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  “Thank you.”

  “Do you fear the hospital?” the doctor asked, swabbing away the coagulated blood. So often, especially with the poor, it was hard to overcome a patient’s apprehension of modern medicine.

  “No. I wish to show the patrón that I am trustworthy.”

  The doctor nodded his head. “That is an important quality if you wish to work for Señor DeLeon. Prove yourself and he will reward you well.” He worked quickly to close the gash. “The wound is away from the arteries. You are lucky.”

  “So far,” Eddie allowed, wincing.

  CHAPTER 10

  ARMED WITH A LIST of low-grade snitches grudgingly provided by a customs agent who wasn’t about to turn over his most valuable confidential informants to a cop he didn’t know, Kerney got to work.

  El Paso filled barren hills stubbed up against the Rio Grande, and spread like a bloated octopus into the Chihuahuan desert north of Mexico. The city was hot, the traffic miserable, and the jumble of housing developments, barrios, and miles of strip malls depressing.

  Kerney found Cruz Abeyta in his pawnshop, a seedy establishment filled mostly with stolen televisions, stereos, power tools, and weapons. Abeyta wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt, and a bandanna around his head to hold back his long hair. About forty years old, Cruz sported a two-day beard and had prison tattoos on both arms.

  Abeyta smiled at the fifty-dollar bill, and a gold front tooth with a star flashed at Kerney. He picked the money from Kerney’s fingers. “What do you need, man?”

  “Information. I need to find someone to move some merchandise south.”

  “Ain’t my specialty, man,” Cruz replied.

  “You must have friends in the trade,” Kerney prodded.

  “For fifty dollars, I’ll give you a name.”

  “Fair enough.”

  With the name and address of Eduardo Lopez in his shirt pocket, Kerney left and drove to a barrio on the outskirts of the city. A fronterizo enclave of illegal Mexican and Central American refugees, the barrio was a string of tar-paper shacks along a dirt road, with no electricity, no sewers, and one community well. The place teemed with barefoot children, mangy dogs, and women with malnourished faces. Few young men were in sight.

  Kerney found his way to Lopez’s shanty, conspicuous by the presence of a half-ton Chevy truck adorned with running lights. Lopez was buff-waxing the truck by hand under a tattered picnic canopy held up by scrap lumber. Fifty dollars made him stop for a chat.

  “I can deliver anything you want,” he told Kerney. Lopez was short, about five feet five, and had jet-black hair greased down and combed straight back. “In or out of Mexico,” he added.

  “That’s good to know,” Kerney said. “But I need a buyer first.”

  “What kind of merchandise?” Lopez asked, licking his lips.

  “Artifacts.”

  “Indian pots? That sort of stuff?”

  “Close enough.”

  Lopez gave him a cunning look. “That kind of information is worth more than fifty bucks.”

  “If I make a deal, you can make the delivery,” Kerney proposed.

  “That’s cool. Talk to Miguel Arnal. He owns a curio shop downtown.”

  By eight o’clock at night, Kerney was dejected, hungry, and tired. His attempt to move up the smuggler’s food chain had resulted in being passed from one small fish to another, at a total cost of four hundred dollars. And he was no closer to getting the name of a major player than he had been when he started out.

  On a boulevard driving back into the core of the city, Kerney stopped at a Mexican diner for something to eat. There were enough working-class cars in the parking lot to predict the food would be at least decent. Outside the building, an old adobe home painted white, was a row of newspaper vending machines. He popped some coins in a slot, pulled out the El Paso paper, and glanced at the adjacent machine. The headline story, in Spanish, was about the Zapatista revolutionaries in the Mexican state of Chiapas. He bought a copy just for the hell of it.

  Over dinner, he skimmed the El Paso paper and set it aside. The Spanish paper, a left-wing weekly, was published in Juárez. The article on rebels in the state of Chiapas was well written and sympathetic to the cause.

  The featured columnist, a woman named Rose Moya, presented the third in a series of articles on government corruption and the Mafiosios in Juárez. With a lot of bite, facts, and allegations the lady tore into the Juárez drug lords, smugglers, and malfeasant city officials.

  Maybe Rose Moya was somebody he should talk to, Kerney thought. He tucked the paper under his arm and paid the bill. It would have to wait until the morning.

  IT WAS MIDMORNING when Kerney stood at the bridge that connected El Paso to Juárez. He had five thousand dollars of his own money, wired from the bank in Santa Fe, in his pocket. It was the sum total of his wealth.

  The Rio Grande, a sluggish brown stream, smelled of effluent and industrial waste. On each side of the river, chain-link fences defined the border. Vehicles on the bridge were backed up at the checkpoints, and pedestrians moving in both directions pushed through the gates along the walkways.

  Kerney entered the procession and joined the tangled stream of people and cars along Juárez’s Lerdo Street. The boulevard, lined with dental clinics, cut-rate pharmacies, bars, liquor stores, and tourist shops, was a conduit for day-trippers from the north looking for bargains or entertainment. The sidewalks were congested with hookers, street vendors, and musicians mixed in with tourists. A large plastic tooth hung suspended over the door of a dental office and neon signs blinked furiously along the strip.

  Cars in the street, jammed bumper to bumper in both directions, lurched in and out of traffic lanes, horns blaring and drivers cursing. Kerney got a taxi and gave the driver the address for the newspaper.

  The offices for the newspaper were on the Plaza Cervantine, a tiny square with a gold bust of the Spanish poet as its centerpiece. The buildings surrounding the plaza housed artist studios, workshops, apartments above, and an experimental theater that put on plays in a renovated cafeteria. The building for the newspaper had a number of passageways that took Kerney to a patio café in a central courtyard and up a flight of wooden stairs to a suite of offices that opened on a balcony.

  The door was open, and Kerney entered to find an unoccupied room filled with books stacked haphazardly in piles on every available space. The walls were plastered with art and film posters. An enlarged photograph of Pancho Villa on horseback was tacked to a side door. Against one wall a desktop computer was running, the screen-saver pattern flashing a colored starburst on the monitor. A messy desk with a phone and ashtray filled with cigarette butts completed the decor.

  Kerney called out in Spanish, and a very pretty woman opened the side door and looked out. She held a teapot in her hand. Her hair, cut just to the bottom of her ears and close to her neck, draped down to the top of her left eye. Her eyes, brown, speculative, and direct, were provocative. At the corner of her right eye was a small mole. Her full lips did not smile. She wore a pink top with a scarf over a long skirt and black hose.

  “Yes?” the woman said, in English.

  Kerney switched languages. “I’m looking for Rose Moya.”

  “One moment.” She stepped back and closed the door. After a minute, the woman reappeared carrying a coffee cup in her hand. She paused to examine the man before moving to the computer table. He was tall and rather good-looking in a cowboy sort of way.

  “Why do you want to see Rose?” the woman asked as she put the cup on the computer table.

  “I would like to speak to her about the series on corruption.”

  “You’ve read them?” Her tone was skeptical.

  “Only the most recent one,” Kerney admitted.

  “What is your name?”

  “Kevin Kerney.” He held out his badge case.

  Tentatively, the woman crossed to Kerney, took the case, opened it, and looked quickly up at him, her expression cautious. “Is this real?�
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  “Yes.”

  She sized Kerney up one more time before speaking, switching back to Spanish. “I’m Rose Moya. What do you want?”

  Kerney followed suit. “Information.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Everything you can tell me about the Mafiosios. Especially smuggling.”

  “And why do you need that information?”

  “To catch a murderer.”

  Rose Moya gestured to a side chair filled with books. “Sit down, Lieutenant Kerney, and tell me your story.”

  AFTER AN HOUR of conversation, Rose Moya came through with a confidential source. Kerney had the cabby stop along the Avenida 16 de Septiembre, where the cityscape changed from tourist sleaze to an upscale, cosmopolitan area of theaters, restaurants, and department stores. Using plastic, Kerney went shopping. From what Rose had told him about Francisco Posada, he needed to dress for the occasion.

  According to Rose, Posada was an elderly, rich retired pharmacist who sold information to cash customers with good references, and asked few questions. Most of Posada’s clients sought introductions to people who circumvented any number of Mexican laws.

  He got back in the cab, and the driver sped past a row of old mansions under shade trees with deep lawns, rattling over cobblestone streets until the residential area gave way to auto junkyards, repair shops, garages, and car upholstery shops, all with signs painted in hot, screaming colors.

  After a long stretch where the only scenery was the Juárez dump, they entered an opulent neighborhood of modern houses on winding streets in a series of low hills. The driver stopped in front of a two-story house with a tile roof, arched windows, and a wide set of granite steps leading to double entrance doors. The archway to the doors, supported by columns, was built of wedge-shaped stones, each cut individually. A burgundy Mercedes was parked in the curved driveway.

  Kerney asked the driver to wait. The door opened almost immediately after Kerney rang the bell.

  The houseboy, a young Indian in his late teens, dressed in an immaculate white shirt, trousers, and sandals, looked Kerney up and down without expression. “Yes?”

  “I would like to see Señor Posada.”

  The boy studied Kerney, taking in the tailoring of the new suit and the shirt and tie that went with it. He dropped his eyes to Kerney’s feet, clad in four-hundred-dollar Larry Mahan boots.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the boy inquired. He was as slender as a girl, with the lithe body of a swimmer. His eyes, darker than the rich color of his skin, were soft and innocent. He had the most beautiful natural eyelashes Kerney had ever seen on a man.

  “No.”

  “Who referred you?”

  “Rose Moya.”

  The boy stepped back and let Kerney enter. He pointed to a chair in the foyer. “Wait here.”

  Within minutes Kerney heard padded footsteps on the marble floor as the houseboy returned.

  “Follow me. The señor will see you.”

  The foyer gave way to a courtyard with colonnades that supported arches under a low veranda. Ornamental trees ringed the space, and in the center a fountain gurgled water from a fish mouth. The boy opened a door under the veranda, stepped aside, motioned for Kerney to enter, and closed the door, leaving Kerney alone in the room. It was a great room, bigger than Quinn’s library; a large sunny space, with a wall of windows that looked out on an expansive patio, swimming pool, and cabana. The interior consisted of several conversation areas of plush off-white couches and easy chairs arranged to give the best view of the artwork on the back wall of the room.

  A large Diego Rivera painting held center stage over the fireplace, illuminated by recessed lights. It was a portrait of a strikingly beautiful woman wearing a Franciscan habit. Her arms were folded below her breasts and she faced a distant, unknown horizon with passionate eyes. It felt both pious and pagan.

  “It is compelling,” a voice said, speaking in Spanish.

  Kerney turned. An elderly man with long white hair, a waxed gray mustache, and a courtly manner, Francisco Posada smiled at him peacefully, his hand resting on the houseboy’s thin shoulder. His fingers, grotesquely deformed, were twisted into a claw.

  “Diego Rivera,” Kerney said.

  “You know his work,” Posada said approvingly, continuing in his native tongue. He shuffled closer. “There is a story to the canvas. Diego fell in love with this woman, but she was fulfilling a manda, a promise to God to do penance. That is why she wears a friar’s robe. Rivera could not have her physically, so he possessed her through his art.”

  “I have never seen this image before,” Kerney said, using his best Spanish.

  “Few have. It has always been privately owned and never exhibited or reproduced.” Posada eased himself down to a couch and gestured for Kerney to sit across from him. “How did Rose Moya come to refer you? She has never sent someone to me before.”

  “I lied and told her I was a policeman working on a murder case involving the Mafiosios.”

  Posada chuckled, but his eyes hardened. “I’m sure that appealed to her sense of social justice. Are you a policeman, Mr. Kerney?

  Kerney laughed. “I was. Now I’m in business for myself. Imports and exports. I would like to expand into the Mexican market.”

  “What do you wish to export, Mr. Kerney?”

  “Artifacts. Historical documents of great value. Military memorabilia and rare coins.”

  “An unusual assortment of merchandise,” Posada commented.

  “But quite valuable,” Kerney replied.

  “You need a broker, I assume,” Posada noted. “Someone who will act on your behalf with discretion.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It might be possible to arrange an introduction,” Posada said, with a serene smile.

  “I would be grateful.”

  “But I am reluctant,” Posada added. “You have come to me in a most unusual way.”

  “I am new to my profession, señor,” Kerney replied. “It is difficult to find one’s way without assistance.”

  Posada rubbed his mustache with a twisted knuckle. “How much is your merchandise worth?”

  “It has been appraised at four million dollars.”

  The figure didn’t startle Posada at all. “If you agree to a two percent commission, plus my standard fee, I would be inclined to accept you as a client.”

  “What is your standard fee?” Kerney asked.

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  The whole wad, Kerney thought. “I’ll go one percent payable after delivery with the five thousand up front,” he said.

  “Agreed,” Posada replied. He gestured to the houseboy, who stepped quickly to his side. The boy helped Posada to his feet. “Seek out Enrique DeLeon at the Little Turtle gambling house. I am sure he would be interested in your desire to do business in Mexico.”

  “Will you speak to Señor DeLeon on my behalf?” Kerney asked, as he stood up.

  “Of course. Do you wish me to pass along a message?”

  “No. I would like you to keep the details of our discussion confidential, if that is possible.”

  Posada nodded in agreement. “All my client conversations are privileged. Señor DeLeon will be satisfied with the knowledge that I have accepted you as a client.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Please pay Juan before you leave.” He smiled lovingly at the young man.

  “Thank you, Señor Posada,” Kerney replied with a slight bow of his head.

  Posada bowed back. “It is a pleasure to meet a norteamericano who speaks our language, admires our art, and knows how to conduct business. I look forward to seeing you again.”

  GREG BENTON hung up the phone in disgust. He dug out the portable printer, hooked it up, disconnected the phone jack, plugged in the laptop computer, and accessed the fax modem program. The motel room phone had been rewired at the junction box the night Benton checked in. It was secure, direct, and untraceable.

  He paced th
e room waiting for the fax. The whole fucking scheme had started to go haywire from the day he whacked the Indian soldier up on the mesa. And unexpected events kept floating in, like shit from a plugged-up toilet: the burglary at the old lady’s house, Gutierrez’s failure to make the final delivery, the tossed apartment in Santa Fe—all signs that the plan wasn’t neat and tidy anymore.

  Benton walked to the window and looked out. The motel was a dump; the whores kept him awake at night, and the air conditioner barely worked. He looked at his watch. Meehan wanted him to meet with DeLeon and tell him the delivery might be delayed.

  Damn right it would be delayed, with Gutierrez dead and the last shipment missing. DeLeon would be pissed but probably wouldn’t cancel the deal. Not with the amount of money that was at stake. He would have to come up with a good story for DeLeon.

  Benton looked at his watch again. It was too early to catch DeLeon at the Little Turtle. He was never available until evening. There was time for a workout at Kiko’s Gym and a good steak before crossing the border. He hated Mexican food.

  In the bathroom, Benton stripped down and examined himself in the mirror. He liked what he saw. His body was fit and hard, and his gray eyes under curly black hair drew a fair share of attention from the ladies. The small scar on his chin made his face interesting. He smiled at himself and put on his sweats. Then he pulled the fax off the printer, put the computer away, grabbed his gym bag, and walked out into the hot west Texas sun.

  The garbage blowing down the street didn’t bother him anymore, and the graffiti-adorned car wash, the boarded-up gas station, and the junked cars in the vacant lot were now just part of the normal barrio landscape. The street ended at a concrete abutment where the freeway cut off through traffic. The fat hooker in front of the Caballito Bar saw him and waved as he got into his car. He waved back. Each time he went to buy lunch at the bar, she showed him a different tattoo and offered to fuck him for ten dollars—the going rate for locals.

  With all the low-riders, addicts, pimps, and whores in the neighborhood there was no difference between the barrio and Juárez. Benton thought it would be a good idea to give El Paso back to the Mexicans.