The Renegades (31 page)

“Laws pulls two of the rolling suitcases to the sliding glass door, then comes back with two more. Below, the black-dog faction is booing and the brindle faction has gone bonkers, throwing their drinks and cheering. Some approximation of a doctor makes a show of examining the limp black dog with a flashlight. He wears welder’s gloves, too.

—There’s no way, says Laws.

—No way what?

—No way to see this and not die.

—Ignore it.

—That’s what I mean. You have to be dead to ignore it.

—Steady, Terry. Five minutes and we’re out of here.

“Rocky and his three men escort us down the steps. It’s much louder outside of the private box, and a wild musky smell cuts through the drug and tobacco smoke. The whole arena feels ready to ignite. Single file, Terry and I each push one suitcase and pull another, all of which bounce precariously down the steps until the rollers hit the floor. They draw plenty of looks but nobody is inclined to contest four stubby combat shotguns holding eight rounds each.

“Suddenly Laws veers off to the fight pit. He parks the suitcases upright and hops into the ring, and I think for sure this is the beginning of the end.”

“You’ve said that before,” says Bradley. “Laws has gotten you to the brink at least twice before, with Herredia.”

“I didn’t know what a brink was until now. I stop and watch Terry. I figure he’s going to strangle or maybe even shoot the dog handlers or the doctor. His big body blots out the sight of them. I can’t really see what he’s doing. I let go of one suitcase and rest my hand on the pistol under my sport coat. The shotgunners, who are supposed to be protecting the money, all lower their weapons at Terry.

“But the crowd sees what I can’t see, and it goes quiet for a long beat. Then all of a sudden there’s a drunken roar. And when Terry climbs back out of the pit, he’s got the defeated black dog in his arms and a martyr’s calm on his face. The dog is wrapped in a Mexican blanket. The ring doctor jumps the wall and stuffs a handful of something in Terry’s jacket pocket and Terry says something to him and the doctor says something back. But Terry doesn’t even break stride. Rocky takes one of Terry’s suitcases and one of his gunmen takes the other, and the six of us and one mostly dead dog proceed to the exit. We proceed to the exit!

“I steer my VW Touareg south on Interstate Five. In the rearview I see Terry back in the second row of seats, holding the animal on his lap. The car smells of blood and fear, and Laws is talking to the dog in a low voice, telling it that things will be okay, you’re going to be just fine, hang in there, amigo.

—The doctor said his name is Blanco, says Laws.

—He’s black, not white.

—That doctor helped us out. He really did. There’s scissors and butterfly stitches here, and a bunch of antibacterial ointment and swabs and gauze and a roll of white tape. Laurel will love this innocent warrior.

—He’s probably going to die, Terry. You have to figure he’s going to die.

—Don’t tell me what to figure, Coleman. There are figurers greater than you.

—I’m saying the dog can die.

—Blanco will not die.

—Keep the blood off the leather, Terry.

—It’s all in the blanket. Good dog. Good Blanco. You hang in there, my friend.

“The dog is still alive two hours later when we come into San Ysidro and join the line of traffic heading for the border. Laws and I both know that getting an American dog in and out of Mexico is much harder than smuggling large sums of drug money, so we take Blanco to a twenty-four-hour emergency veterinary clinic. Laws badges the employees and pretty much tells the truth about Blanco and what happened to him. He gives them his credit card and agrees to an estimated twelve hundred bucks for treatment and boarding charges, just for the night. The young vet says that Blanco’s chances are “fair.” Terry tells the doctor that the dog will live. I’ll tell you, something in the tone of Terry’s voice really got my attention. I’d never heard that tone from him. The young doctor, he turns kind of pale, and he nods and looks away.”

I watch Bradley Jones as he puts the flame to a fresh cigar.

“So,” he says. “Laws has found his heart and lost his mind.”

“Approximately.”

“NEAR THE DIRT road that cuts off from Mexican Highway Three, I hit the brights and look for the small pile of stones that marks the turnoff. Terry still has the dog on his mind and that almost sad, almost content look on his face, like he’s bound for heaven or something.

—It’s important that Herredia has confidence in us, I say.

—What’s that supposed to mean?

—There was the falling-in-the-swimming-pool incident. Then the passing-out-in-his-chair incident. He worries about your religious conversion, Terry. He worries that it will interfere with our work.

“Laws goes quiet while I guide the SUV off the asphalt and bounce it across the shoulder to the dirt road that leads to El Dorado. Dust rises in the headlights and the beams straighten into the desert.

—You told me all that before, Coleman.

—Stay focused, Terry. Stay calm. Choose life.

—I’ve murdered for profit. I’ve been forgiven by God. I see no contradiction in that. I see no reason why God should interfere with our work.

—God is not our employer. Herredia is.

—Then I will render unto El Tigre.

—Terry, keep your God and your jokes to yourself. You should know that by now. I can’t cover for you much longer.

—Don’t worry. Be happy.

—I worry and I am not happy.

—Blanco is going to be fine.

I order a bottle of good Brunello and we choose two more cigars. The night is still young and the Sunset Strip is just now beginning to find its mood. When I first moved from Jacumba I rented a place on Horn, just a few blocks from here, but I could only afford to keep it for two months. I had a business to build. But I found myself a Sunset girl, and we had more than our share of moments. Excessive women are easy to identify—they have a visible aura, as excessive men have known for centuries.

I taste the wine and nod, and the waitress pours.

“So, we make El Dorado shortly after midnight. We’re escorted in, as usual. It’s a moonless night and I can feel tension in the air. A helicopter circles steadily high above. Laws is a bloody spectacle, but luckily, he always traveled with a change of clothes. He excuses himself to change. The American women are not to be seen, and Herredia is preoccupied. Felipe keeps his one good eye extra close on me.

“But the unpacking and weighing go smoothly. Felipe weighs and repackages our share. Laws doesn’t say much, and neither does Herredia. We eat a light meal, and six hours later we’re back at the animal hospital.

—Blanco is doing very well, says the vet. He’s stabilized and resting. I think he’s going to be okay.

—What did I tell you? asks Laws.

“The doctor nods and looks at Blanco asleep in the crate. Laws signs off on the fourteen-hundred-dollar charge and carries the crate to the Touareg. I get the bag of pills and ointments and I see the vet’s relieved expression as we walk out.

“San Ysidro is hazy and slow in the winter dawn. I look out the window and see something beautiful in this place. And a feeling tries to come to me that I haven’t felt in a while—not since Terry had made a fool of himself after the fishing trip. The feeling is that everything is going to be okay.
Okay.
What a sound that word has, when you hear it clearly and you believe it. I look over at Terry and of course he’s got Blanco on his lap and a peaceful gaze on his face as he looks down on the thing. Madonna and child, whatever, I think, whatever happens next is going to be okay. And as soon as you tell yourself that everything’s going to be okay, that’s when the gods choose to demolish your hopes, right? So get a load of this. Here’s what Terry says next.

—Do you ever feel like confessing to all this? Just putting it all down, in words or on a tape in your own voice? Not necessarily so anybody could hear it. Just to relieve your soul.

—No, Terry. I’ve never, ever thought that. Not even for one second.

“The adrenaline hits me like lightning. I truly cannot believe what Terry is saying, though I hear it very clearly.
A confession!

—You haven’t done that, have you, Terry? Made a tape, or written something down?

—Maybe.

—You either have or you haven’t.

—I haven’t. I was kidding.

—But Terry, if you were going to confess, how would you do it?

—DVD. That way it’s me, my voice, my face. My whole visible and audible being. And there wouldn’t be any doubt that I was coerced or framed. It would be the truth. I’d start with Eichrodt and work my way forward.”

—And what about me, Terry?

—What about you? You’re my partner, and we did most of this together. I’d take half the blame for Vasquez and Lopes. Just because I didn’t have the balls to shoot him doesn’t mean I’m less guilty than you. But I’d have to include you. This is about truth. You have to put in the whole truth or it’s just another facet of a lie. Right? See what I’m saying?”

I pour another glass of wine for each of us. Bradley is studying me with new eyes because he now sees that I had one more reason to kill Terry Laws. But he knows I did not kill Terry, because I am not Londell Dwayne, or whoever Hood saw that night. So Bradley is wondering, as is all of L.A., who killed Laws? And why? Of course, I know the answer to both of those questions. And I’ll tell them to Bradley when I think he’s ready to crash through the next wall of truth.

36

“Four nights later
, a Tuesday, we’re patrolling the desert out of Lancaster substation. It’s cold. I’m still stunned by Terry’s idea of confessing. These are the most dangerous words he’s ever spoken to me. He’s my friend and I’m the only thing standing between him and Herredia. But now I see that I might not be able to save Terry from himself. I feel as if I’ve had a judgeship forced upon me, that Herredia’s prosperity and Laws’s life and my own future have been melted into heavy slag and poured into my lap.

“I look out at the new strip mall and the off-brand gas station and the young black dude in the lowered red Nissan with the brindle pit bull in the front seat beside him sticking its thick blunt snout into the wind.

—That’s Londell Dwayne, says Laws.

—It’s not Londell’s car.

—I didn’t know he had a dog.

—He probably just stole them both.

—That’s what I was thinking.

“So we follow the red Nissan for two blocks up Twentieth Street, then flash him and hit the siren once and the Nissan cuts across the dusty shoulder and comes to a stop. Laws is out first. He marches to the driver’s side of the Nissan. He’s not moving with his usual hulking amble, but a purposeful stride. I walk around the back of Londell’s car to the passenger side, rest the big four-battery flashlight on my shoulder and aim the beam through the front side window. No passengers except the dog. There are two unopened twelvers of Rainier on the backseat. No other cargo or obvious contraband. Just Londell Dwayne, looking up as he talks to Laws, and the dog looking at me through the glass. It’s bigger than the brindle that tore up Blanco at Hector’s last Friday night. It looks healthy and groomed but parts of its ears are missing and there are old scars on both sides of its muzzle. I turn off the flashlight and watch Laws over the roof of the car.

—Nice ride, Londell. Where did you steal it?

—This car is a loaner, my man. Lattie’s friend’s brother.

—Let’s see the paper and your license.

“I watch Londell dig out a wallet and hand his license to Laws. Then he reaches across to the glove box and I pop the holster strap and set my hand on the butt of my gun. The pit bull shifts its front feet and what’s left of its ears seem to stiffen. Londell looks up at me with his usual sleepy wiseass expression, then opens the glove box and fishes around for the registration slip, and hands it over to Terry.

—Tell me about Lattie’s friend, says Laws.

—His name is Keeshawn and he’s a good dude. Keeshawn’s visiting from L.A. He lent me this ride so I could get us some beer. You will find that exhibit in the seat behind me, not getting colder, by the way.

—Whose dog is this?

—My dog, rescued from bad people and now living the good life in beautiful Antelope Valley.

—What’s the dog’s name?”

—She a bitch, not a dog. And her name is Delilah.

—So that makes you Samson?

—That is not the connotation. She’s beautiful and desired by other pit bulls. It’s got nothing to do with me.

—Step out of the car, Londell.

—Yes, sir, Mr. Lawman.

“I watch Londell climb out of the little car, and I see that the dog is eager to follow him, but she holds herself in check. She leans toward the now empty driver’s seat, tail wagging hopefully. The door slams and the dog climbs into the driver’s seat and watches her master. I wait until Laws has Dwayne up against the car before I walk back to our unit and call in the plates. I watch Laws and Dwayne bathed in the cruiser headlights. Their figures are exaggerated by the lights and the shadows cast beyond them. They look like stage actors illuminated from below. Dwayne is slender and of medium height, but he looks huge in the bright lights.

“I see Laws, steadying Dwayne’s back with one hand and running his other hand down Londell’s rib cage. Then Terry switches hands and sides. He reaches around under Dwayne’s sweatshirt, at the waistband of his baggies. Then all of a sudden, Laws hops back with a gun in his raised right hand, then hops back again, quickly out of range in case Dwayne turns and lunges for it.

—Londell? Homes! What is
this
?

—That’s my hundred percent legal, twenty-five-caliber semiautomatic self-defender I got at a gun show at the fairgrounds.

—But you concealed it. That’s against the law. Makes me think you might want to use it on my partner or me.

“The plate check comes through, so I hook the radio handset back in its cradle, and walk back to the Nissan.