Chapter 20
It was evening by the time Martinez and I reached the gravel entrance to The Blue Turf Mining Company. The sun was settling on the horizon. The birds were beginning their nightly twitter. And a bullet-riddled sign mounted on the access gate greeted us with, 'Tresspassers será el disparo'. Trespassers Will Be Shot.
"Friendly place," I remarked.
Martinez stopped his old Chevrolet and swallowed thickly. "Let's hope it does not get any more unfriendly. There has been no reported trouble. So, the sign is probably more bluff than anything. Still…"
A quarter of a mile ahead was a mud-brick house. Beyond it was a small metal shack; in front of which was parked a tired looking pickup truck. And some yards to the right of the shack was a square opening into the side of a huge grassy hill, framed on both sides by what looked like open doors.
"That the mine?" I pointed to the hill.
He nodded sharply, sending a dribble of nervous sweat from his forehead across the bridge of his nose. "Last month I was driving past on my way home and saw a truck backed up to it. Two men were unloading boxes and carrying them inside."
Approximately 200 yards east of the hill stood the razor-wire fence that marked the United States border. Another 100 yards beyond this was an old gas station.
"Who controls the rackets in these parts?" I asked.
"Pueda a Dios tiene la misericordia," Martinez moaned. "Him, you don't want to get involved with! Enrique Rodriguez, the bastard. I have not seen him around lately. However, that does not mean anything. He has family to watch over his operations."
The name made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. "He's got a brother who's a junkie? Miguel?"
Martinez gave me a worried look. "How… Please tell me you have not had trouble with those two."
"There's only one now. Miguel's dead. Enrique, as far as I know is still in McAllen. Is he hooked up with the three men living out here?"
"Pueda él quema en el infierno desde hace diez mil años." Martinez daubed the sweat on his worried brow with his right sleeve before adding, "Nothing goes on that Enrique does not have a piece of. How did Miguel die?"
"I broke his neck."
"Pueda a Dios tiene la misericordia." He clenched his jaw tightly for a moment and then asked, "I think we had better leave. Tomorrow I will speak with my brother-in-law. And tonight we'll have a nice supper at the Renosa Steak House. Later, perhaps, some private entertainment—all on my expense account with Widgeons. How does that sound?"
I took the automatic he had given me and jerked back the slide. "This can't wait." I let the rusty metal squeak forward dropping a round into the firing chamber. "Just drop me here. I'll take care of my business and meet you down the road a mile, or so."
"Too late," Martinez said and pointed at a man coming out of the house. "One of them has already seen us."
I jumped out as if I belonged there, opened the gate and then crawled back into the car. "Just drive in and drop me. I'll take it from there."
"You can't be serious."
"I'm the insurance inspector; right? All I need is a few minutes in the mine to satisfy my curiosity. I'll slip the guard a few bucks, and tell him I'm in a hurry. With a little luck"
"You'll need a great deal more than a little if Enrique is out here. Does he know you killed Miguel?"
"Ringside seat."
He let go a moan as he wagged his head in despair. "La madre de dios," he muttered, dismally. Then he put the old car into gear. "We will have to bluff this through. Let me do the talking. I have had several successful dealings with Jesus Agora. He is the one in charge. If Enrique is around or expected, I will scratch my ass. If not this should be a cakewalk, as you Americans say."
"I don't like putting you at risk."
"I can handle myself. But, let me take Jesus through the paces at my own speed. If he senses he is being rushed, he will get suspicious. So just sit in the car like you're bored."
I dug out my money clip and peeled off five twenties. "Offer him this as a teaser."
Martinez took the cash and then said, "I'll hold this in reserve. Initially, I'll explain you've had too much tequila and we've got women waiting. And the quicker you can take a peek in the mine to satisfy your responsibilities, the better."
"And if he doesn't bite?"
"I'll hand him the money and suggest that you and I bring the women out there for a party. After that he will have other things on his mind and you will get your look around." Martinez muttered a short prayer before stepping on the accelerator.
The guard watched our approach with obvious agitation. When we were close enough for him to count heads, he quickly went back into the house. I dried my damp palms on my slacks and hoped it was not because he felt the need for more ammunition.
Three minutes later Martinez parked his car and got out. After doing a lazy stretch, he called out for Jesus. Almost immediately, the screen door opened and a fat man dressed in baggy blue dungarees and a dirty white T-shirt stepped onto the porch. Martinez hurried over to him with his hand extended while cooing niceties in guttural Spanish.
The pair shook hands, talked for several minutes. Then Martinez handed the man the phony inspection order.
After reading the document, the fellow shrugged and then went back into the house. Martinez turned and strolled back to the car; grinning like a Cheshire cat.
I got out as he reached it and whispered, "Are we set?"
"That one is Jesus," Martinez explained, softly. "He's going to get the keys to the mine entrance. I'll have to send a few women out here when we get back, but Widgeons can afford it."
"How many are in the house?" I asked, moving over to him.
"I couldn't see anyone through the screen. However, I heard two men talking inside so I suspect it is just as I told you. Relax. We've got nothing to worry about."
"He's taking his time with those keys," I muttered. Then I let my eyes drift. The shack I had noticed from the road was marked, 'Los Explosivos'. Then I looked over at the mine entrance. My eyes nearly bugged out as realization sunk in. No matter how you cut it, open doors meant no keys were necessary. "We'd better get the hell out of here; quick."
Martinez glanced back at the house. "What for? We're clean and green as you Americans say."
"The mine entrance is already open."
His eyes darted from my face to the mine and then back. "You worry too much. Relax. Jesus probably didn't realize it."
I gave the house a concerned stare. It was possible someone had opened the mine without notifying Jesus. It was also possible that pigs would someday fly. "It's still taking too long. Get in the car and let's get out of here. I'll come back on my own after dark."
"Jesus didn't even ask for a bribe!" Martinez grinned. "As long as we're out here, let's finish it."
I wiped the sweat from my eyes and then went back to the rider's side of the car. "He could have machined those keys by now. Come on."
Martinez laughed. "You keep this up and you'll die of stomach ulcers. When we get down to the mine, I'll keep him busy about the women. Jesus has quite a reputation with the ladies. And I, with all modesty, I can boast the same. While we compare notes you can snoop."
The curtain covering the front window suddenly jerked open. "Get down." I hit the dirt.
A second later, automatic gunfire crackled from inside the house blowing out its front window and dropping Martinez, his smile frozen upon his face. I let out a cry as if I had been wounded. Then I jerked out the Colt and crawled beneath the car. Surviving that much, I slid along the dirt to the driver's side. Martinez was dead. Half a dozen rounds had ripped through his head and back; but he was still grinning.
After what seemed like an eternity, I heard voices. Then the front door to the house creaked open. I took aim as Jesus and another man crept out. Each was holding an Uzi. My finger coiled around the automatic's trigger, snuggling it back against the sear. If it did not fire or it jammed, I
would soon be fast-stepping it behind Martinez on my way to hell.
Jesus paused and crouched low trying to see beneath the car. Then he motioned the other man to go on ahead.
I waited until Jesus straightened before firing. The first round hit him in the chest. The next two caught his partner in the groin. As the second man hit the grass, I sent another through the side of his skull. Almost immediately, a long burst of machinegun fire spurted from within the house. The bullets pinged through the car, blowing out tires and ripping the ground around it. I kept still, taking aim at the house and watching.
Minutes passed before I saw movement behind the front window. That movement came from a big sombrero atop the head of a very nervous little man. I fired two rounds as he leaned out the window. He gave a loud groan as he fell forward, one of the upright shards piercing his middle and pinning him to the window frame like a Christmas decoration. I waited several more minutes and then crawled from beneath the car.
Beside the rear quarter panel, I paused to count the number of rounds in the automatic's clip. It was empty. I discarded the weapon and crept toward the two dead men on the walk. I paused by Philippe and picked up his Uzi. After a brief prayer, I charged into the house.
It smelled like last week's chili cook-off. From the tiny living room, I saw a small kitchen and the hallway to what I assumed were even smaller bedrooms and the inevitable diminutive bath. A shadeless floor lamp, two overstuffed sofas, a tattered black vinyl chair and a cigarette-burned coffee table furnished the front room in poverty-stricken panache. A veil of flies danced above four bowls of chili. My stomach knotted as I saw that fourth bowl. Someone was not accounted for.
I gave the insects a wide berth and carefully crossed the room to the kitchen. It was empty except for a small rattlesnake coiling along the floor. Shivers went up my spine as I watched the snake disappear beneath the cabinets. I gave the Uzi a nervous check to make certain a round was in its chamber and then crept toward the rear of the house.
The two bedrooms were empty. The bath was another story. Unaccounted was sitting on the toilet. One of his forearms rested atop a wear-weary fax machine. His head was tilted back, his torso slouched back against the commode's water tank. And his bent legs were splayed; a roll of toilet paper resting upon his naked groin.
He could have passed for sleeping except one eyeball and his chin were gone; blown away by stray rounds. I touched the side of this throat but there was no pulse.
I slung the Uzi over my shoulder and headed back to search the bedrooms. In addition to the usual matching set of sagging steel cots and bare closets, one had an old pine clothes-bureau. I dragged out each drawer in turn and dumped its meager contents onto the nearest mattress. The heirs of these men would be disappointed. Frayed underwear, rusty shaving utensils, porno magazines and a small notebook made up their combined estates.
I thumbed through the notebook. The entries were in crude, sometimes misspelled Spanish. Through a little imagination and patience, I was able to translate what had been recorded. The notebook was a fax log documenting a series of transmissions to a single telephone number—the one assigned to the fax machine in Philip Woods' home. Each entry recorded the fax's content—mostly a listing of plastic plates and drinkware.
I stuffed the notebook into my pocket, and returned to the kitchen. Inside the refrigerator, I found a plastic freezer bag containing nearly five thousand dollars in United States currency. I pocketed the bag and then started for the living room.
I was about to open the front door when it banged into my head knocking me back on my heels. As I grappled to bring the Uzi to bear, a young man rushed in wielding a shotgun. From the look on his frightened face, there was no discussing the situation.
I hit the floor and rolled just as he started blasting.
By the time he had fired his third round, I managed to get off a spray from the Uzi. The bullets caught him in the chest and throat, dropping him without so much as a cry. I got up and sent another burst into his back to make certain there would be no more surprises. Then I made my way outside.
Next to Jesus, I squatted down to rummage through his pockets. Other than car keys and several unused condoms, he left the world with nothing. I took the keys, hoping they fit the old pickup. Then I removed the clip from the other man's weapon and put it into my pocket before trotting over to the mine.
Beyond its entrance lay a huge concrete culvert. Mounted on wooden planks bolted into the culvert’s concrete were ore car track-rails. These descended at a shallow angle along the culvert's fifty-foot length until they reached the end. Then the descent tapered off and the tracks disappeared into darkness embraced by gray stone blocks.
Electrical switches just past the doors actuated a double string of lights. These ran from the culvert's opening to well out of sight below. I walked down to the end of the culvert, climbed into an ore car and released its brake. It rolled forward along the track, slowly picking up speed as it continued its descent toward the United States border.
Several minutes later, the car rattled to a stop against buttresses in front of a set of closed steel doors. I got off, dropped out the clip from Philippe's Uzi and replaced it with the full one taken from his partner's gun. I was not expecting any more trouble, but when in the spider's web, a little forward thinking is wise.
I pressed an ear against the door. On the other side, I could hear men's voices and a radio playing. They were speaking English so I assumed I was now under American soil. The way this underground passageway had been built, anything and everything could be secretly transferred from Mexico to the United States with no one being the wiser.
The return trek was an uphill struggle. And by the time I reached the mine entrance my feet hurt, I was out of breath, and my legs were nearly numb. I turned off the lights and then paused a moment to catch my breath. Outside, fading sunshine had turned to moonlight. The house was darkly reassuring, so I stumbled out and headed for the explosives shed. This had been a costly trip. I was not about to leave without closing down the Mexican part of the cocaine connection.
I had the shack door open and was blissfully using a crowbar I'd found next to a case of dynamite when I sensed something or someone beside me. I whirled, reaching for the Uzi, when a sharp pain erupted at the side of my skull. My eyes closed, my knees buckled and I felt myself falling. Seconds later, I was chasing those damn gypsies, again.