Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel (13 page)

I dozed off again, and this time I was out for a couple hours, because the nurse who rousted me said it was five in the morning.

“Your friend’s asleep,” she said. “He’ll be fine, but he’s lost some blood, and we have him on an IV. He’ll be here at least another few hours.”

I rubbed my eyes and walked out into the predawn. It had drizzled, and the lights over the parking lot glowed through a foggy mist. I found my truck and stared at the ruined windshield. Down the street was a cheap hotel. I checked in and fell into bed in my clothes, but sleep would not come. After a while I got up and sat in the room’s single wooden chair, staring into the darkness.

Cody’s perspective on criminal behavior was rooted in his upbringing on the streets and the seven years he’d spent as a cop. His insight could be uncanny, probably because he so often operated on the fringes of legality himself. But I thought his idea that most crooks behaved illogically was misguided, much like assigning racial stereotypes to any individual. The reality was some criminals were predictable, and others were not. In the case of Jason Loohan, it was the latter.

I had considered it a given Loohan would hightail once he’d lost us. Instead, he’d doubled back and attacked while our guard was down. As a result, Cody was hospitalized and my truck disabled. It was only by virtue of luck the outcome hadn’t been worse. Fortunately his aim was less than dead-on, but Loohan had outrun and outsmarted us. What did that teach me about him? He was armed, for one. And resourceful and stealthy, and capable of rapidly shifting from a defensive position to the offensive. And he was willing to kill to maintain his freedom.

The morning was gray and wet when I went outside, the low hills to the west dusted with snow. The quiet was broken by a solitary big rig rumbling slowly through town, like a funeral procession. I grabbed the gear case from my truck, stepped back into my room, and pulled on my bulletproof vest. If Loohan was now hunting me, I wouldn’t be a hard man to find. Especially when I considered that, based on his friendship with Billy Morrison, Loohan probably knew Joe Norton, and Norton’s boys had already paid me a social call.

Eventually I slept and dreamt I was back in San Jose, employed as a pencil pusher by some nameless company. My father was involved somehow, in a suit and tie, as I always remember him. There was a vague notion of evil men up to no good, but I was distanced from it by many layers and felt no concern. Then Cody showed up, talking to my old man about how to resolve the situation, and the threat began to seem more real. I was just starting to feel a sense of danger when my cell phone jolted me awake.

“Hey,” I croaked. “What’s up?”

“My blood pressure, my insurance rates, the usual. Where are you?”

“A few minutes away.”

“Come get me, man.”

Cody was waiting five minutes later outside the emergency room entrance, his shoulder wrapped in gauze and his arm in a sling.

“Let’s go get some grind,” he said. “They tried to feed me a tray of dog food in there.”

“How’s the arm feel?”

“Just a flesh wound. Bled a lot because the bullet broke a bunch of little veins. Are you gonna drive back home with your windshield like that?”

“Not if I can get it fixed here without waiting too long.”

“Don’t forget we have dinner tonight at Teresa’s.”

“You still want to?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

I didn’t answer and drove us to a Denny’s. We sat in a booth drinking coffee, while I looked through the phone book for an auto glass shop.

“What are you thinking?” Cody said.

“Those HCU boys seemed to think it was real clever getting our license plate numbers. But there’s no way for an ordinary citizen to trace a license plate.”

“Who cares about those jackoffs?”

“I do, because Loohan’s linked to them, through Billy Morrison. HCU found where I lived the same night I brought down Morrison. And I ain’t in the phone book.”

“They’d have to have a connection to trace your plates.”

“To the police, right? Doesn’t sound logical, does it?”

Cody smiled, his eyes crinkling with irony. Then his smile faded. “You still got that sawed-off in your closet?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Because if I see Loohan in your neighborhood, I’m gonna paste him to the sidewalk.” He winked. “That’s a promise.”

“It’s a nice thought,” I said, as our breakfast arrived. “But I think a better plan is to find him before he finds us.”

T
he Dodge SUV pulled into the alley behind the Pine Mountain Apartments. Two HCU members yanked Rodrigo and Pedro from the back of the vehicle, dumped them near the garbage bins, then drove off in a spray of gravel. Pedro crawled to his knees, his face contorted in pain. He thought maybe his ribs were broken, but he was more concerned about Rodrigo. The leader of the Diablos Sierra faded in and out of consciousness, blood bubbling from his mouth with each labored breath.

Struggling to his feet, Pedro left Rodrigo curled on the cracked pavement, and limped to the apartment he shared with two other gang members. They were watching television, oblivious to what had happened.

“Get up and bring the car around back. We need to get Rodrigo to a doctor.” The men jumped up and a minute later eight of them hovered over Rodrigo, lifting him as gently as they could into the back seat of a Chevy Impala.

“I will kill whoever did this,” said one of the teenage
cholos.

“Shut up, Luis,” Pedro said. “Go make me some icepacks.”

Just then Juan Perez came around the corner on his bike, returning from the supermarket with a backpack loaded with groceries. The narrow easement was blocked by the Impala. Juan hit his brakes and caught a glimpse of Rodrigo’s bloody face as he disappeared into the Chevy. He stared wide-eyed, straddling his bike until the young gangbanger named Luis looked up and said, “What are you looking at,
maricon
?”

The Impala drove past Juan, nearly hitting him. Juan tried to turn his bike around and follow the car out of the alley, but the backpack was heavy and his efforts were awkward. Luis picked up a pinecone the size of a softball and winged it from twenty feet. It was a perfect shot, the cone smacking off Juan’s cheek, the spines leaving flecks of blood on his skin.

“Get lost, you
puta
!” Luis yelled, then ran up, stripped the pack from Juan’s back, and flung the contents to the ground. “Your sister has nice tits!” he added, kicking a head of lettuce over the fence behind the Dumpsters. “Tell her I want to shoot my load on them!” The remaining
cholos
laughed nervously until Pedro hissed at them to quit messing around and led them through the common to his apartment.

Juan set his bike against a stucco wall and salvaged the groceries. A quart of milk had burst, but otherwise the food was intact. He walked his bike to his apartment, his face burning with shame. Once inside he gagged, choking back the bile rising in his throat. He was sickened by his fear and cowardice. He had allowed his sister’s name to be defiled without the slightest objection. A real man would never allow himself and his family to be so humiliated. Why did he not have the
cojones
to stand up to those losers? They thought they were so tough, never alone, never without each other’s protection.

Squeezing his eyes shut against tears of frustration, Juan sat huddled on his couch. Who was he trying to fool? Any of the gang could kick his ass one on one. Aside from a few harmless wrestling matches as a small boy, Juan had never even been in a fight. Confronting the Diablos Sierra would be like asking to have chili juice poured in his eyes.

Born malnourished and weak, Juan was used to being the slightest among his peers, and a target of bullies. He hoped the time would come when he’d outgrow his physical limitations, and he’d already begun to see results from his weight lifting regimen. Maybe it wouldn’t be long before he was ready to make a stand and unleash years of repressed anger on those who provoked him. He’d start with the gangbanger Luis, if he was still around. Especially if he ever said anything about Teresa again.

Heading to his room, Juan wondered what happened to Rodrigo. Possibly he was in a car accident. The only other thing Juan could think was he’d been in a fight, but he couldn’t imagine the gang letting him take a beating. Rodrigo looked near death.

He added plates to his curl bar and pounded out ten reps, trying not to arch his back. It seemed things might be getting shaky for the gangbangers, he thought, the idea providing a bit of solace. The cops had arrested one of them, and Teresa had told him, after she got home last night and woke him from the couch, something about Dan Reno and his big friend paying the gang a visit. Juan had been too drowsy to pay much attention, but now it seemed important. He’d get the details from Teresa as soon as she returned from her errands.

Juan was finishing his workout, pleased he reached a new max on the bench, when Teresa came through the door in high heels. He stared at her in surprise.

“You look so tall—why are you wearing those shoes?”

“They were on sale. Do you like them? I feel like a real lady.”

A lady? You’re my sister, not a lady.
But when he looked at her again he could no longer deny the obvious; Teresa was grown up. The realization brought a twinge of fear and sadness. They’d always cared for each other, but since she’d told him about her upcoming performance at Pistol Pete’s, he’d noticed a change in her personality. In the past they’d shared stories, finding something to laugh about, but now she’d become less responsive, seemingly absorbed in her thoughts. When she did talk, it was always about her, her hopes, ambitions, and concerns. As if his own were secondary. He’d begun to feel invisible, and sensed she’d already taken the first steps on a journey to a world where he would have no place. How long would it be before her career bloomed and she became immersed in her new life? How long before she found a man? And what of their family—what about the plan to bring them to the United States?

He swallowed his apprehension and steeled himself. He was sixteen, older than many boys in his native land who had full adult responsibilities. The time had come for him to stand up and put his boyhood behind him. Teresa’s life was her own, and he needed to start acting like a man.

“What were you telling me last night about Dan Reno?” he said, deciding to not mention his humiliation at the hands of the gang.

“Two things. First, while you were at work, Dan and his friend Cody came here. They went to talk with the gang and a fight started. Then two policemen arrived and arrested Rodrigo and the fat one, Pedro.”

“Arrested? I just saw Rodrigo and Pedro this morning. Rodrigo was bloody and I think going to the hospital.”

They were silent for a moment. “Good,” Teresa said. “Maybe they will all go away.”

Juan sat on the couch, his elbows on the knees. Maybe the gangbangers
would
disappear. Trouble from both the police and Dan Reno and his giant
amigo
might be more than they could handle.

“What was the second thing?” Juan said.

“I invited Cody and Dan to dinner tonight”

“
You what?
”

“You can work on your project with Dan.”

“While you…” Juan said, the implication in his sister’s remark not escaping him. Juan had noted Teresa’s interest in the bear with the straw-colored hair the morning on Dan Reno’s deck. Now it appeared she wanted to take it to the next level. What could she be thinking?

He went to the kitchen, hiding his face in the refrigerator. “What will we cook?”

She came up from behind and hugged him, his head squeezed between her breasts.

“You shouldn’t worry so much, my little brother.”

“I’m not worrying. About what?”

“The future. There will be great things in store for you, I’m sure.”

Juan squirmed, not wanting his sister’s body so close. He knew she just wanted to show her affection for him, but the physical contact made him uncomfortable.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he said, peeling her hands from his arms. “I’m more grown up than you think.”

With those words a quiet surge of confidence resonated inside Juan. In his mind he saw himself leaping a river, to a place where square-jawed men shouldered burdens of family and work and fought for what they believed in and never shied from adversity, their constitutions as formidable as the granite faces surrounding the valley in which the events of Juan’s young life would unfold.

• • •

Three doors away, Pedro lay on his bed, a bag of frozen corn on his elbow, another on his ankle. He washed down a handful of pain pills with a pull of tequila, and began punching numbers on Rodrigo’s cell phone, dreading the call he knew he must make.

“Senor Santos?”

“Yes, Rodrigo.”

“
Pardon
, it’s not Rodrigo. This is Pedro. Forgive me for calling, I know I shouldn’t be.”

“Where is Rodrigo?”

“He’s been taken to the hospital.”

“What happened?”

“Two policemen arrested us yesterday. They released us this morning, but first took us to the forest, where a detective beat Rodrigo very badly. Then another group of men beat me.”

“Did the police ask for money?”

“No. But they told us we must leave the area.”

“Did they file charges against you?”

“No.”

“Who were the other men who beat you? Were they
la policia
?”

“No, sir, they were not.”

“When can I speak to Rodrigo?”

“I don’t know. He’s at the hospital. I think his jaw is broken.”

“Keep Rodrigo’s phone with you. You will be called back.”

Pedro hung up and breathed a sigh of relief. The call had been easier than he expected. Santos was a lieutenant in Juarez’s largest drug cartel, two levels removed from Ivan Ramos, the cartel’s leader, a man whose very name caused Pedro’s heart rate to quicken. Pedro had glimpsed Ramos just once, behind the huge desk in his hacienda office. Machine guns hung from the shoulders of his bodyguards, and dozens of soldiers patrolled the grounds outside. The daily decisions made in Ramos’s office often determined who would live and prosper, and who would die. If he felt it expedient to his grand scheme, Ramos would not hesitate to order the deaths of every member of Diablos Sierra.