Indian Country Noir (Akashic Noir) (24 page)

"You threatened my family," I say again.

"Look. You're alive. Usually, when somebody's threatening
me, beating on me with a hammer, I'm not going to duck. I'll
grab a machete, whack off his arms and some other parts. So.
You know what I want. Fix it for me, your family will live."

"I'm not threatening you in any way. Don't bullshit me
about why I'm here."

"Reymundo," she says, "am I not a woman of honor?"

"You'd have a sicario tell me about honor?" I say.

"Reymundo's a lover, not a shooter."

Rey nods without hesitation.

"He has no honor working for you," I say.

"Then let's get to business. You know what I want."

"No, no," I say. "You know what I want."

"You want to live," she laughs. "That's entirely what this is
about. We all want to live. I control you and your family; you
control my future. I will trade one for the other. And money.
Do you have enough of the proper equipment to find me a,
how do you say it, a legend?"

I just shake my head, work at controlling my panic, searching for an edge. She sips the Diet Sprite, muscles flexing in her
temples, a tectonic shift in her calculations as she nods. "You
want a drink? Beer? Water? Tequila?"

"No. Just stop threatening my family."

"How about some Ritalin?" she says and I freeze. She
reaches under her chair, grabs a plastic folder, sets it on the table without opening it. "I know all about you, Miss Winslow."

"I haven't used Ritalin in years," I say angrily.

"Fascinating." She opens the folder and flips through a few
pages. "You didn't use, you abused. I wholesale thousands of
pounds of methamphetamines. You once took methamphetamines. So in a way, we're not all that different."

I'm really furious now, the fury conquering my panic. "And
your crystal meth has ruined a thousand lives. Ten thousand
lives. You can't threaten me. And if you threaten my family, I
won't help you in any way."

"Okay," she says. "Let's try something else. Your Hopi name
is Kauwanyauma. Butterfly Revealing Wings of Beauty. See?
We've both got grand names. I'm La Bruja. The Witch. You're a butterfly, with an arrest record and a drug-user record. Rey's
told me everything about you." She finishes the Diet Sprite,
opens another bottle, studies me carefully. "Okay." Nods. "You
don't really get threatened, do you?" When I say nothing she
turns to Dial. "Diablo, call Jesus." Dial flicks open his cell,
speed-dials a number, holds the phone aside after hearing a
voice. "Tell Jesus to return."

"Whoa, whoa," I say. "Why would I believe you?"

"I offer proof of life," she replies, holding up a small GPS
unit. "Tell that man to leave his cell on, and give me his number." Talancon nods at Dial, who flips open the cell to display
the last number dialed. She punches it into the GPS, waits
until the map screen shows Sedona. "His cell has GPS on it.
He's headed toward 1-10 and Phoenix."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Don't listen to this puta," Dial says, but Talancon flicks
her palm, shakes her head.

Twenty-five minutes later, the GPS shows the cell locationout of red rock country and headed south toward Phoenix.

"Now. I've guaranteed your daughter's life," Talancon
says. She shrugs off her wristwatch, presses a button on the
side, and lays it on the picnic table in front of me. "A Rolex
Cosmograph Daytona. Diamonds, rubies, gold, twelve thousand dollars, I could care less. Right now, it's just a stopwatch.
Look at the numbers. Nine hours, fifty-eight minutes. That's
how much time you've got. I've arranged an out in Chicago,
but I've got to get there first. So in nine hours, we'll be headed
for the Tucson airport for the early flight. You've got that long
to set up a whole new identity."

"Impossible."

"Driver's license. Social Security card. Let's say four credit
cards, whatever else you can provide."

"Impossible," I insist. "Not for a totally clean package."
She points at the chronometer dial, the seconds shrinking
back toward zero. "We're talking about special paper, special
inks. Official seals, photographs, and bottom line, a Social Security number that's absolutely guaranteed to be genuine."

"You've got somebody who stores up these numbers, somebody who verifies they're clean."

"I don't think you really understand," I say. "I haven't arranged an entire identity kit in over a year."

"My personal motto of life," she counters. "If you don't ask
for something, nobody says yes. I visit New York, the hottest
Broadway show, I can get tickets anywhere in the house. Restaurants booked three months in advance. I can get a table.
When they told me my son couldn't get into a prestigious high
school, I threatened a lawsuit on the basis of discrimination
against Latinos. He got in. Nothing is impossible. So I'm asking you again, can you do this for me?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know."

"Come with me," she says, turning sideways, a slight bow
and nod into the house. "Let me show you something, Miss
Winslow. Please. No harm, just come inside for a moment."

I walk ahead of her into an entranceway. She gestures
down a hall to the door of the main bedroom.

"On the bed. Look."

Two bodies sprawl on pink and purple flowered sheets. A
man and woman, bloodied, dead. One hand across my mouth,
I freeze. Talancon spins me around, pushes me back outside.

"Okay," she says. "Without hesitation, if you won't do
this, just as I killed them, I'll kill your entire family. In front
of your eyes."

"You promised, you guaranteed their safety."

"I lie. Usually it works."

And there it is.

I have few bargaining chips. Nine hours, during which I
can fake a process, hoping to convince Rey to get me out of
this mess, or I can work what few contacts I still have, gambling that if I create a new identity Talancon will let me live.

"Okay," I say. I mean, what else am I going to say?

Except I suddenly realize I have an edge.

"I think I've got you figured," I say. She just waits, face set
in stone, no flickers, no tells. "You're on the run. You've been
forced out of controlling your cartel. That means you'll probably just go somewhere else, change your identity, use some
connections, spend a lot of money, and start up again dealing
drugs somewhere else. Thailand. Manila. Wherever."

"Agreed. Okay. Your point?"

"I figure you'll fly to Chicago, then jump around the country, or head outside the country to get plastic surgery. I'll get
you a perfect new ID on one condition."

She cocks her head, her expression unchanged.

"Let me tell you a short story."

"Don't beg," she says. "We're well past that."

"Up on the Navajo rez," I say, "my husband's mother is
from the Start of the Red Streak People. The Deeshchii'nii
clan. His sister married a man from the Jaa'yaaloolii. The
Sticking-Up-Ears People. They had two sons."

"Please," Talancon says. "I know where this is going."

"Both sons got totally bored with high school and turned
to drugs. Both worked their way up the drug ladder to making
crystal meth. They blew themselves up in their lab one day."

"What's the point, okay?"

"If I fly with you to Chicago, I figure there's a good chance
you'll just disappear and let me live. I'll take that chance if
... what I want, what you'll have to do ... if you'll give me a complete list of all the meth dealers on all Arizona Indian
reservations."

She studies me for a long time. A long, long time. And
then nods abruptly.

"Okay. You've got everything you need?"

"Just so you understand," I explain. "First, I've got to find
an identity, find a legend. That's a name I can use without challenge by law enforcement databases. A name that's got a birth
date near enough to yours, a somewhat facial resemblance."

"That's going to be altered here," she says. "Depending
on what you tell me I've got to do. I'll dye my hair, cut it, stuff
cotton wads into my cheeks and nose, whatever it takes so I
look like whatever picture you provide. So find me a golden
legend."

"Even after I find the legend, I'll have to locate somebody
who'll work up the identity materials. That will take some
hours. I might not be able to guarantee delivery."

"Then now is the best time to start." She stabs a finger at
the watch. Not needing to say anything, the chronometer dial
winding down.

"Even if I can create the legend, I can't get the documents
to you down here."

"Not here," she says. "Tucson airport. And the credit
cards have to be good enough to get me a ticket on any airline
connecting to Chicago. And you'll have to use all your skills
to make it look like the tickets were purchased weeks ago.
That's it, okay?"

She dismisses me, moves inside the house. Dial sits on a
rusted wrought-iron chair, pistol in his lap. Rey slumps in another chair, refusing to look at me. I have to test my chances,
have to know if I have an edge. I go to him, kneel and put my
hands on his face, turning his eyes to mine.

"Rey," I say. "How did you get into this dirty business?"

"Don't play me, Laura. No way can I help you."

Dial finishes a Sonoran hot dog, smacks his lips. When I
look at him, he blows me a kiss. In that moment, I get busy.
Open my carryall, take out my gear, boot up my laptop, turn
on my ComSat phone, and get online.

"Lovitta," I say. I've dialed her private number. "Lovitta. Wake
up.

Lovitta Kovich groans. "Laura?" Lovitta is a sergeant with
the Tucson narcotics department, my inside source, my treasured coordinator of drug dealer information.

"Yes."

"Where are, what are you doing?" Groggy. "I've been
working twenty hours. What?"

"Hello," I say carefully. "How are you? Have you arrived
safely."

"Arrived ... ah, oh yeah. Laura. Still sending pretty little
pics?"

"To everyone I know in my postcard perfect world." The
most basic of voice codes, an agreed-on exchange to indicate
urgency.

"Where are you?"

"I can't tell you that."

"How can I help?"

"I need a legend."

"How quick?"

"Six hours."

"Impossible."

"Six hours," I repeat.

"What kind of documents?"

"Everything. SSN card. Driver's license. At least three working credit cards, each with a purchase and payment legend. Medical records, if you can do that. Miscellaneous stuff.
Safeway card, whatever."

"Passport?"

"No."

"Well, that saves time. Not impossible. But improbable."

"Who've you got?"

"Larry Marshall. Mary Emich. Alex Emerine. Mary can
Photoshop the documents, Larry can coordinate sources for
printing, he knows a nonprofit that will let him use a flatbed press and special inks. Alex can set up computer legends
for bank accounts, credit, hospitals. She knows just where to
hack into records, add a new identity. But. You've got to get a
name. A legend is no good without the right name."

"I'll have that in an hour," I say. "You get them set up, wait
for my call."

Disconnecting the cell, I sit in front of my laptop. Small,
sudden nods of my head as I think through each step. I start
typing.

"What are you doing?" Rey asks.

Opening a web browser, I call up a website, begin typing in
physical and age characteristics. Rey watches over my shoulder as a series of photo images scrolls down the screen.

"Jane ... JaneJohnDoe dot com?" he says. "What kind of
website is that?"

"People who disappeared."

"What help is that?"

"I don't have time to buy a name. Usually that would take
days. Weeks for something really specific. This is a national
database of people who've disappeared-men, women, and
children who've vanished from their jobs, their homes, their
loved ones."

"I don't get it."

"We're looking for women who disappeared five to ten
years ago. Once I get those compiled, I'll search the photos for
a face that resembles Talancon. When I find that, I'll crosscheck the name of the missing person with other databases to
get a Social Security number. And then anything is possible."

"How many people are in here?"

"Lots. Probably three to five thousand. And that's just
people who've disappeared. There are hundreds more who are
dead but unidentified. Rey, stop asking me questions. Leave
me alone."

"I just want to help."

"You have nothing to offer me. Not anymore. You," I say to
Dial, "get your boss out here. I need to ask her something."

Talancon appears in the doorway, stripped to bra and
panties, a bath towel over her shoulder, her hair already cut
very short. Dial stands, pulls out his Glock as though there's
been a prearranged signal.

"Kill me now," I say, "you get nothing."

"Are you afraid of Diablo?" Her smiling face caught in a
sudden, cold light from the sun. I see she wears no makeup,
small beads of sweat form on her upper lip, her pupils dilate,
and then a flatness comes into her eyes. "Okay, there's nothing left. Diablo, give me your gun."

Dial hands over the Glock. Talancon thumbs back the
slide, checking that a live round is chambered. She has an odd
way of holding the Glock; her middle finger is on the trigger,
and without hesitation she targets Dial.

"Pela las nalgas, puta," he says bitterly as she cranks a
double-tap to his chest, striding quickly to stand over his
twitching body to put another round directly into his forehead.

"Jesus Christ!" Rey gasps, hands out in front, thinking
he's next.

"Not you, loverboy. You're intocable. Untouchable, so far.
Anything else?" she says to me. I shake my head, ears ringing
from the gunshots. Talanc6n tosses the weapon to Rey. "Drag
him inside." She turns to me with a look and shrugs. "Vama-
nos, senora! Ahorita!"

Get busy. Now!

And I'm wondering what seed she sprang from, what
made this bitter fruit.