El Gavilan (18 page)

TWENTY FIVE

Half awake, Tell had a sense of Patricia leaving, then returning. Then her mouth was on his mouth again, but minty. Opening his eyes, he said, “You cheated, woman.”

“So go brush your teeth, Tell. I won’t peek at you getting there.” Her bedroom was already flooded with morning light. He wished it were darker.

“My toothbrush is several doors down,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow. She had brushed the tangles from her black hair. He stroked her bare shoulder. He said, “My God, you wake up beautiful.”

She smiled and said, “Use my toothbrush, Tell. And don’t play squeamish at that prospect, not after the things we did last night.”

She smiled again, watching as he padded to the bathroom.

He heard music. He called from the bathroom, “What’s that song, Patricia?”

“You had your tunes last night. My music this time. ‘Calling All Angels,’ by Jane Siberry.”

“I like it.”

“Good answer.”

“Patricia—eyes elsewhere,” he said, but she watched him return naked to her bed.

“Six
A.M.
,” she said. “Still early. Still enough time.” She lifted the blankets and he slid in next to her. Smiling, moving half-atop him, she closed the covers over them. Her hair tickled his chest as she kissed his breastbone … his neck and then chin. His mouth. “
Mm,
minty,” she said.

She straddled him, breasts firm against his chest and her black hair a curtain around his face. She said, “I hope you’re not sorry for last night.”

“Not a bit.”

Her mouth was on his again. He could hear the mourning doves outside, their cooing some strange counterpoint to Jane Siberry’s song. He felt her hand on him, guiding him; her weight settling on him. “You better not have other plans tonight,” she said breathily, moaning as their bodies were joined.

“I don’t have other plans any night,” he said.

* * *

They were still languishing naked in bed. Jane was now singing, “Love is Everything.” It was nearly seven; another late start for Tell. He said, “I’m running out of avenues, Patricia. Able, too. It’s going to take an accident or a fluke to bring this guy in, short of another killing and more clues left. That is, short of some sideways inspiration.” Tell smiled and shook his head. “My cousin, Chris, he has a natural facility for this kind of thing. He’d probably have a suspect already.”

“I thought Chris is a writer.”

“He is, but he tends to run afoul of these things. Then he uses it for source material. He’d be a hell of a cop. Though it’s half-instinctual with him. It’s like he can just seize
the
thread and run it to its end. He has a gift for detecting human weakness. Chris can always suss out the worst or weakest in a man or woman and see how it drives them. It’s a hell of gift. Or curse. When he’s really on, he’s like a force of nature. Of course he’s not moving under color of authority, and so not bound by evidentiary stipulations. He doesn’t have to act with an eye toward the courts.”

“You sound jealous of him.”

“Mostly of his latitude,” Tell said.

“So call him, maybe. Ask for Chris’s advice?”

Tell couldn’t confide to Patricia he’d already consulted Chris for strategies to help Shawn O’Hara keep his newspaper job. He said, “Chris has a gift for getting justice, but he doesn’t do it by the book. So he’s not going to be much help to me in this case.”

Patricia rolled over on her belly, her right breast pillowed against his chest, her head propped up on one hand. She stroked his lips with her right hand, her fingers softly tracing his mouth and jawline. “A lot of murders go unsolved, Tell, all over the place. Don’t take it personally. And you say Able Hawk is just as stymied as you think you are.”

Tell loved her for that phrasing. He said, “Sure. But Able was also focused on trying to pull Shawn’s ass out of the fire.” Saying Shawn’s name, lying naked in her bed, Tell felt guilty. He checked the clock. Every moment spent in Patricia’s bed was another minute her ex had to spend in jail.

He thought of the Mexican kids he had stopped the night before, the name and phone number that he’d been given by young, scared Richie. Tell said, “You could help me with something else, Patricia. It could be big in its own respect. Or at least useful.”

“Sure, anything. What?”

“Be my operative?”

“Maybe. Sure.” She smiled crookedly. “But I don’t have to dress as a hooker or something, do I?”

He smiled. “No, just make a phone call. But when you do, try to come on more … well, Mexican.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You mean, like, fresher to the soil this side? Pidgin English?”

“Yeah, like that.”

“I can do that. Funny, you know, it’s only the past year or so I’ve encountered real racism here. I mean, before I open my mouth, I suppose I look Mexican enough, so I’m a target for it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I can handle it. It’s just strange coming this late, is all. What do you need me to do?”

Tell said, “We’ll use my cell phone. It’s blocked so it can’t be traced. You’ll call and ask for a new fake driver’s license. You’ll probably have to promise to pay three hundred dollars. And you’ll agree to meet wherever the man on the other end of the line suggests.”

Now Patricia was a little nervous. “Do I have to keep that meeting?”

“Not at all. God, no. I’ll keep your appointment for you. That’s the whole point.”

“This dangerous? Not to me—I mean to you?”

“No, probably not.” His fingers combed through her raven hair. “But as you mention it, we’re early days yet as lovers”—he smiled at her smile when he used the term—“and I’m a cop. You go into this knowing what I do to make my living, right, Patricia? You can’t spend all your time worrying about me every time I go out the door.”

“The job is you, Tell. I can see that.” She stretched up and kissed him again, slowly, using her tongue. She pulled away, eyes already open, searching his face. “Where’d you leave your cell phone?”

TWENTY SIX

Able sipped his coffee:
Not that good.

Father Anthony Ruscilli said, “Why are you here, Sheriff? If memory and rumor serve, you’re a Presbyterian.”

Able frowned. He hadn’t found much use for religion since he lost his wife and daughter. It had been years since he last ventured inside a church. “What I am, is peeved, Father,” Able said.

“Peeved? At what? At whom?”

“Why, at you, Father.”

“Whatever for?”

“These Spanish sermons—they piss me off.”

The priest wagged a finger. “You, of all people, know the situation, Sheriff—the throngs of Spanish-only-speaking immigrants among us. More come every day. Most, perhaps 85 percent, are Catholic. This is
outreach.
They’re owed the services of the church too.”

Able sighed. “Yeah. I’m sure that’s so, Padre. But they’re not ‘immigrants,’ to use your word. They’re illegals.”

“But they are here, Sheriff.”

“And they should at very least try to assimilate, Father.
Muy pronto
. You offerin’ these well-meaning but misguided Spanish-only sermons, it’s cosseting their weakness.”

“I’m not sure I understand, Sheriff Hawk.”

“Then I’ll spell it out for you, Padre, in English. You mollycoddle them, Father. You undercut their assimilation by giving ’em a little piece of home here. Better to teach them English. Tough love. Tend to their souls in
our
lingo. These little Mexican environs are poppin’ up all over my county and I hate it. It’s especially true on the West Side of New Austin. Little Mexican worlds where the signage is in Spanish. Where Spanish is the dominant language. Hell, it’s the only language. The McDonald’s on the West Side has a fucking menu in Spanish. There’s a Spanish-language shelf in the library now. And Spanish-only story hours offered for illegal tykes. And now we have these ‘English-as-second-a-language’ standards foisted on us by bleeding-heart school honchos. That’s dragging down our test scores and threatening to push our school district into state receivership. And not speakin’ English is actually getting these poor bastards killed these days.”

“Yes, Sheriff,” Fr. Ruscilli said, impatience in his voice. “I’ve read your blog. I read about the recent fire.”

“Count yourself lucky you can read it, Father. Unlike these illegals you’re catering to.”

The priest shrugged and smiled. “I’m simply easing their transition, Sheriff.”

“Bullshit. You’re slowing that transition, Father. More likely,
aborting
it.”

“I think we’re finished here now, Sheriff Hawk. I will continue to do what I should do—what I’m charged with doing. We both have our obligations.”

Able Hawk stared at the bleary eyed priest. Able had already concluded the priest was a profound alcoholic. Able said, “Well, Father, then in the same spirit, I’m going to do what
I
should do—what
I’m
charged with doing.”

“And what is that, Sheriff?”

“I’m going to take advantage of your convenient consolidation of all these Spanish-only-speaking illegals and stage a mass arrest. No fuckin’ pun intended.”

The priest exploded. “The church is sanctuary! What you threaten is monstrous!”

“What I
propose
is the law,” Able said. “And your sanctuary doesn’t extend to your parking lot, or to your city- and TIF-funded fucking access road back to the rest of my county. Coming or going, I’ll arrest ’em just fine along that path, Father. And rest easy—I’ll recognize your cooperation in said ‘mass arrest’ on my blog, which is now up to fifteen hundred hits a day, and thank you, or your absentee landlord, very much.” Able gestured at the empty cavern around them.

Able pushed his coffee cup aside and stood up. He smiled and said, “Sanctuary sure enough ain’t what it used to be. But then what is, these days, eh?”

The Horton County sheriff picked up his hat and put it on; fished his sunglasses from his breast pocket. “Now you best try and stay off my radar, you fucking degenerate,” Able said. “I’ve been researching you, Padre. You try anything on the kids here like you did in your past post, and I get wind of it, well, I’m going to go medieval on your ass—Spanish Inquisition-style, if you get my drift. And that vow doesn’t preclude me ‘outing’ you on my Web site in advance of any possible sin, should I stray into a dark and heady mood. I’ve found retaliating first to pay dividends, more often than not.”

THEN

Military brat.

A time-worn phrase, Shawn balked at the term. Military brat conjured images of baby boomers—sons and daughters of World War II– and Korea-era vets. But Shawn’s father’s age was such he had no war to claim as his own. He never served “in country,” if that was the right dumb-ass phrase for it. Jeff O’Hara was one of those lucky few who floated a military career without ever facing combat. Too young for Vietnam and too old for Desert Storm. Jeff had never faced fire outside of training exercises.

Still, with Jeff being career military, the O’Hara family moved,
a lot
.

The best posting to Shawn’s mind was San Diego. His father’s stationing came just as Shawn was coming of age.

Shawn and his slightly older fellow “brats” would stray across that borderline on weekend tears.

The girls south of the border were easier—everyone said so.

Shawn lost his virginity on his first Friday-night trip across.

The girl was a pretty young Latina; a
chica
named, no kidding, Rosalita. Shawn and his friends met Rosie and her slumming friends in a bar in TJ. Shawn found the Springsteen song of the same name on the jukebox and fed coins to play it twice. Finding that song with her name there in the jukebox made it seem something like fate.

They danced to “her song,” both times. It was a long piece of music and by the end of the second rendition, they were both winded, a sheen on her arms and forehead. Shawn kissed Rosalita’s neck; it was salty. He kissed it again when they were back at the table. He chased her taste with tequila. Then he dared to kiss her on the mouth. He felt her tongue pressing his mouth open, searching for his tongue.

From there, Rosalita took the lead. Shawn wasn’t her first; he hoped she didn’t guess she was his.

They made love in the backseat of a Ford Mustang of undistinguished vintage.

And right there, Rosalita became Shawn’s template, his ideal for a lover: dusky, Latin and lusty.

Their feelings caught fire too. Weekend runs to TJ to spend nights with one another became the norm. As the young lovers’ zeal for one another grew, Shawn was oblivious to the fact that his parents’ passion was ebbing; their marriage cooling, fast.

He got his first and most potent inkling one Monday night, sacked out in his bed, unable to sleep, lusting for his girl across the border in Tijuana.

Shawn heard his mother snarl something about another woman. Something about a “Mexican whore.” Then there was the sound of something thrown breaking.

His father denied it all, his voice getting louder to be heard over Moira O’Hara’s screamed accusations and denunciations.

Friday found Moira and a shattered Shawn on a plane back to the Midwest—his mother had family there. They didn’t talk once during the long flight east. Shawn thought he loathed his mother now.

He’d asked to stay with his father—gave some excuse about wanting to follow in his father’s footsteps … be career military. He said he wanted to finish school with friends. To do that, he must stay on base with his dad. His mother and father both rejected a military career as a credible option; Shawn had writing talent, and they both saw it. Since he was a child, Shawn had talked of writing as a career. As to friends, well, leaving for the next place had always been the norm. What was different now? Shawn was not yet eighteen; he couldn’t declare for himself.

So Shawn argued
harder
to stay with his old man. He said if it came down to a choice, this was his. “I want to stay with Dad.”

His mother slapped Shawn, hard, then said he had no voice in the matter.

Shawn begged, tears burning his eyes. But his father caved in to Moira. Jeff said it was best he leave with his mother. Jeff hugged Shawn tight; his son didn’t hug back.