So Special in Dayville Page 7

  The tall man slips the knife back into his pocket and heads for the back door. This won’t take long. And since it’s almost closing time, the cook’s absence can be easily explained. Ruiz will dispose of the evidence after Jones has locked the diner down for the night. Broke Mule Canyon has served before as a datos-fosas—a pit hiding the victims of the data wars.

  The Mexican closes the door softly after him. It takes his eyes only a few seconds to adjust to the dark alley. It stinks of garbage, and somewhere a rat squeals. He can just make out the big man, who’s still snacking on pickles retrieved from his pocket. Standing up on a concrete platform used to offload shipping pallets for a neighboring factory, Ajeno, gripping a handrail, stares upward. There, between the two rooftops overhead, a sliver of sky pinpricked in stars has opened up.

  The sound of Ruiz, who accidentally steps on a crack vial, draws Ajeno’s attention. His eyes widen at the length of the other man’s shadow. But then, propelled by his free hand, another handful of pickles disappears into his mouth as, placidly, he says, “You said you’d cook for me.”

  Putting a hand in his pocket, Ruiz steps closer. “Jones is locking up. There are no more orders.”

  “Oh, good. That’s good.” Ajeno’s white moon-face flickers with interest. “You said you . . . belong.”

  “What of it? You say I don’t?!”

  Cocking his large head to the side, Ajeno steps to the very edge of the concrete platform. His teeth glint in the security light as he opens his mouth for still more pickles.

  Ruiz hesitates. There is something here he doesn’t understand. Not yet. The other is just staring down at him, eyes speculatively shining. Fingers slipping from steel to plastic wrap, the Mexican settles for retrieving a cherry-flavored cough lozenge from his pocket. He finds himself unaccountably offering it. “You want this?”

  “What flavor is it?” When Ruiz answers, Ajeno audibly grins. He leans down, plucking the candy from Ruiz’s palm like a bear taking it from the hand of a small child. “Oh, thanks, I like cherry!”

  “I am from Tamaulipas State in Mexico,” explains Ruiz as Ajeno loudly smacks the candy. “Where are you from?”

  “Here, on the edge of town, by the canyon.”

  The dark shadow of Ruiz nods. “There are many snakes there, I hear.”

  “Lordy!” Ajeno bursts out in a gleeful tone. “More’n you can shake a stick at!”

  Ruiz cocks his head, puzzled. “Why do you talk like this?”

  “I like . . .,” Ajenos giggles, “the different ways that . . . uh, we humans talk. That’s all.”

  Ruiz sternly studies the large outline made by moonlight. “Why is your name Garcia?”

  “You got more candy?” When Ruiz gives it to him, Ajeno commences sucking with an exaggerated shrug. “That’s who Mama and Papa said I was.” He steps to the weak wall light. A turn up of his voluminous shirt shows multiple rolls of belly fat, pale as a cloudbank before a storm. There, at the hem of his shirt, a name’s been written in dim, thick, black ink. “They wrote my name in my clothes. All the time I was growing up, they wrote my name in my clothes. Neat, huh?”

  A hiss erupts at the end of the alley. “Ruiz!”

  The tall man turns but sees only darkness. “Who is this?”

  “Es yo, Marcos. Es seguro hablar?”

  Ruiz turns back to the massive cook. “You will go inside now, yes? Your break is over, I believe.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Releasing the handrail, Ajeno takes two big steps down from the raised platform. “See ya.”

  A small man sidles up to Ruiz in the darkness. He motions after Ajeno, who’s turning sideways to pass through the diner’s back door. “Quien es el? Trouble?”

  “No, he’s just a cook.”

  “I don’t like that he was back here,” growls the other. “We picked this alley cause you said no one ever comes back here.”

  Ruiz goes very still. Only his hand moves, slipping back into his pocket.

  The new arrival tenses, remembering stories of the other man from back in Nuevo Laredo.

  Ruiz steps very close as Marcos holds his breath. “I say when and where we meet. And who dies and when. Hagale me comprende?”

  Placating, Marcos throws up his hands. “Por supuesto.”

  “We go,” says Ruiz, “tomorrow at dawn to the supplier.”

  “Meet at the usual place?”

  Ruiz nods, staring into the darkness. “Sí.” After Marcos slinks away, the tall man still waits. The alley is empty except for rodent cries, their long peeps filling the shadows. His eyes, fighting past the silhouettes created by tall brick walls, lift to the night sky. Rooflines contain the uncontainable, stars shining like framed artwork—glitter pricking black oil paint.

  Ruiz is a cold man, but looking at stars touches him like nothing else. He does more than look; he feels. Even now, he imagines a star being born—clouds, thick with molecules, falling, spiraling, tumbling inward, weight, heaviness, BANG!, light, heat, oozy-goozy plasma dancing in the chromosphere. Ahhh . . .

  A rustle and the wet return of Marcos’s rubber-soled shoes. Embarrassment muffles his voice. “The usual place, it is the gas station on Roosevelt, yes?”

  “I am busy, no?” The iciness of Ruiz’s voice is not lost on his companion.

  The footsteps quickly leave with the other’s groveling: “Por suppuesto.”

  Ruiz brings himself back to earth, wondering about the fat man. He acted so confident, as if knowing that Ruiz could not hurt him. Is it possible that instead of being half witted, he is policia or maybe an agent of . . . no, it could not be!

  Ruiz would’ve heard if the Registros were in town. The Registros Cartel is the Guerrera’s number-one competitor. Weekly, atrocities are shared between them, becoming so commonplace that YouTube scrambles daily with a new stock of datos execution videos.

  Ruiz loses himself, thinking. More will have to be discovered about the fat man. Yes, much . . . much more. A game plan comes naturally to the tall man, who’s groomed himself over the years as the perfect datos trafficker. It’s not that he always enjoys his job, but after so long, it comes naturally, like walking or taking a breath. He doesn’t even have to think about it anymore. All extraneous parts of his personality not pertaining to trafficking have been chiseled away by experience, his rough edges smoothed by winds of proficiency. Like a semiautomatic, he now only has to be pointed by those higher up in the cartel to discharge orders impersonally.

  But, the truth is, he hadn’t recognized himself tonight. Why didn’t he settle accounts with the fat cook? Why did he just stand there, offering Garcia pieces of candy like a pendejo?! Staring the length of the dark alley, Ruiz shakes his head. He fingers the steel edge of the blade in his pocket. Whether the fat man is indeed a moron, policia, or a Registros agent, he should have been eliminated.

  For Ruiz, killing has become routine. But it wasn’t always this way, especially at the beginning. True, when he killed his father, that had come easily. But most murders born of revenge and long-held hatred are just as easy.

  No, it was another death that truly set him on his path for his current job. When he was seventeen and being tested by Los Espejos for membership, they brought to him a boy, not much older than himself—a member of a rival gang.

  “Prove that you are worthy,” his leader taunted him. “Kill him like you would a dog in the street!”

  In the brightness of that day’s sun, Ruiz met the other boy’s eyes. It was a mistake he would not again make for a long time after. Because there, in their brown depths, danced equal measures of bravado and terror. Ruiz could not help but admire his control. Ironically, he thought then how this boy would make a good companion. A courageous friend with whom to stand shoulder to shoulder.

  The leader of Los Espejos shoved a gun into Ruiz’s hands. “Kill him!”

  The gun was cold, an oily thing in the summer heat of Guadalajara. Three fingers of Ruiz’s hand automatically closed around the grip, with another loosely placed on
the trigger guard. He hesitated, his gaze still locked on the other boy’s eyes. Sweat, he noticed, had begun to run down the other’s cheeks. Almost imperceptibly, the boy shook his head, a question in his eyes.

  The gang leader was shouting by then, “Kill him! Do it or I’ll blow your fucking head off!” Dimly, Ruiz realized that the leader had whipped an automatic out of the baggy pants he wore. He felt, more than saw, the barrel lifting in his direction.

  BANG! The recoil of the gun, gripped by a young Enrique Ruiz, startled him. Surprised, he gasped, falling back as, uproariously, the other gang members started laughing. The oily thing in his hand was now warm, like a living thing, and the boy with the dancing eyes was the one dead.

  Or near enough. He lay on the ground, not five feet from Ruiz, blood bubbling from the hole in his chest as, for several long seconds, he twitched, eyes blinking. Then stillness so peaceful that Ruiz, in his relief, could have cried.

  “Not bad,” congratulated the first lieutenant of Los Espejos as the others, still laughing, drifted down the alleyway. “The first is always the hardest. It is like sex, yes?”

  “Sí.”

  In the weeks after the boy’s death, Ruiz was astonished at its effect on him. He had, after all, killed before. But this was different. He felt hollowed out, empty. And in that space was born new tastes, new abilities. It was odd, he thought then, because he looked the same. At least, if the reflections of his face seen in the plate-glass windows of dusty storefronts were any indication.

  Today, thinking back on it, Ruiz sees how it was that day when misery first caught his scent. It’s true that he no longer cringes when killing. But he has never forgotten that afternoon in the Guadalajara alley.

  ***

  The next morning, bright and early, the mayor, sucking a breath mint, slides his very tasteful luxury car out of the City Hall parking garage to return to the wide boulevards of Dayville’s only upscale enclave. At least once a week, he and Willie Wilson, the head of the city council, meet for an hour’s worth of coffee and verbal trade-offs of political favors.

  The mayor glances covetously at the folder on the passenger seat. It outlines his best ideas on combating the shanty towns that are springing up in the disused parts of town. Excited, he licks his lips. Homelessness is a problem everywhere. And if he can get publicity for his solutions to the crisis, then he’s sure to gain the national attention he deserves.

  Popping yet another breath mint past his lips, the handsome politician smiles broadly out the open car window. He performs for constituents even when alone. Now his benign gaze is meant to convey an innocent, selfless stewardship of the town. But, as usual, his eyes probe the scene with the acuity of a high-speed scanner.

  The homes of middle management with their expensive front gardens show a normal, genteel buzz of activity—mothers, in perfect makeup, are power walking down sidewalks as executives in power suits are sliding into keeping-up-with-the-Joneses sedans. He passes his own home midway down Candy Apple Lane. The pretty young woman, who lives in the house just north of his, is pulling her garbage can to the street. Her flushed face dimples when she glances up to see his car.

  Nonchalantly, the mayor waves in his best professional manner. He eyes her dwindling image though in his rearview mirror as he continues down the road. Craning his neck as the road curves, he mindlessly accelerates the car uphill into the fanciest section of the enclave. That’s when his sex fantasies hit a major road block. What it is he can’t immediately put his finger on. But his inner alarm bells are going off with a “whoop, whoop, whoop!” He slams on his brakes. He’s got IT. Where’s all the normal traffic for these homes?

  His eyes strain to find the nonexistent Mercedeses and BMWs of housewives and factory owners leaving for work (or covertly returning to dally with their neighbor’s wife or husband). And where are the delivery trucks? The armed security details? And the secondhand cars of servants? Irrational anxiety threatens his breathing. He can neither shake it nor settle the queasiness in his gut.

  Few others would notice what he’s seeing or, rather, not seeing. The avenue looks as lovely as ever. Pink and white plastic flowers merrily bloom in the medians; recorded birds tweet from discretely disguised speakers while, through a soft haze of smog, the lawns that surround ancestral-looking homes spread out in flat carpets of green. Overhead hang the branches of majestic trees.

  But still, something, he knows, is wrong. Very wrong.

  The door to the Wilson mansion swings open at his touch. Inside, in the foyer, no one responds to his shouted greetings. He leaves only to find three more mansions empty and unlocked. Now he’s more scared than nervous.

  In most of the houses, he finds food left to rot on expensive china in vacant dining rooms; clothes still wrapped in dry-cleaning bags strewn down grandiose staircases; televisions left blaring in echoing media rooms, while faucets gush forth water in uninhabited bathrooms.

  Now he’s standing in Howard Taterson’s marble entry hall. “Hello? Hello?” Sound bounces back at him. At his feet, white bits of packing foam lie scattered across the floor, as if in their haste, the Tatersons had thrown what they could into boxes and fled.

  The politician begins to wander through endless hallways paneled impeccably in Argentinian cypress. In the kitchen, he finds a bouquet of roses forgotten on a granite countertop near the kitchen stove. They remind him of lovely Laura Taterson. She’d always delighted in filling his buttonhole with flowers whenever he came to visit.

  Hurriedly, he retrieves a clean glass from the cabinet. Cool water plunges a blood-pressure tablet down his throat. “Ahhh,” he grunts appreciatively. Licking his lips, he puts the glass on the countertop next to a half-eaten bowl of congealed cereal. Flies are buzzing about the bowl as he hurriedly snaps off a rose from Laura Taterson’s bouquet.

  Appearance, he tells himself sternly, is everything. “I am the mayor of this town, and I gotta look the part. So long as I look okay, then everything is okay!” He takes a few steps to the mirrored wall that surrounds the breakfast nook. There, he fumbles, trying to perch the petals onto his lapel, muttering aloud, “But what the hell’s going on here?”

  “I think I can answer that,” John Doe briskly answers from behind him.

  Stifling a high-pitched scream, the mayor whirls around. He contemplates the stranger warily. “Who are you?”

  “Goodness, can’t you be more original than that?” Doe extracts identification from his breast pocket to dangle before the politician’s bulging eyes. “Why are people always asking who I am? Why don’t they ask what I am, whether I’m a Gemini or a Leo, an Easterner or a Westerner, a man or a woman, a Republican or a Democrat?”

  Fingering the bottle of blood-pressure tablets in his coat pocket, the mayor frowns at the badge. “A Fed, huh? What are you doing here?”

  “There you go again, pigeonholing me! Just because I’m a ‘Fed,’ does that mean I’ve got to be ‘doing’ something? Can’t I just be?”

  “And,” the mayor takes a cautious step back, “is that what you’re doi . . . I mean, are you . . . being here just to be here?”

  “’Fraid not. I’m here as a Fed. Showed you my badge, didn’t I?”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Nothing much.” Doe steps up to the other man, straightening the red rose stuck in the politician’s buttonhole. “Not really. It’s just that we’ve been noticing a leak here in Dayville, Mr. Mayor. A leak of industrial secrets that’s getting pretty damn big.”

  Nervousness mars the other man’s good looks. “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about.” Glancing up, Doe meets the mayor’s astonished gaze. “Probably, that is.” He turns away while studying his own appearance in the full-length mirror. “It’s just that if I can’t plug your town’s leak, then,” he brushes lint from his powder-blue lapel, “the federal government will be forced to consider other options to neutralize the threat.”

  A giggle escapes the politician. “L
ike what,” he rolls his eyes, “call out the National Guard or something?”

  “Heavens, no!” The Weatherman turns a shocked expression on the other. “We’d never take so precipitate an action.” He glares at the dispirited boutonnière in the mayor’s lapel before snatching it off to fit into his own buttonhole. Long, tapered fingers perch the bloom appropriately against powdered-blue fabric.

  As the other man relaxes, Doe adds, “The National Guard costs money. But, now, blowing up the dam above Byhalia Falls—that’s cost-effective.” He admires himself in the mirror. “The rose looks better on me, don’t you think?”

  Amusement vies with horror in the politician’s expression. “You’re kidding, right? Blowing up the dam would flood us. It’d send the whole town over the edge into the canyon—it would destroy everything!”

  Deep breathing indicates The Weatherman’s sympathy. “A terrible thing, to be sure, but sometimes, a straight-line wind cleans a troubled landscape. Makes it fresh for new use.” He smiles brightly while straightening his coat sleeves. “Don’t you think?”

  The mayor, hysterically licking his lips, forces a laugh while wildly looking about the empty room. “That’s why they’ve all gone, isn’t it? You told them first.” The mayor steps closer to the federal agent. “Why them? Hmmm? Tell me that – tell me!”

  John Doe shrugs. “Just government policy to protect its largest tax payers. Safeguarding the income stream, if you know what I mean.”

  The mayor suddenly lunges at the other man; he would’ve embraced Doe had not Doe stopped him by holding up a turned-out palm. “Now,” protests the mayor, falling to his knees, “we can’t be hasty ’bout this. Nothing to worry about. I . . . I can fix this, trust me!”

  “Ah, Mr. Mayor, would that you could.” Doe’s sweet smile disappears almost immediately. “But, pardon my bluntness, you just don’t have the cojones for this kind of problem.”

  ***

  Crystal stops to catch her breath in the stairwell. She’d tried waiting for the elevator, but it appeared to be stuck on the third floor. Lungs reinflate, and she mounts the steps. From above comes a clicking sound. She keeps climbing. “Darla Sue,” she calls, “is that you?”