The Devil's Bag Man (13 page)

“Izel is my forebearer, Sheriff. For five hundred years, my family has sought to stop Cualli. The rest is just a means to an end. A base of power from which to operate. A way to get close to him.”

“You're the biggest narcotics trafficker in Mexico.”

“I'm afraid so, yes.”

“You're directly responsible for thousands of deaths.”

“You're absolutely right, Sheriff.” Rubacalo leaned forward, his eyes wide. “And I'm the good guy.”

S
o what do you want from me?” Nichols asked.

“Your help. Cualli
will
destroy Galvan, if he has not already. It is only a matter of time. And if that happens—”

“Let me guess: we're fucked.”

“In so many words. Even in his decrepitude, unable to leave his lair, Cualli has held organized crime by the balls for the last hundred years.”

“Now there's an image.” Nichols glanced over at Fuentes. “You're pretty quiet over there, Miguel.”

“Just taking it all in, cabrón. Who's ready for another beer?” He stood, grabbed their empty bottles off the table, and strode toward the bar.

“So, what?” Nichols asked. “You think Galvan's gonna listen to me, is that it? Assuming he's still Galvan?”

“That's what I'm hoping, yes.”

“And I'm telling him . . . what, that the jig is up and we know Cucuy's in there, so . . .”

Nichols threw up his hands, at a loss to complete the sentence.

“You are telling him there's only one scenario that does not result in utter catastrophe.”

“You want him to kill himself.”

“Yes and no.”

“Yes and no,” Nichols repeated, craning his head, suddenly eager for another beer.

“If Galvan kills himself, Cualli will die with him. But Tezcatlipoca's power will not. It will be restored to the god. And he will return from his exile, to a world where none remain who can oppose him.”

“That's bad?”

“That's bad.”

“We don't want a psycho Aztec god rampaging through the world, is what you're saying.”

“You catch on fast, Sheriff.”

“Always been a quick study, Cortador.”

Maybe a second beer wasn't a good idea after all. Nichols was feeling drunk enough already.

Right on cue, Fuentes returned, balancing three Pacificos and three brimming shot glasses on a tray.

“I thought we could use these,” he said, distributing the tequila.

Nichols tossed his back straightaway, to avoid finding out how clinking glasses with a crime lord would make him feel.

“But he would die, though,” he said, as the liquor blazed a path down his throat. “Galvan.”

“There is a ritual. A way of excising Cualli from the world—unmaking him, as it were. But it will not be easy. And it must be undertaken willingly.”

Nichols chased the liquor with beer, felt the icy trickle reach his stomach, and wondered when he'd last eaten.

“Believe me, Sheriff. At this point, there is no coming back for your friend.”

That struck him as true, and Nichols sighed.

“Well,” he said slowly, “he was willing to die before. To save his daughter. When he ate that heart.”

He fell silent, felt Rubacalo's eyes bore into him.

“Maybe it's time for him to finish what he started,” Nichols said quietly.

Rubacalo nodded. “Destroying Cualli.”

Nichols looked up at him. “No. Dying.”

Fuentes hadn't touched his tequila. Nichols reached over, grabbed the glass, and gave the liquor a nice warm home.

“You got a fucking plan?” he asked his new buddy the drug lord.

GALVAN FOUND HIS
way back from the beach by sunup and was promptly caught reentering the barn by Louis's eldest boy, Manuel.

Take out a hotel full of heavily armed goons? No problem.

Sneak into a barn? Epic fail.

The fact that he was covered in sweat and blood—the former his own, the latter mostly not—didn't make Galvan's presence any easier to explain. The kid was eighteen or twenty, short and stocky like his old man but with hard, beady eyes, where Louis's were gentle and wise. It took him all of three seconds to figure out who Galvan was.

Jess could see him sizing up the situation. He was up early to milk the cows, sure—but he still smelled like last night's beer, still had on last night's clothes, and it was a good bet that his head still buzzed with last night's gossip.

Galvan had a pretty good idea what that was.

New monster in town, yadda yadda yadda.

He was in no mood for finesse, so Galvan cut right to the chase. It would be the last thing the kid expected, and maybe it would throw him off his game, hit the reset button on whatever scheme he was hatching.

“So how much is the price on my head? 'Cause you're looking at me with dollar signs in your eyes, Manuel.”

Quaking in his boots
wasn't just a metaphor after all. This kid was actually doing it. Looked as if he were experiencing his own highly localized earthquake.

“I'm just asking, Manuel. You ain't gotta be scared. No harm, no foul.”

The earthquake gave way to aftershocks. “Ten thousand from Sinaloa,” the farmer's son managed. “And twenty-five from Azteca.”

Galvan squinted in appraisal. “Huh. Seems kinda low. If I was you, I'd wait a few days. The way I'm going, I'm a lock to get it up to fifty by the weekend.”

Manuel was having trouble getting the words out. “I-I-I . . .”

“Relax, kid. I'm pretty sure you know better. Now. Tell me what I
can do to help around here. You need some hay baled or some shit like that? I like to keep busy.”

“I see you two have met.”

It was Louis, walking across the field with a steaming mug in each hand. Even in broad daylight, the dude was a fucking master of stealth.

He handed one to Galvan, looked him up and down.

“Interesting night?”

Jess shrugged and took a sip of the strong, rich brew. “Pretty quiet. Just, you know, took a stroll around town, made a few new friends.”

“More than a few, the way I heard it,” Louis replied, over the lip of his raised mug. Galvan must have looked surprised, because the farmer added, “It's a small town. Word travels fast.” He slurped his coffee, lowered the mug to waist height. “Couldn't wait, huh?”

Galvan shrugged. “Just kind of happened.”

The blend of affection, bemusement, and disappointment with which Louis regarded him made Galvan feel like nothing so much as the man's son. It was wholly unexpected, strangely comforting.

Cucuy had a different interpretation.

The rush of sentimentality you feel is the last of your humanity, ebbing out of you like blood from a wound
.
You are to be reborn in blood, Jess Galvan
.
The course is set
.
That you believe you are resisting only makes you more mine
.

Not until he opened his eyes and found Louis staring at him with concern did Galvan realize he had squeezed them shut.

“Are you feeling all right?” the farmer asked. “You disappeared for a second, there.”

Galvan shook his head clear. “Yeah, no, I get these headaches sometimes. They come on real suddenly.”

“I see,” the farmer said, his tone shading toward resignation. “Well, there's no point in hiding you out here anymore. You might as well come inside and have some breakfast. Meet the rest of the family.”

“I could eat,” Galvan agreed and followed him toward the house.

The smell of bacon filled the kitchen. Louis introduced his wife, Concepción; she turned from the stove to greet him and her smile lit up the room. Something about the woman reminded Galvan uncannily of his own abuela: the mirth in her delicately wrinkle-filigreed cheeks,
the way she'd doted on him as a child. A moment later two more boys, Alberto and Carlos, stumbled down the stairs, half asleep. Their eyes widened at the sight of Galvan, but they were gracious, welcoming, their father's sons.

Louis put a hand on Galvan's shoulder, steered him to the bathroom, handed him a towel and a bar of soap. Galvan took a thorough rock-and-roll shower, face and arms, pits and hands, and when he opened the door he found a clean white T-shirt dangling from a hanger. He pulled it on and found to his surprise that it fit, which probably meant the boys' preferences ran toward oversized and baggy.

He ambled back to the kitchen, found the family seated around a table laden with eggs, bacon, fresh milk, cereal. They'd waited for him, and now, as he sat down, they joined hands and bowed their heads. Galvan found himself holding Concepción's dry, smooth palm in his left hand, delicate as a baby bird, and sixteen-year-old Alberto's farm-calloused mitt in his right.

“We thank you for the bounty of your grace, Lord. And for the help you have sent us, in our time of trouble. We ask that you protect him and allow him to serve your justice upon the wicked. Amen.”

“Amen,” the family chorused. Galvan tried to eat, found he had to force the food past a lump in his throat. When the meal was over, he followed Louis and the boys into the fields, waited until the kids had embarked on their tasks, then buttonholed the old man.

“Look, I'm no avenging angel, Louis. I'm not heaven-sent.”

He smiled. “You don't have to know you are sent by heaven to be sent by heaven. You are his instrument, Jess, whether you know it or not.”

You are his instrument
, Cucuy repeated, with a brittle cackle.

“It's a nice thought, Louis, but—”

The farmer reached up, took Galvan by the shoulders. “My father was a healer, Jess. A brujo. I see things in people. Maybe that sounds crazy to you.”

“No, it—”

The farmer shook him off. “And you—you have a good soul. I see your struggle. The conflict in you. But, Jess”—Louis tightened his grip on Galvan's shoulders—“you will triumph. It is your destiny.”

Galvan had no words. Louis didn't seem willing to release his grip
until he said something. And so they just stood there, an unbroken circuit of belief and dismay, until Manuel trudged over.

Louis read the look on his son's face and turned. “What? What is it?”

“There's a man here,” he said, voice low and inflectionless. “For him.”

With a speed Galvan wouldn't have guessed the old man had in him, Louis grabbed the boy by the wrist.

“What have you done?” he hissed.

Manuel tried to jerk his arm free, but he could not.

“Nothing! He just— He knew. He's by himself. Says he wants to talk.”

“Don't lie to me!” Louis applied more pressure. “Who did you call?”

Manuel winced, but he wouldn't give.

“I'm not! No one!”

“It's okay,” said Galvan. “I'll go find out what he has to say.” He patted Louis on the back. Reluctantly, the farmer released his son's arm. Manuel folded it to his chest like a broken wing, rubbed at the reddened wrist.

“He's at the front door,” the kid mumbled and started to lead the way.

“I'll go alone,” Galvan said and broke into a jog. He figured he'd flank the visitor—check out his vehicle, make sure he was really solo, then decide whether to speak with his mouth or his hands.

The car was unassuming, a mud-spattered Ford compact that had once been white. No sign of anybody lurking, no whiff of a trap. Just a lanky young dude standing before the closed front door, hands in the pockets of his jeans, close-shorn head bent toward the ground.

“Looking for me?” Galvan barked, striding toward him.

The guy spun, and Galvan stopped short.

“You gotta be fuckin' kidding me.”

It was Bosco. He raised his hands, showing Galvan they were empty, then lifted his oversized T-shirt high enough to reveal a strip of belly, and the lack of a weapon on his waistline.

Galvan crossed his arms over his chest. “Really. They sent you. Over here. To talk to me.”

Bosco shrugged and shoved his hands back in his pockets. “It was either me or twenty guys with guns.”

“How'd you find me?”

Bosco pawed at the ground with a sneaker.

“I followed you back last night.”

“The hell you did. I would have noticed.”

“Guess you didn't, though.”

Galvan came closer, got in Bosco's face.

“I should choke you to death right now for lying to me. You cost thirty men their lives, you know that?”

Another shrug. He was a cool customer. You had to give Bosco that.

“Better theirs than ours.”

He blinked and fixed Galvan with a pair of eyes as cool and calm as dawn lakes. “Besides, it don't make no difference to you, does it? You just wanna kill, ain't that right?”

Galvan's fingers twitched with violence.

“What I want is all you miserable bastards out of this town,” he said in a low growl.

Either Bosco had a death wish, or his heart pumped ice.

“That's not gonna happen,” he replied. “If you want peace in Rosales, one side or the other has gotta win. That's why I'm here.”

He took a step back and pulled a manicured, banded brick of fifty-dollar bills from his back pocket.

“My boss, he wanted to put a price on your head. I said fuck that, he's more valuable to us alive than dead.” Bosco waved the money. “This is twenty-five grand. You already earned it, when you put in that work last night. Once we win this war, you'll get a hundred more. A
hundred
. How's that sound?”

The kid grinned. Maybe he wasn't so cool after all, Galvan mused. Perhaps he simply lived in a world where saying no to that kind of money was unthinkable, and the possibility that Galvan might refuse, emphatically, had simply not occurred to him.

He plucked the wad from Bosco's hand. “I'll take this as a down payment on all the damage you've already done. But I'm not for sale.”

He turned on his heel and started to walk away. For show, mostly. He knew he wouldn't get far.

Sure enough: “What about your friends here?” Bosco called, and Galvan spun back.

“What about them?” he growled.

Just give me one reason
.
One fucking word
.

And for the second time in twenty-four hours, Galvan couldn't tell whose thought it was.

Cucuy didn't really curse, though.