41
Saturday night was starless and damp, a night for secrets and consequence.
Draper steered the Touareg south on I-5, past the power plant and on to Pendleton. He looked to the place he had pulled over to retrieve the piece of chrome trim caught under the chassis of the M5, and reminded himself that this had been a curse that he could still turn into a blessing.
“So, this is all we do?” asked Bradley. “We drive a few hours and I make five grand?”
“This is all we do.”
“Rocky doesn’t trust me.”
“You’ll have to do better with Herredia.”
“He’s not famous for trusting. I heard he used a cartel rival for chum on one of his fishing trips. He personally cut up the pieces.”
Draper heard no worry in the boy’s voice. Bradley looked out at the ocean, slid his automatic from the deep pocket of his duster, considered it, then put it back. Next he brought out a pack of chewing gum, gave a stick to Draper and took one for himself.
“I saw the flash of green once,” the boy said absently. “Right there, off Trestles. I was sitting on my board outside, waiting for the set. It was November and when the sun went behind the water there was a green rectangle and it sat on the sky, then it was gone.”
“I watched three sunsets in a row from Mallory Dock in Key West,” said Draper. “I never saw any flash of green or anything else.”
But it was dark now, the sun hours down, and Draper aimed his thumb toward the box in the backseat. “What’s your gift for El Tigre?”
“You’ll see. A lot more impressive than your collection of fishing trinkets.”
Draper enjoyed the boy’s truculence and was annoyed by it, too. Earlier, when Bradley had loaded his box into the backseat, Draper had seen that it was heavy. The boy handled it with care. It was a square pasteboard box, big enough for a computer or a small TV perhaps, sealed with clear packing tape.
“So,” said Bradley. “Where we picked up the luggage and weighed the money, that’s not the usual place, right?”
“Why do you think that?”
“There was an air of uncertainty.”
“It was more than uncertainty.”
“But I’m right. That’s not where it usually happens. I understand that Hector Avalos was Herredia’s L.A. man. But Hector bought it, and the money wasn’t in Cudahy. So I’m thinking Rocky is the man now. And you.”
“Things change, Bradley. Routine is death.”
“For Avalos it was.”
“You should watch, shut your mouth. Learn.”
“Yep. For five grand a week, I can do that.”
Bradley was quiet for a while. Draper saw the lights of Oceanside to the south. At the border, Draper didn’t recognize the American Customs man, who quickly waved him through. Saturday shift, he thought, not the Friday night people he was used to.
The desultory Mexicans were new to him, too. They looked at his ID and LASD shield and asked him to roll down the windows of the SUV, and in the white glare of the floodlights they perused the plastic tubs of fishing gear, the loose rods, Bradley’s pasteboard box, and the rolling luggage in the back.
When Draper had passed through Tijuana and got onto the toll road he felt the familiar relaxing of his body, the comfort of American law surrendering to the darker, more flexible liberties of Mexico.
In the dusty driveway of the compound Old Felipe pointed his shotgun at Bradley while a companero patted him down. Draper studied Felipe’s puzzled expression as he sized up the boy. Bradley chattered away in Spanish. Draper saw the other gunmen, more than usual, stationed in the shadows. He knew that word of his troubles in Jacumba had traveled south on Herredia’s network. And that news of a new partner nominated to replace Terry Laws had been dispatched by Rocky through his Eme confederates. Draper had asked Rocky for positive spin. Draper was bullish that Bradley would pass his audition. Rocky had clearly disliked the boy, but the decision was Herredia’s. Draper remembered what El Tigre had once said about Laws: The desert is made for secrets. Draper hoped to hear none of that tonight, fully understanding that he was the executor of the fate of Bradley Jones.
They entered Herredia’s inner sanctum. First went Felipe, then Draper, then Bradley, bearing his gift box, then a big man and a skinny man who went to the back corners of the room. Two more men wheeled in the luggage and went outside and closed the door behind them but Draper didn’t hear them walk away. He looked back at Felipe in his usual seat by the door, the combat shotgun across his lap, his hand on the grip and his weathered brown index finger tapping the trigger guard.
Herredia sat at his big iron desk. The huge Desert Eagle revolver lay in front of him. He didn’t rise to greet Draper, or smile, or even acknowledge him. All of his dark attention went to Bradley. Draper saw something ancient in Herredia’s stare, and he thought of lions eating cubs, and Pharaoh and Moses, and wondered if he’d need to shove Bradley off in a bulrush basket.
“What are you?” asked Herredia.
“An outlaw, sir, by birth and profession.”
“What is loyalty?”
“The greatest gift that can be offered or received.”
“Who has your loyalty?”
“Those loyal to me.”
“Take one step forward and set down the box. At your feet.”
Bradley stepped toward Herredia, squatted and lowered the box to the floor, then straightened and folded his hands contritely behind his back.
“How important is your life to you?” asked Herredia.
“Pretty damned. This is all we get, as far as I can see. I’ll negotiate the afterlife when I see that I have one.”
“Did you kill the man who shot your mother?”
“Yes.”
“How many others?”
“None, sir.”
“Did this make you proud or ashamed? Did it draw you toward God or the Devil?”
“Proud. The Devil. Of course.”
Herredia idly picked up the gun and set it back down on the desk, pointed at Bradley. He never took his eyes off of him. “Why do you say ‘of course’?”
“I thought you would understand, sir.”
“You presume to understand what I understand?”
“I don’t mind the company of the Devil, Mr. Herredia. I’m just a thief. If you feel closer to God, then I apologize to you and to Him. Very sincerely.”
Herredia looked at Draper for the first time. Draper saw no recognition in the black eyes. Then they were back on Bradley.
“How old are you?” asked Herredia.
“Eighteen.”
“Your driver’s license says seventeen.”
“I round up on the little things. But I always count the big things with extreme care and accuracy.”
“Such as in the luggage.”
“Yes.”
“Open the box slowly. Felipe has a knife.”
But Bradley flicked his wrist and a switchblade appeared and the blade clicked open. Draper saw the ripple of surprise in Herredia’s face. Bradley knelt and swept the knife across the taped seams-middle and both sides. He closed the knife with a one-handed flourish and dropped it into a pocket. He pulled out a red, green and white beach towel from one end, uncoiling it from within. Then another. The Mexican colors, thought Draper: cagey.
Bradley dropped the second beach towel to the floor and looked down into the box. All Draper could see was what looked like a glass bottle of water. There was something dark inside but the light reflected off the surface of the liquid and Draper could not make out what he was seeing.
Then Bradley reached down into the box and hefted out the bottle by its bottom. He held it outward toward Herredia.
Draper saw the head bobbing in the liquid and the long black hair floating just off the bottom. The head was pale. He couldn’t see the eyes or the expression of the face.
“This is the head of Joaquin Murrieta,” said Bradley. “He was my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. He is the same Joaquin Murrieta that you’ve read about-the legendary horse thief, marksman, gambler, seducer and generous benefactor of the poor.”