El Gavilan (31 page)

Able asked, “Who’s the third man? Could he queer the conversation?”

“Funny you should say it that way,” Billy said. “Fella name of Syd Cord. He’s a beautician. He tends to hang in with the women to watch
Sex and the City
episodes on DVD.”

Able was in danger of saying something hurtful—Tell sensed it. A mocking smile was spreading across Able’s face. Tell quickly said, “Do it tonight, then, Billy. Tell them your work schedule changed. I’ll be at the festival most of today, anyway, so I’ll relieve Rick early this afternoon. I’ll have Rick take the back half of your shift and throw him some overtime. His daughter needs braces so Rick needs the cash, anyway.”

Able sipped his margarita. “I still don’t like you drawing fire this way, Tell. Not a bit.”

“So let’s just see it doesn’t stretch much beyond Monday night.” Tell scooped salsa up on a chip, munched on it. “You really going to put shadows on me, Able?”

Able pointed a thick finger at him. “Don’t start trying to argue me out of that, Tell.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. Hell, I’ll be glad knowing they are there.”

“That’s the only reasonable fucking thing you’ve said this session,” Able said.

Billy left them. After some more dickering on strategy, Tell confided to Able his visit to Shawn O’Hara, and its reason. Able said, “I’d have done the same. That said, if Shawn eventually goes back to work, he can be a tool for us. And he can be a dangerous enemy, pissed on. He already hates you for you and Patricia. Any objection to my staying friendly on face with Shawn—good cop to your bad cop?”

“I surely made myself bad cop with Shawn this morning,” Tell said. “So why deviate now? Besides, I authentically despise the sorry bastard. I mean to charge him with rape, Able.”

“Me too, particularly if you’re right about him doping my girl,” Able said. “But he’s the reporter we’ve got to cope with for the moment. And I should close that case of his beating to win his short-term favor. Just got distracted with other things. I’ll go close that case now.”

Tell smiled. “What? Just like that?” He snapped his fingers.

Able said, “Sure. Why not? This is easy.”

Tell said, “Maybe see you at the Latino Festival later, Able?”

The Horton County sheriff scoffed at that. “Hell no. Mine’s the last mug them folks want to see. No, I’m going to take Thalia’s mamma and little girl to the movies tonight. Figure on seein’ the new Superman flick.”

Smiling, Tell said, “That’s a fine thing you did, taking them on, giving them a roof.”

“What else was I going to do?” Able shook his head. “That girl’s carrying my great-grandchild. Sofia ain’t got the money to support three mouths. Someone had to do the right thing.”

Tell considered that. “Word of what you’ve done gets out, it may wreck your wicked reputation in certain quarters of the West Side.”

“I ain’t that cynical,” Hawk said. “Even in an election year.”

“I’ve never thought you to be that,” Tell said.

* * *

After his meeting with Able and Billy broke up, Tell drifted over to his future in-laws’ booth to chat for a few minutes. He was acutely aware of how closely Patricia’s parents watched the two of them together. He and her father had hit it off immediately. Augustin was also several years older than his own wife. Not quite the span that lay between Tell and Patricia, but close enough. Patricia slipped her arm through Tell’s and he closed his hand over hers. Smiling, her father said, “Our Patricia will be the prettiest girl at the festival.”

“Yes, she will be,” Tell said.

Patricia’s mother, who Tell sensed was still taking his measure, said, “Have you two given any thought to children?” She smiled at Tell. “We’re not getting any younger and Augustin is very eager to be an
abuelo
…”

We’re not getting any younger?

Red-faced, Tell smiled at Patricia. He said, “You want to field that one?”

* * *

About a dozen white demonstrators stood outside the festival grounds, waving signs that said
Go home!
and
Illegals are illegal!

As they climbed out of his SUV, Patricia said, “Wear your hat, won’t you Tell? With the boots, it makes the whole uniform work.”

“No way,” Tell said. “I’d really look like a Texas Ranger then.”

“No, you’ll look dashing,” she said. “And if the sun gets too intense, I’ll be borrowing that hat of yours.”

He said, “Always the ulterior motive with you.”

“Always.” She took Tell’s arm and they crossed the dusty gravel lot toward the ball diamonds. Patricia said, “Wicked hot.” She pointed at a lemon-shakeup stand. “Let’s get a couple of those.”

“Sure.” They were halfway to the concession stand when an old Mexican woman stopped them. She said in Spanish, “Is it true,
Jefe
, that you speak Spanish as good as I do?”

Tell answered in the woman’s own tongue, “I’ll leave you to decide how well I speak it,
señora
.” He tipped his hat to her.

The old woman smiled and said, “You speak very well. I’m thanking you for what you did to help my grandson. His name is Richie Huerta.”

Tell remembered the boy driving the car he had stopped for speeding. It was Richie’s false identification—and those of his passengers—that had put Tell on the path to uncovering Able’s false identification scheme.

“Yes. I remember Richie,” Tell said. “How is he?”

“
Bueno
,” the old woman said. “He’s working hard to do all you asked of him. You made quite an impression on Richie and he won’t ever forget it. Neither will I. Or any of those who we know. I wanted to tell you how grateful I am. How grateful I am, and many others. We are calling you
El Léon
now. The antidote, we hope maybe, for
El Gavilan
.”

Nodding and smiling, Tell wondered what this elderly woman—who was presumably undocumented herself—would think if she knew that Tell had just left a lunch with
El Gavilan
. What would she think of Tell if she knew of his strategic alliance with Able Hawk? He saw that the old woman was closely studying Patricia. Tell said, still speaking in Spanish, “A thousand pardons,
señora
. This is my fiancée, Patricia.”

The old woman dipped her head and smiled at Patricia. “I saw your picture and announcement in
El Pueblo
. It’s a new newspaper in Spanish that commenced printing last week.” She shook Patricia’s hand. “You’re even more beautiful than in your photo.”

Tell figured the new newspaper must have picked up the engagement announcement from the
New Austin Recorder
. The old woman said, “I wish you both all happiness. But please be careful,
Jefe
. You have many friends among mine now. Many more than just a week ago. But they still watch you carefully. And a good man in your position can have just as many enemies. So be careful,
Jefe
.”

“I will, thank you,” Tell said. He was aware of a small crowd that had gathered around them. He was beginning to sense the old woman must be some kind of wheel in the New Austin Latino community.

The small group of Latino men and women were watching Tell speak to the old woman, who was backing away, aware now herself of the ring forming around them. The old woman suddenly smiled and held up her right fist and shouted, “
Viva Léon
!”

The call was taken up by several of those around them, and soon by others whose attention had been caught by the cheers. Tell murmured, “Oh, good Christ,” and took Patricia’s bare brown arm, smiling awkwardly and trying to get away from them all as quickly as he could and still remain politely respectful.

Patricia leaned in and said softly, “What exactly did you do for her grandson to merit that?”

Tell steered her toward a distant concession trailer. “I’ll tell you on the way to our lemon shakeups,” he said. “But let’s get away from these folks first.” There were still a few scattered
vivas
being shouted behind them in Tell’s honor.

Patricia smiled and said, “You’re actually embarrassed by that, aren’t you?”

“Horribly.”

“You really seem to be their hero,” she said. “That’s kind of strange, particularly given what you did before coming here. I mean, assuming they know you were Border Patrol.”

“I think some of it probably has more to do with the fact I’m simply not Hawk.”

There were quieter sequels as the day ground on. Young Mexican men and older Latino men and women greeted Tell in Spanish, “
Hola, Léon
,” or “
Hola, Jefe Léon
.”

They had lunch in a big tent set up alongside Señor Augustin’s food trailer—tacos and burritos. Evading the heat, her parents had stayed to staff the restaurant, sending in the second string to work the festival.

Patricia ordered a cold Tecate in a waxed-paper cup. But she exchanged it for Tell’s Sprite when they reached their table. “Need to loosen you up a bit,” Patricia said. “Get you to accept these
vivas
with more grace.” She sipped Tell’s Sprite.

“I ever reach that point, you should decry me for a consummate ass,” Tell said. “So what do you make of the event?”

Patricia shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not exactly getting the cold shoulder, but on the other hand, nobody’s real friendly. Guess that’s the kind of the thing I notice now, the chilliness between the legal and illegal Latinos around here. Not to say they view me as an Uncle Tom, but in a way, maybe they do.”

Across the midway, a painter was displaying his works for sale. All of them were portraits painted on black velvet: Che Guevara, Pancho Villa, Emiliano Zapata … Antonio Banderas and Salma Hayek. And there was one of Able Hawk. Hawk was depicted full figure, holding a Mexican flag in one hand and an American flag in the other. A hawk was perched on one of black-velvet Able’s shoulders. Smiling, Tell pointed out the painting to Patricia. She laughed and said, “That’s so friggin’ hideous!”

“Remind me before we leave to come back for it,” Tell said. “I want it very much.”

Patricia scowled through her smile. “Not as décor for our house … ?”

“No, for Able Hawk’s,” Tell said. “He’ll
love
it.”

She said, “Sad thing is, that’s probably all too true.” She smiled and leaning across the table, showing him the tops of her breasts and making him hard, she said, “Bet you dinner by tomorrow he’s painted one of you.”

Tell said, “I think you just cost me an erection.” Patricia laughed and squeezed his hand.

Across the festival grounds, a band was closing with a raucous and ragged rendition of “Volver, Volver.”

Tell heard a new band introduced and the lead singer said in Spanish, then in English, “My nephew was recently helped out of a jam by our new police chief, Tell Lyon. So we send this song out in tribute to
Jefe
Lyon.
Viva, Jefe Lyon
!”

Exasperated, Tell said, “Oh, for God’s sake.” He drained his drink as the band began a ragged and gravelly cover of Ry Cooder’s beautiful and stirring “Across the Borderline.” Tell tossed the cup in a nearby trash bin. His cell phone rang. It was the mayor.

“Where are you right now, Tell?”

Tell told him. “Stay there,” Mayor Rice said. “Need two minutes with you.”

It took less than half a minute for Mayor Ernest Rice to reach them. Tell pulled out a chair, said, “Howdy, Mayor.”

Patricia said, “Good to meet you, sir.”

“Truly my pleasure, miss,” the mayor said, sizing her up—a look in his eyes of an idea forming.

Tell said, “What’s up, Mayor?”

Ernest Rice said, “I had no idea you’d already accumulated such stature in the Latino community.” The mayor was suddenly red-faced. Tell sensed it would be easier for the mayor to speak whatever was on his mind if Tell asked Patricia to give them a few moments alone. But he already didn’t like the drift of the conversation, so he said nothing.

The mayor continued, “Rumor has it that you speak fluent Spanish.”

“He does,” Patricia said. “Like a native.” Tell wanted to spank her.

“Well good!” Mayor Rice smiled. “That’s
real
real good.”

Frowning, Tell said, “Get you a chimichanga, Mayor? Maybe some fish tacos?”

“No thanks, Chief,” Ernest Rice said. “You see, I’ve been asked to say a few words in a bit. I trust you know that I’m up for reelection in November, Tell. I can barely string together a sentence in English, some would say. Not a natural public speaker. Would be a great help to me if, popular as you clearly are, and speaking Spanish like you do, if you could maybe stand with me as interpreter. Maybe after that, you could say a few words yourself.”

Tell suppressed a wince. He said, “I’m not really good at translating off-the-cuff, necessarily.”

Mayor Rice narrowed his eyes. “Ever tried?”

“Not so much, no,” Tell said, squirming. “But talking for myself, I can pick my own path, navigate to my own vocabulary, so to speak. Paraphrasing you on the fly … ? And for such an important speech?” Tell sensed Patricia suppressing a smile, amused by his predicament. “I’d just hate not to do you justice, Mayor.”

Ernest Rice held up a hand, smiling. “I have the text of my speech here,” he said. “We could adjust to your vocabulary, to borrow your phrase. Tweak the phrasing so you’re comfortable.”

Nodding and smiling a smile that felt sickly to himself, Tell accepted the slip of paper and read over the mayor’s speech. It could have been worse. As it was, it stressed inclusion and tolerance. Nothing too wince-inducing in any of that.

Tell said, “No, I think we’re okay. I can keep up with this just fine. Certainly, the sentiments are fine ones.”

Crawling in bed with the man who’d gotten Tell his job—as Tell would be doing delivering his speech in tandem with Mayor Ernest Rice—he could only hope that Rice’s opponent wasn’t the victor in the fall election. But then, if Tell accepted the post as Cedartown chief of police, it would all be academic, anyway.

“So you’ll do it, Chief?”

“Sure, Mayor.”

“We’re on at four
P.M.
at the stage in the parking lot yonder.” Mayor Rice stood and folded up his speech and slipped it in his pocket. He shook Tell’s hand heartily and leaned down and gave Patricia an air kiss. “Be happy to have you join your fiancé on stage, ma’am.”