El Gavilan (21 page)

The phone rang and Shawn made the mistake of answering. It was the newspaper chain’s human resources specialist. She wished Shawn well on his release from jail. Then she reminded Shawn—informed him, really, because he didn’t remember it in his contract—of a morals clause. Because of the “licentious nature” of his “recent personal publicity,” he was being placed on a ninety-day probation. “Any similar violation or other performance issues” would result in his immediate termination. It felt to Shawn like a first feint toward inevitable firing.

Shawn thanked her as cordially as he could manage, and hung up.

Maybe his meth-raid package would win him back some face with his employers.

He locked up the newspaper office and walked back to his home to see how the Mexican women had done cleaning his apartment.

As he walked along Main Street back to his loft, nobody waved back at Shawn. None of the barbers, the butchers or the hardware store staff as much as nodded at him as he passed by their storefronts. Shawn felt stomach acid burning the back of his throat. Maybe Lyon was right; maybe he needed to get the hell out of town. Out of the goddamn
state
.

At least his loft was neat and orderly. It smelled strongly of bleach and ammonia—the smell so intense it burned Shawn’s eyes and nose. It stank of chemicals, but of the kind his brain had been trained to think of as “clean.” He found comfort in that.

Shawn called a locksmith and had a new deadbolt installed. When the locksmith left, Shawn manhandled his ruined mattress to the fire escape and tipped it over the handrail into the dumpster below.

Then he locked up with his new set of keys and padded down the fire escape, planning a run to the Walmart to buy a new mattress, sheets and pillows. Between those new bedding accessories, the locksmith’s and cleaner’s fees—not to mention his lawyer’s bill for consultation via phone—it was going to be a tight rest of the year, Shawn figured. And that was another reason, to his mind, to take extra pains to retain his current job as long as possible.

As he stormed down the fire escape, Shawn thought about calling Patricia, then decided against it. The fickle bitch hadn’t reached out to him when he was in jail and facing possible rape and murder charges. So fuck Patricia.

Shawn sensed motion under the fire escape stairs. It was probably a cat, he thought. Then something grabbed his ankles through the spaces between the lower steps and sent Shaw toppling onto the hood of his car.

Hands gripped his arms and fingers knotted in his hair. His face was slammed against the hot metal of his car’s hood. Shawn’s nose broke and began streaming blood. Then he was lifted up and thrown down again. His hands were held behind him so he couldn’t cushion his own impact.

Latino voices snarled words at Shawn:
violador
,
cabrón
and
pendejo
.

A leg swept behind Shawn’s legs, hitting the backs of his knees. That sent Shawn sprawling backward onto his ass.

There were five of them, each wearing identical red bandanas—some dumb-ass gang colors, Shawn guessed. None of them could be older than twenty-two or twenty-three. They circled around Shawn and one said, “This is for Thalia Ruiz, cocksucker.”

Then they began kicking Shawn, and pummeling him with their fists.

Shawn tasted blood. The cartilage in his nose crunched again and he gagged on his own blood. Ribs cracked and he tried to roll tight into a ball, torn between using his hands to protect his head or his genitals. He settled on his head after their kicks to his crotch stopped registering.

Shawn surrendered, collapsing onto his back, spread-eagle and defenseless. One of the gangbangers kicked him hard in the crotch again, and Shawn felt like he might have a heart attack. Two more lifted Shawn, leaned him up against his car. Shawn saw one lift a ball bat. He thought,
I’m going to end up brain damaged or dead from that fucking bat
.

Shawn’s field of vision was narrowed now, blocked on one side by the intrusion of his broken, swollen nose. His eyes and eyebrows were similarly swollen. There was a gust of air. His teeth cracked and splintered as the bat struck him in the mouth. Something in Shawn’s jaw popped. Instinctively, afraid he might choke on them, Shawn began spitting out teeth and teeth fragments.

His attackers let him go and he fell back onto the pavement, still spitting out teeth.

One of them said in English, “Get his teeth and pitch ’em. Don’t want the
pendejo
finding some dentist to save them.”

One stooped down and began plucking teeth off Shawn’s bloodied shirt. Shawn couldn’t raise his own arms to try to stop them. He heard the one close to him say, “
Guácala
,” then heard small things fall distantly across the parking lot. He was still gagging on his own blood as it gushed down the back of his throat from his flattened and ruptured nasal passages and the holes where his teeth had been.

The attacker who’d spoken English squatted down next to Shawn and whispered into his bloody, torn ear, “My brother, he worked for the Morales brothers, so you fucked him
too
.” He spit in Shawn’s face. He snarled, “
This
is for Javier.” Then he slammed the bat down on Shawn’s right kneecap.

THIRTY TWO

Tell changed into jeans and a polo shirt. He drove out in his SUV to keep Patricia’s appointment with the man paid to fashion her false ID. Robbie Robertson on the car stereo: “Somewhere Down the Crazy River.”

The stipulated rendezvous site was a Chipotle on New Austin’s east side. Patricia had been instructed to look for a young man with a red and blue backpack.

Slipping off his sunglasses, Tell stepped out of the afternoon heat into the headache-inducing cold of the darkened restaurant, his eyes slow to adjust to the dimmer light. The smell of seasoned meat and chicken reminded Tell he hadn’t eaten since early morning.

A young man, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three, sat eating an overstuffed burrito and sipping from a sweating bottle of Negra Modelo. A red and blue backpack was positioned on the chrome table in front of his food basket.

Tell approached casually then sat down across from the young man, who looked up, startled.

“Easy,” Tell said. He flashed his badge. “Go ahead and eat up. We’ll just have a chat. But I would like to see some identification.”

The young man put down his sauce-dripping burrito. Looking sick, he leaned onto his left butt cheek and pulled his wallet out of his right rear pocket. He slid out a plastic card and held it between thumb and forefinger.

Tell glanced the card over, then slipped it into his wallet. “That thing’s as bad as the ones you sell to the undocumented workers. Let me see your
real
driver’s license.”

Frowning, the stranger passed Tell another wafer of plastic. This one was properly thick and rigid. Tell read aloud, “Trent Paris, age twenty-two.” He whistled low. “Okay, Trent, how many illegals you suppose you’ve sold fake driver’s licenses to this year?”

“This isn’t what it looks like, Officer.”

“It’s exactly what it looks like, Trent. So let’s not piss away one another’s time with the lame dodges. You making these pieces of crap out of your own home? What’ve you got, a home computer, some special printer and a lamination machine? What’s the cheap machinery behind these things?”

That question drew a stare.

Tell leaned across the table. “I asked you a fucking question, Trent. You best answer me. What you’re involved in could cost you ten, twenty years in prison and fines you can’t fathom or pay in this lifetime. Faking social security cards is a federal offense, and with the new terrorism laws, a very high-end felony. Time you got out of jail, you’d qualify for AARP and Golden Buckeye cards. I might be persuaded to treat this as something less than a major crime. But I’ll only do that, Trent, if I’m satisfied that your cooperation is full and cheerful. I put it to you again: Are you making these in your home?”

“I don’t make them. I’m, like, the middleman, yeah? I take the meetings, take the cash and pass along the product.”

“Even you must see how shitty these things are,” Tell said. “Your ‘product’ sucks.”

Trent went silent again. He mustered up some courage and drank deeply of his Mexican beer. Tell snagged a couple of stray tortilla chips from Trent’s plastic food basket.

Talking while munching the chips, Tell said, “You’re just hell-bent on making me charge you all the way up, aren’t you, Trent? You want to leave jail a fifty-year-old man?”

The younger man continued to sit silently, staring at his food basket, playing stoic.

Tell kicked Trent’s foot under the table, getting his attention again. He said, “Do I need to enumerate for you, Trent, all the charges I can lay against you, state and federal? It’s not like you’re selling these things so kids can buy beer. You’re faking national residency qualification. Homeland Security and the FBI are all over that kind of shit.”

Trent just looked back at him—scared, but silent.

Now Tell was getting pissed off. He said, “Okay, Trent. Put your fucking hands flat on the table. I’m going to cuff you, and then I’m going to parade you out of here like the world’s lowest child molester. Now stand the fuck up.”

“No, I—”

“What did you say?”

“Someone else makes the fake licenses,” Trent said softly.

“Who? Give me a name that checks out and I’ll see you walk on a misdemeanor.”

“Amos Sharp.” Trent sat back, staring at his lap. “Amos Sharp makes them.”

The name mildly resonated for Tell, but he couldn’t yet put it in context. He said, “I’m going to need more from you, Trent. I’m going to need much more.”

THIRTY THREE

Patricia sat in the emergency room, waiting for the promised doctor who would update her on Shawn’s condition.

She heard a clearing of a throat and looked up, expecting a physician.

Able Hawk said, “Don’t expect you want much to lay eyes on me after the other night. But that was business,
señorita
.”

Nodding, she scooted over and Able sat down on the couch beside her. “A doctor is supposed to be by soon to talk about Shawn’s condition,” Patricia said.

Able nodded. He hesitated, then said, “I … well, I actually just left Shawn’s room. I’ve seen him.”

Patricia said, “They wouldn’t let me in.”

“I had to question Shawn before they put him under. Try to get some information so we can catch the vicious bastards who did this to him.” Able leaned over a little closer toward Patricia. “Chief Lyon been by? By rights, this’d really be his case.”

Patricia looked at the floor, feeling her own blush. “I’m not sure he even knows yet. One of his men was by earlier. At least, I saw him go in, but then he left very quickly.”

Able grunted. “Was it Billy Davis? I mean, was it a big boy?”

“Heavy-set, yes,” Patricia said. “How is Shawn, Sheriff? They won’t tell me anything.”

“He’ll live, thank Christ. But he’s got a long, hard road ahead. And a brand new face. No concussion, which is a miracle given the beating he sustained. So no brain damage, probably. But he’s got two fractured eye sockets. His palate is fractured and his jaw might be broken. He lost most of his teeth. And they shattered his kneecap. Docs seem to think he’ll need a leg brace from now on. Maybe a cane, or even a walker. And he’s got a shitload of broken ribs.”

“Oh my God! And his teeth? What happened to his teeth?”

“They hit him in the mouth with a baseball bat. That’s likely as not what broke his jaw and cracked his palate.”

“But he can talk?”

“Not so good now. And when I left they were getting ready to wire his mouth shut. Once it heals, they said they can fit him for dentures or bridges or implants. Whatever the guy’s insurance will cover. I’m just sick for Shawn. They fucked him up and I mean good.”

“Who did it, Sheriff? Who are ‘they’?”

“At least five young Mexican males. Shawn indicated they drove by him earlier today, after they trashed his place. They drove by him in a red Isuzu pickup, waving the bat they beat him with later.”

“But why?”

“They told Shawn they were avenging Thalia Ruiz. That was part of it. But one of them was also stupid enough to mention a brother. This Mexican said his brother, ‘Javier,’ worked for the Morales brothers. The Morales clan, well, they are meth cookers. Or they used to be. We raided their place a few hours back. Shawn went along to cover the raid. He wrote a story for next week’s paper just before he was beaten. Seems the Moraleses, or their cronies, spotted Shawn at the raid. Just one more stick in their eye, I guess. At the end of the day, I think these animals just love hurting people and any excuse will do.”

Patricia heard footfalls on tile. A thirtyish-looking doctor took a seat next to her. He said, “You’re a friend of Shawn O’Hara’s?”

She nodded, twisting around to face the doctor and showing Able Hawk her back. “Yes. Can I please see him?”

“Not today,” the doctor said. “We’ve just put Mr. O’Hara into an induced coma. There’s been some swelling of his brain in the past half hour. Nothing life threatening at this point, but given his other traumas, it’s kindest and prudent to keep him under for now.”

Patricia felt queasy. She tried to imagine what he must look like. She said, “What are Shawn’s long-term prospects?”

“Generally good. Conditionally hopeful. He may have a damaged kidney that will eventually bear extraction. There was also severe trauma to his genitals. Shawn will also require extensive oral reconstruction. I’m fairly certain his speech has been permanently impaired. It’s a little too soon to tell, but we may also have to replace his right knee. Either way, running, or any kind of strenuous sports involving his legs—skating or skiing, for instance—are off the table forever.”

“My God,” Patricia said, unbelieving. Then she said, “Shawn’s a writer. Did they hurt his hands?”

“No,” the doctor said. “Some cuts and scrapes and mild bruising from where Shawn evidently tried to use his hands to protect himself, but that’s all. Good thing too. With all the packing in his mouth, and with his jaw wired shut, he’ll be communicating through written notes or keyboards for the next several days.”