get them level. “Indeed they could have.”

Marshall said, “Good story.”

“Yeah. Point I was working round to is: I’ve got a wife, not so different to the lady was shot, and two little girls before long’ll be eight years old themselves. So given all that, my little Farmington adventure resonated a bit, and I guess I’ve lost any meager tolerance I mighta had for gun thugs.” He chewed and looked out across the street. “Funny, you have a family, kids, you realize you’d do anything to keep’m safe.” He looked at Marshall. “But then, what is it about anyone else on this earth that makes them undeserving of the same devotion, other’n that you don’t share blood.”

Marshall ate his eggs. They spent a moment not talking. At length, Marshall said, “So what’s Bolt done that you’re after him?”

The wind kicked up, laid Cohen’s tie across his shoulder. He restored order without looking down. He said, “He’s out of federal lockup on supervised release, wasn’t filing his reports, which I believe is a Class D felony all by itself. Anyway. He’s got a former missus out in Lubbock, marshal’s sent two deputies along to reconnoiter, pair of them met a pretty insalubrious end.” He drained his mug. “And I’d say the good money is on Mr. Bolt having a hand in their departure. Needless to say, death of anyone’s a tragedy, but to my mind Texas men are among the very finest, so I’m extra saddened by that sort of news.”

Marshall said, “So you want him dead.”

Cohen made a claw of one hand, inspected his nails. “I think that’s a dangerous thing for a federal officer to be putting honest comment to. But I think society would be radically improved should Mr. Bolt stop living. Never met him of course, but Cyrus strikes me as the sort of man doesn’t like to go quietly when given the option; check out in a hail of gunfire, if he got the chance. So yeah. I think I’m lookin’ forward to seeing him in the flesh.”

Marshall didn’t answer.

Cohen said, “That nice police detective lady. Shore. She speculated maybe you’d showed Mr. Bolt his grave.”

Watching him carefully now. Marshall said, “Speculating’s her prerogative.”

“Mmm. I guess what I’m fishing for is whether there’s any merit to her wonderings, or if it’s just a bunch of fanciful what-ifs.”

Marshall said, “If I killed someone I wouldn’t tell you about it.”

Cohen looked at him over the top of the aviators, add some weight to things. “What if I told you that whatever’s shared between us during a nice session of eggs and toast remains our private business?”

Marshall sat a while, toying with words, didn’t get the feeling he was being taken for a ride. He said, “I don’t think you need to worry about him.”

“And what about Mr. Rojas?”

“He’s still worth investing some serious time in.”

Cohen nodded slowly to himself. “Right. I had a suspicion that might be the case.”

“Is there a federal warrant out on him?”

Cohen clasped his hands on his knee, tilted his head while he thought about it. “I’m not entirely sure that there is. But I do know APD missing persons would dearly like to talk with him, and he held a police officer at gunpoint last night, so I’d say the feds’ll be after him sooner or later.” He paired up his cutlery. “Troy’s had a busy time, so there’s bound to be something in Title 18 he’s violated. Section 1201, maybe.”

“That the part about kidnapping?”

Cohen nodded. “I do believe that is the part about kidnapping.”

Marshall set his fork down, finished his coffee. He sat up in his chair a bit and folded his legs the way Cohen had, and the two of them sat looking out at the street. The wall behind them shadowing the little courtyard, and at the opposite curb the square adobe frontage of the old public library was warm and blemish-free in the sun. The sky a clear and pale blue.

Cohen said, “You going to help me find Mr. Rojas?”

“I asked you first.”

“What I meant more broadly is, are you going to cooperate with me?”

“Well. What are the alternatives? Hypothetically.”

Cohen smiled, Cheshire cat, like a dentist’s brochure. “Hypothetically. I could take you in, put some questions to you about those drugs in the back of your car, or all them boxes of shit stacked in your living room. Asset forfeiture type concern.”

“The drugs are fake. And the boxes are my tenant’s.”

Cohen said, “Unofficially, I believe you. Officially though, we’ve heard it all before, son.”

“Can you make me a special deputy?”

“You be on your best behavior, maybe we’ll work something out.”

Marshall didn’t answer. He stood up, walked around the table toward the door. He said, “I’ll pay. Meet you in the car.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Wayne Banister

Eight
A.M
. he went looking for Sean Frazer. He had visions of killing him in a car, give him the same fate as the old man.

Fourth Street was in a narrow band of development between I-25 and the Rio Grande, not a prosperous-looking area, and Razor Rentals fit in fine. It was in a low off-white building that might have been a grocery store at one stage: big plywood-backed windows facing the street, timber signage along the eave, whited out to leave just a red hue.
RAZOR RENTALS
had been stenciled over in chrome blue.

The building adjoined a large concrete lot, chain-link fence along the other three sides, a wide swing gate to permit vehicle access. There were maybe twenty cars parked in there: sedans, SUVs, a few pickups. Nothing less than ten years old. Down the back he could see an old Dodge Charger with its hood up, two Hispanic guys leaning in over the engine bay.

Wayne parked a block away and sat watching. No traffic. The storefronts tired, untenanted. A bars-over-windows type of neighborhood. He took the red phone from his pocket and looked at it and thought of calling home, but he didn’t. Too great a distraction. Talk to the child and all those moral questions start weighing in.

It’s just a job, you’re good at it, it’s a single-variable problem:

How are you going to do it this time?

He sat there working it through, watched the two guys jack up the front of the Charger. A moment later the quick squeal of a pneumatic wrench. He leaned and put the phone in the glove compartment and checked his mirrors. Then he got out and blipped the locks and crossed the street without looking, buttoning his jacket as he walked.

There was a steel security screen over the front door, but it wasn’t locked. He stepped in and mariachi greeted him, radio cranked way up to catch a weak signal, the noise equal parts static and music. He was in a small office, a new partition in the front half of the original building, bright new gypsum board on the rear wall. No cameras. There was a fat guy of about fifty wearing a ball cap seated behind a desk, a Jewish man in full black attire bent over to sign documents. Sidelocks gently pendulous as he wrote. A door to the left accessed the lot, and the shrill tone of the wrench was clear over the radio.

Wayne stood at the entry until the customer had left with a key, and then he sat down in a torn office chair on casters in front of the desk. He rolled himself back slightly so he could see through the door to where the two guys were working on the Charger.

The man behind the desk gathered the documents and tamped the edges square. He said, “Been doing this a while, but that’s my first whaddya call it. Orthodox Jew. All dressed up like that.”

He looked out at the lot, like the sight of the guy had been some kind of rare spectacle he wanted to savor. “Asked for one of them people mover things, but we didn’t have one, had to give him an SUV. Funny, knew a guy in Brooklyn did this, said Jews always want big cars. Especially on weekends, you know, move their big families around.”

Wayne sat quietly, and when he felt they were done with Jews he said, “I’m looking for Frazer.”

“What?”

Hard to hear over the radio. Wayne turned his fingers in a little dial motion and the guy leaned and turned down the volume. The noise faded back to static only.

Wayne said, “I’m looking for Frazer.”

The guy dropped the papers in a drawer, scraped it shut. “Which one, Senior or Junior?”

Wayne thought about it and said, “Either.”

“They’re not here. You can leave a message I guess.”

“I’d rather just talk to them.”

The guy shrugged.

Wayne said, “It’s Junior I’m really after.”

The guy leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk. He smiled and touched his hat brim, pushed it back a fraction. He said, “If it’s a rental you’re after I can probably help you.”

“I’m not after a car.”

The guy didn’t answer.

Wayne heard an engine start and watched the man in black ease a Subaru Forester out the gate onto the road. He said, “You know where Junior is?”

The guy spread his hands. “Look, he’s on an errand.”

“Where?”

“I don’t think he’ll be too much longer.”

Wayne smiled, patient. He put a foot up on the edge of the desk. “Is there anyone else here who might be a little more forthcoming?”

“Forthcoming. Well, what’s your Spanish like? You could try those two out there.” He laughed.

Wayne leaned back and looked at them. The old wheel was off and a new one was being rolled into place. Give it a minute and that wrench would be up and running again. He drew the silenced SIG from the shoulder holster and propped it on his raised knee.