Teresa woke up and recognized Howie. She told the man in Spanish he better leave. He yelled in Spanish and hurried out the door. Teresa sat up and stared at Howie. He liked the way her bare tits bounced and rolled.
“What are you doing here?”
“Celebrating. I’m still alive. I want me some good hot pussy and I know where to get it.”
“Not tonight. You heard of Mad Dog Sanchez, Tijuana police?”
“No, who’s he?”
“Toughest, most vicious cop in town. He was here looking for you. Something about a dead dopehead.”
Howie who had killed a six pack of beer driving to TJ sobered up in a rush. “Some cop is looking for me, by name?”
“Yes. I told him I didn’t know you.”
“Why’s he looking for me?”
“Some big-time dope supplier got himself shot twice in the head with a small-caliber weapon. He thinks you did it. This Mad Dog Sanchez is the worst of the cops around here. He gets more confessions than anybody. Also, more of his suspects die during questioning than anyone else’s.”
“Why didn’t you tell me he was asking about me?”
“I called you twice, no answer both time.”
“Been out of the country.”
“You better get back across the border. He catch you down here you’re turkey meat. Know what I mean?”
“Yes, Teresa. I know. Hell, while I’m here…” He unzipped his fly. Teresa caught his hand.
“No. It isn’t safe for you here, not even for five minutes. You better go right now.”
“Hell, I been through a lot lately—” He stopped, zipped up his fly and swore. “Fuck it, I’ll go north and then head for Arizona. He’ll never find me in Arizona.” Howie stood there a moment, his alcohol-fuzzed brain spinning. “Wait a God-damned minute. Why am I gonna run just because some pussy tells me to? Hell, why should I be afraid of some little greaser cop? I ain’t afraid of no cop.” He laughed, unzipped his fly again and dropped his pants, then his shorts. He pushed Teresa back on the bed and dropped on top of her.
“Hell, I ain’t wasting a drive all the way down here just to get pushed out the door by some damned greaser detective.”
“Howie. I’m serious. Hanging around here could get you killed.”
“Look at me, pretty woman. I’m shaking in my boots. I’m so scared I can’t get it up. Like shit. Look at this dandy. He’s ready to get to work.”
“Hell, I warned you. Sanchez has checked me three times now, looking for you.”
“So let him come.”
An hour later, Howie had drifted off to sleep when the door with it’s lock broken eased open. Sanchez grinned. The other girls had agreed, this was Anderson, the gringo Teresa knew, who Juan Lopez knew. The American lay on his back, hands over his head. He was a big one. Sanchez took a lead-filled sap from his pocket. He hit Anderson’s genitals first. The blow brought a wail of pain from the gringo who sat up. The second blow slammed hard on the big American’s head and he flopped down unconscious half off the bed.
Teresa heard the cry and jumped out of bed on the other side and scurried out the door. Sanchez didn’t need her anymore. He always knew where to find her. He was more interested in Anderson.
Sanchez knew how to use the sap. He had swung it dozens of times and knew how hard to hit a man’s head to knock him out and how hard to kill him. Anderson would wake up soon. The cop used plastic riot cuffs to bind Anderson’s wrists and ankles where he lay on the bed. He found a glass half full of whisky on the night stand. He threw the liquid into Anderson’s face.
The big SEAL came awake screeching in pain and frustration.
“What the hell. My hands? Who kicked me in the balls. What’s going on here?” Anderson shook his head to clear it, then slowly focused on Sanchez standing beside the bed, his Glock pistol out and aimed at Anderson’s head.
“Howard Anderson?”
“Hell no, I’m Regis Philbin. What the hell are the tie strips for?”
“To keep you in control, Anderson. You’re a wanted killer. I have to be careful.”
“You a cop?”
“Right, and I have you for murdering Raymundo Cuchi Hernandez in cold blood in his apartment.”
“Proof, you bastard, it takes proof to arrest somebody.”
“Not in Mexico, gringo bastard. You’re going inside for a long, long time.”
Howie had been in some tight spots but nothing like this. Maybe the little detective did have some proof. He couldn’t take the chance with a Mexican jail. This cop had been in a rush and had cinched up his hands in front of Howie. Bad move. Howie sat there slack jawed, head down, evidently broken and despondent.
“Look at me, gringo. Look at me as I shoot you as we struggled in this whore house.”
Howie didn’t move. Sanchez pushed in closer, the Glock now off at an angle he was so close. His head was inches from Howie’s face. Howie exploded his two-handed fist upward jolting into the cop’s windpipe then on up into his chin blasting him backward. Sanchez was unconscious before he hit the floor.
Howie rolled to the floor, groaned at the pain in his testicles, and found his pants. He pulled out a three-inch knife, and cut his hands and feet lose from the plastic. Then he grabbed the Glock pistol still in the cop’s hand before he checked the small man’s throat for a pulse. He had one, faint, but it was there. Howie dressed quickly.
Teresa looked in the door. “Praise Mother Mary and all the saints, you’re safe.” She looked at Sanchez. “Is he dead?”
“No, and I better get out of here. You didn’t see me. I was never here. Make any of the girls who saw me understand this. I’ll carry Sanchez into the alley and dump him where somebody will find him. He won’t be able to prove he was inside, or that he saw me, let alone arrested me. Go now and talk to the girls. What time is it?”
“Almost four o’clock.”
“Good, it’s still dark.” Howie hoisted the small Tijuana cop over his shoulder and carried him down the steps and into the alley. Halfway down he dumped him, made sure he was breathing and had a pulse.
“Robbery,” he whispered. “Yeah he was mugged and robbed.” Howie took the Glock, the cop’s billfold and wrist watch, but left his police ID badge. It would be put down as a robbery.
A mile from the border checkpoint, Howie threw the cop’s pistol out the window and his billfold after taking out two U.S. hundred dollar bills and two thousand in pesos.
Now he really was going to go to Flagstaff, Arizona. He’d stop by his apartment for some clothes and some more cash and his ATM card, then he would be moving. There was only a slim chance that this cop knew where he lived. He wasn’t listed in the phone book. The SEALs would never give out his home address, even if this Mad Dog Sanchez did learn that he was a SEAL. Hell no, the cop couldn’t be that good. Howie figured he’d take his five days liberty in Flag and then get back to work with the SEALs.
29
Murdock picked up the phone on his desk on the third ring. He had been reading over background reports and service files on the three senior chiefs as possible replacements for Will Dobler.
“Third Platoon, Murdock.”
“Oh yes, it’s good to hear a calm, friendly voice.”
“Lampedusa. Sounds like trouble.”