“You definitely smoked him?” Buffalo asked.
“We didn’t exactly stick around to take his pulse, but he didn’t get up. I just thank God he missed me. It was a miracle.”
In fact, Pescatore had not drawn his gun. He had been about to yell a warning to the CHP officer and grab Garrison when the supervisor made his own move. Garrison had slammed Pescatore across the side of the head with his left arm as he drew on the Chippie with his right. By the time Pescatore had shaken off the blow, the Chippie was down. And the wounded Garrison was pointing the smoking Beretta at Pescatore’s face and ordering him to drive.
With his thumb and forefinger, Buffalo touched the ends of his thick mustache.
“OK, wait here with Momo and Pelón,” Buffalo said. He went into the house.
Momo, the gunman, and Pelón, the motorcyclist, smoked cigarettes and eyed Pescatore like leashed Dobermans. Momo’s gun stayed pointed at Pescatore’s feet. Pescatore stretched, yawned and sat down on a ledge jutting from the wall of the second house. He played sleepy and disinterested while imagining escape plans. All of them ended with Momo cutting him in half with a burst from the Tek-9.
The blood dripping onto the driveway from Garrison’s out-flung arm was driving him crazy. The corpse entangled in the seat belt gave him the sensation they were at a twisted crime scene where Pescatore was the suspect and the homeboys were the law.
Finally, Buffalo sent his cousin Rufino to get him. The chunky yokel from Guanajuato looked eager to please. Momo and Pelón ignored him. They think he’s a rinky-dink border brother, but he’s related to the boss, Pescatore thought.
“Come on, Valentín, my cousin Omar wants to see you,” Rufino declared, his shy and friendly tone giving Pescatore a moment of hope.
Pescatore followed him into the house. A hallway and swinging door led into a high-ceilinged living room dominated by a glass chandelier the size of a monster truck tire.
“What a palace, eh?” Rufino whispered. “Don’t worry, Omar will take care of you.”
The living room was busy with furry sofas, thick rugs and velvet curtains. There were crucifixes and religious art. A life-size painting depicted a kneeling Virgin Mary at prayer, the mournful elongated face encircled by a shawl. There were reliefs and statuettes of Greco-Roman gods, wrestlers, nymphs. Isabel had once raided a gangster’s apartment that she described as “narco-chic”; Pescatore had an idea that this was the kind of decor she meant.
Pescatore saw a framed sketch near the well-stocked bar. The sketch was done in black and white: In the foreground was the tear-streaked face of a lovely Latina. Behind her rose a prison wall, a gun tower with a searchlight, the moon among clouds. At the top was the word “Esperándome” and below that “Mule Creek SHU.”
Mule Creek was a prison in Northern California. SHU stood for “Security Housing Unit,” the cell blocks reserved for gang chiefs, hit men and other problem inmates.
Pescatore turned when Buffalo came in.
“Hey, you drew this?”
“Uh-huh.” Buffalo sank into an armchair.
“It’s great.”
“Thanks.”
“Nice crib.”
“My boss gave it to me a while back. Wedding present. Have a seat, Valentín. Oye, you been busy, eh?” Arms folded, Buffalo cracked his piratical, teardrop-decorated smile. “Last night on the beach. Goin’ at it with the CHP today, this and that. To the curb, cabrón.”
Buffalo’s demeanor had changed. He looked comfortable, the man of the house at home.
“So in case you wanted to know, that highway patrolman is in intensive care and don’t look like he’s going to make it,” Buffalo announced jovially. “He had your driver’s license in his pocket. Every local, state and federal po-lice in San Diego County is looking for you. Your story checked out fine.”
“Jesus.”
As devastating as the news was, Pescatore was chiefly affected by the realization that the change in Buffalo’s manner was due to relief. Pescatore’s story had checked out, so the big man would not have to kill him. Pescatore wondered what turncoat U.S. law enforcement source had relayed the information so fast.
“What are you gonna do?” Buffalo asked.
“I don’t know, tell you the truth.”
“You need a place to hide out,” Buffalo said.” You can stay with us.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s fucked up, Garrison getting popped. But it woulda been a pain in the ass if he turned up en El Otro Lado. Lotta questions, federal heat, this and that. Instead, he disappears. You did us a favor gettin’ here, even if was too late to help ’im. Showed me some heart.”
“Thanks, Buffalo.”
The big man’s forearms were interlocked in bands of tendon and muscle and tattoos, the Virgin of Guadalupe obscuring a name that ended in ita.
“Plus I ain’t forgetting you helped Rufino. But you gotta earn your keep. I know you can handle a cuete. You can do a little work for me.”
“Really?”
Buffalo made a laughing sound deep in his chest. “Ordinarily I’d say we, uh, ain’t acceptin’ applications right now. But we’ll find something.”
“OK. Thanks.” Pescatore wished someone would offer him something to eat.
“Let’s get you rested. You look torn up.”
“Want me to bring in my stuff?” Pescatore rose, glancing appreciatively at the circular stairway past the chandelier.
“What, you think you’re staying here?” Buffalo sounded offended and amused. “Fuck that. This is my crib, ese. You crash next door with the vatos.”
They returned Pescatore’s duffel bag to him, but not the guns or the phones. Buffalo took him across the driveway to the second house. The living room smelled like a giant ashtray. It looked like a frat house, a crack house and a barracks after a mutiny. The wall-to-wall carpet was a swamp of bottles, pizza boxes, fast-food wrappers, cigarette butts, newspapers, porn magazines. Pelón, Momo, Sniper and two other hard-core gangbanger-looking guys lounged on three couches arranged in front of a giant television in a wall entertainment center. A coffee table held two bongs that were in active use, judging from the aromatic haze of marijuana smoke, as well as a large round mirror.
“Welcome to the sleazoid dive,” Buffalo growled. “Maybe you’re not a slob like these youngsters. In that case, I feel bad for you. Hey, listen up.”
The homeboys slowly separated their attention from the television, which was showing a horror movie about underground creatures chasing people in the desert and erupting out of the sand to chomp them. Buffalo made introductions.
“So this dude was in the Migra, huh?” Pelón said. “La pinche Migra.”
Pelón stood in front of Pescatore. His hands drummed idly on his whip-tight gut. His glassy-eyed and malicious smile indicated that he had nominated himself to mess with Pescatore, a kind of jailhouse welcoming ritual.
“Now he’s wanted,” Buffalo said. “He just shot a cop.”
“No shit.”
“Cut on the news, you’ll see.”
Somebody worked the remote. Eventually, the big hair and sloe eyes of a Mexican anchorwoman filled the screen. The volume came up during a succession of images: police vehicles, yellow tape and traffic jams on the freeway. ID photos of the CHP officer, Garrison and Pescatore.
“That’s him, güey!” Pelón whooped.
The anchorwoman said the words “armed and dangerous.” They cut to Méndez talking to reporters by an open car door. Méndez needed a shave. He said: “No matter who is protecting these renegade American agents, we will track them down like the killers and cowards they are.”
You better bring a whole lot of backup, you conceited Mexican jackass, Pescatore thought, feeling a chill of hate.