The Power of the Dog

**
The Crossing

San Diego

1999

A rt meets Hobbs at the Organ Pavilion in Balboa Park. Rows and rows of white metal chairs in a broad semicircle inside the amphitheater slant down toward the stage. Hobbs sits reading a book in the second-to-last row. Sal Scachi sits above him, two seats to the left.

It’s warm out. The beginning of spring.

Art sits down next to Hobbs.

“Any news on Nora Hayden?” Art asks.

“We’ve known each other a long time, Arthur,” Hobbs says. “A lot of water has gone under the bridge.”

“What are you telling me, John?”

Oh, Christ, is she dead?

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Hobbs says. “I can’t let you take Adan Barrera to trial. You will hand him over to us immediately.”

The same old, same old, Art thinks. First with Tio, now with Adan.

“He’s a terrorist, John! You said so yourself! He’s in bed with FARC and-”

“I have been given assurances,” Hobbs says, “that the Barrera pasador will do no further business with FARC.”

“Assurances?!” Art asks. “From Adan Barrera?!”

“No,” Hobbs says calmly. “From Miguel Angel Barrera.”

Art can’t say anything.

Hobbs can. “This was all getting out of hand, Arthur. Serious men had to step in before it got any worse.”

“ 'Serious men.’ You and Tio.”

“He was appalled at his nephew’s dalliance with terrorists,” Hobbs says. “Would have put a quick stop to it had he known about it. He knows about it now. This is a good solution, Arthur. Adan Barrera could be an invaluable source of intelligence, if given reason to cooperate.”

It’s bullshit, Art knows. They’re terrified of what Adan might say on the stand. With good reason. I wouldn’t take his deal, but they will. They’ve already figured it out. They’ll give him a new face, a new identity, a new life.

The hell they will.

“You can’t have him.”

Hobbs’s voice has some anger in it as he says, “May I remind you that we are in a war on terrorism.”

Art tilts his face toward the sun and enjoys its heat on his skin. He says, “A war on terrorism, a war on Communism, a war on drugs. There’s always a war on something.”

“That is the human condition, I’m afraid.”

“Not for me, not anymore,” Art says. “I’m out of it.”

He gets up.

“It has to end,” Art says. “It has to end somewhere.”

Hobbs says, “May I further remind you that we’ll be pulling your fat out of the fire as well. Your sanctimonious air of moral superiority is frankly unbearable. And insupportable, I might add. You have been complicit in-”

Art holds his hand up. “He already offered me the deal. I turned him down. I’m going to take Adan Barrera to the DA and let justice take its course. Then I’m going to tell everything. About what happened in Condor, about Cerberus, about Red Mist.”

Hobbs goes pale.

“You will not do that, Arthur.”

“Watch me.”

If Hobbs looked pale before, he looks ghostly now. “I thought you were a patriot.”

“I am.”

Art starts to walk away.

It really is spring-the gardens in the park are exploding with new color and the air is warm, with just enough of a residual trace of winter to still be refreshing. He looks down at the amphitheater, where little knots of schoolkids on field trips are gathered around their teachers, and young couples sit over sandwiches, and tourists with cameras draped around their necks study maps of the park and point, and old people walk slowly, enjoying the air and the new warmth of spring.

Just then an airliner flies low overhead to land at San Diego’s short airstrip, and the noise is deafening and he can just hear John Hobbs say, “Nora Hayden.”

“What?”

“We have her,” Hobbs says. “We’ll trade her.”

Art turns around.

“You couldn’t save Ernie Hidalgo,” Hobbs says. “You can save Nora Hayden. It’s very easy-bring me Barrera. Otherwise…”

He doesn’t need to finish the threat.

They’ll put a bullet in her head.

“The Cabrillo Bridge,” Hobbs says. “Midnight is melodramatic. Let’s say three a.m.? After the homosexual assignations are concluded but before the jogging commences. You bring Barrera from the west side, we’ll bring Ms. Hayden from the east. And Arthur, if you still feel this pathetic urge to confess everything, may I suggest you go to a priest? If you think that anyone else will believe or even care about your 'truth,’ you are sadly deluded.”

Hobbs goes back to serenely reading his book.

Behind dark shades, Scachi stares off into infinite space.

Art walks away.

“You want me to set it up?” Scachi asks.

Hobbs nods. It’s sad. Art Keller is a good man, but it’s axiomatic, and true, that good men have to die in war.

Art goes back to the secure location where he has Adan.

“You got your deal,” Art says.

One last job.

Is what Scachi tells Callan.

Yeah, it’s always one last job.

But you got no choice but to believe him, Callan thinks as he walks through Balboa Park.

Do it, or they’ll kill her.

He buys a ticket for a production of Harold Pinter’s Betrayal at the Old Globe. At intermission, he steps outside to grab a smoke and walks around the back of the theater to an alley between it and the Zoological Hospital. He walks down the alley to a chain-link fence under some eucalyptus trees on the slope overlooking the highway and, to the left, Cabrillo Bridge. He’s shielded from view by the back of the theater on one side and the back of the hospital on the other, and some storage trailers below the hospital mask him from the highway. He takes out the detached rifle scope and sights in on Scachi standing on the bridge, smoking a cigar. The range is. 02 miles.

It’ll be an easy shot, even at night.

He goes back and sits through the rest of the play.

Art stands on the front step and rings the doorbell.

Althea looks great.

Surprised to see him, but great.

“Arthur…”

“May I come in?”

“Of course.”

She leads him to a sofa in the living room and sits beside him. This could have been my home, Art thinks, should have been my home. Except that I threw it away to chase something not worth catching.

I threw you away, too, he thinks, looking at Althea.

Some few women get prettier with age. Her laugh and smile lines complement her; even the worry lines are lovely. He notices that she’s had some highlights put in her hair. She’s wearing a black blouse over jeans and a gold chain around her neck. Art remembers that he gave her the chain but can’t recall whether it was for her birthday or Valentine’s Day. It might have been Christmas, he thinks.

“Michael’s not home, I’m afraid,” she says. “He went to the movies with some friends.”

“I’ll catch him next time.”

“Art, are you okay?” she asks, suddenly looking concerned. “You’re not sick or-”

“I’m fine.”

“Because you look-”

“A long time ago,” he said, “you wanted me to tell the truth. Do you remember that?”

She nods.

“I wish to hell I had,” Art says. “I wish I hadn’t thrown you away.”

“Maybe it’s not too late.”

No, he thinks. It’s way too late. He gets up from the couch. “I better be going.”

“It was good to see you.”

“You, too.”

She hugs him at the door. Kisses him on the cheek.

“Take care of yourself, Art, okay?”

“Sure.”

He goes out the door.

“Art?”

He turns around.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s okay, he thinks. I really only came to say good-bye.

He knows that he’s walking into an ambush. That they’re going to kill him and Nora on the Cabrillo Bridge.

They don’t have a choice.

Nora gets into the backseat with John Hobbs.

He’s very courtly to her-an old gentleman wearing a suit with a white shirt and a bow tie and an overcoat, even though the night is warm.

She looks beautiful tonight and she knows it. She’s dyed her hair back to blond and they bought her a black dress that fits like a sheath. She wears diamond earrings and a diamond choker and heels. Her makeup is perfect, her eyes large, her lips glistening red.

She feels like a whore.

You play the part, she thinks, you dress the part.

Hobbs goes over everything with her again but she already understands it. Sal Scachi laid it all out for her. All she has to do is meet Adan in the middle of the bridge and walk back to the car with him.

Then she’s free to go and so is Sean Callan.

New identities and new lives.

He’s waiting for her back at the safe house, a hostage to her fulfilling her part of the deal. They needn’t have bothered, she thinks. I’ve done my bit so far. What’s a few more seconds of pretended love?

The only thing that bothers her is that Adan’s going to get away with all of it. The CIA, as these men doubtless are, will keep him and hold him and take good care of him and he’ll never be punished for Juan’s murder.

It’s wrong and she hates it but she’ll do it for Sean.

And Juan will understand.

Won’t you? she thinks, sending the thought to heaven. Tell me that you understand, tell me you want me to do this. Tell me you forgive me for the sins I’ve committed, and for the one I’m about to commit.

Sal Scachi looks at her in the rearview mirror and winks. He can easily understand how a man could become obsessed with her. Even Callan’s in love with her now, and Sean Callan is the coldest motherfucker who ever walked.

Well, I hope you got her on your mind tonight, Callan. I’d prefer you a little distracted because I’m the one who’s got to pop a cap in you. It’s too bad, sonny boy, but you gotta go. Can’t take the risk of you ever running your mouth about this.

It’s all been set up. A drug shoot-out on the bridge tonight, then the media starts the official public mourning for the hero Art Keller and a day or so later they break the story that he was a dirty cop on the Barrera payroll who got greedy and got his. Shot by one of Barrera’s hitmen.

The notorious Sean Callan.

You do get a new identity tonight, Sean boy.

This time you die for real.

John Hobbs inhales the woman’s perfume.

Old men, he thinks, take their fading pleasures where they can. In days past, quite past, he might have tried to seduce her. If, indeed, one can be said to “seduce” a prostitute. Now, alas, all he requires of her is for her to fulfill her obligation.

Bring Adan Barrera peacefully into our hands.

Hobbs has no qualms about it, none of the regret that he feels for the unfortunate but necessary sanction of Arthur Keller.

Ah, well, the next world is perfect; this one, considerably less so.

He inhales the woman’s perfume.

Art drives his own car to the rendezvous.

Adan sits beside him, his hands cuffed in front of him. There’s no traffic on the streets at quarter to three in the morning. Art takes Harbor Drive because he likes to see the sailboats and the moon shining on the water and the downtown skyline.

Adan sits quietly, with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“You know something, Adan?” Art asks. “You’re the reason I hope there’s a hell.”

“Don’t think this is over,” Adan says. “I still owe you for Raul.”

Art pulls over, gets out, yanks Adan out of the car and pushes him down on his knees. Art draws the. 38 from his holster and enjoys the look of fear that comes into Adan’s eyes. He raises the gun, then smashes it into Adan’s face. The first blow cuts the cheek under his left eye, raising an ugly, bleeding welt. The second one breaks his nose. The third one splits his upper lip and breaks two teeth.

Adan topples over with a groan, spitting blood out of his broken mouth.

“That’s just so you know I’m serious,” Art says. “Fuck with me and I swear to God I’ll beat you to death. You understand me?”

Adan nods.

“Who approached you about setting up Parada?”

“Nobody, it was an-”

Yeah, it was an accident, Art thinks. And it was an accident that Tio walked out of prison, an accident that Antonucci gave you absolution. Everything was a fucking accident. Art jerks him up by the hair and smashes the gun butt against his ear.

“Who approached you to set up Parada?”

What the hell? Adan thinks. It doesn’t matter now.

“It was Scachi,” he says.

Art nods. That’s what I thought, he tells himself.

That’s what I thought.

“Why?”

“He knew it all,” Adan says. “Just like me.”

“He knew about Cerberus?”

“Yes.”

“How about Red Mist?”

“That, too.”

Art hauls him back up, marches him to the car and shoves him back in.

It’s time to go to the bridge.

Callan gets in position.

He takes the heavy sniper rifle from its bag, then attaches the tripod and the infrared scope and screws on the silencer. He lies down in the dead grass and sights in on the bridge.

There ain’t gonna be nothing to it. As soon as Keller hands Barrera over, Sal will look up and nod and Callan will take out Keller.

Then just walk away.

Sal will swing by, pick him up on Park Boulevard and take him to Nora. Get their new passports, go to L.A., get on a plane to Paris.

A new life.

He settles in and gets himself ready to kill Art Keller.

Operation Red Mist comes home.

The Cabrillo Bridge spans Highway 63 where it bisects Balboa Park.

Art parks the car just to the west, by the bowling green where the old people come, dressed all in white, to play their slow game in the afternoon sun. He opens the car door and pulls Adan out by the elbow, shows him the. 38 holstered on his hip and says, “Please make a run for it.”

Then he pushes Adan out on the west end of the bridge and they start walking east toward the main part of Balboa Park.

The stone of the bridge glows softly gold under the amber lanterns.

To his right Art sees the downtown office towers and the huge red neon sign that reads HOTEL CORTEZ, which dominates the skyline.

Beyond that are the harbor and the ocean and the Coronado Bridge, rising up like a dream from its base in Chicano Park in Barrio Logan, where he grew up. To his left is the chasm of Palm Canyon, the redwoods and star pines looming above the west side of the highway behind him, the San Diego Zoo to the northeast.

Straight ahead is Balboa Park, with the California Tower rising above two tall palm trees like the top of a wedding cake. The bridge itself runs into the Prado, the long broad walkway between the museums and gardens, and at the end of the Prado a tower of water shoots into the night sky from the Balboa plaza.

He’s taken this walk many times.

So they killed Father Juan as part of Red Mist, Art thinks.

And Hobbs ordered it.

For the first time in a long time, Art has perfect clarity.

He sees it all now.

Callan sights in on Keller’s forehead, then his chest, then his forehead again. Make it a head shot, Scachi had told him. The narcos shoot turncoats in the head.

Art sees headlights swirl ahead of them as a car turns in the big circle in the middle of the Prado and then comes toward them. The car, a black Lincoln, stops at the east end of the bridge.

Art sees Scachi get out and open the back door. Hobbs gets out slowly, leaning heavily on his cane even as Scachi steadies him. Then Scachi walks around the back of the car and opens the other door and Nora gets out of the car gracefully, like a woman who’s used to having doors opened for her.

He feels Adan’s arm tense.

Then someone else gets out of the car and he blinks.

The man has aged. His hair is silver now, and so is his mustache. He’s thinner, but he still carries himself like an Old World gentleman.

Ever gallant, Tio takes Nora by the arm.

Adan sees her and smiles.

She looks lovely, all the more so in the soft light. It’s as if she’s gained her vitality back, her femininity. He tries to run to her but Art holds him back. It doesn’t really matter, though, because she’s coming to him.

Don’t get too close.

Is what Callan’s thinking as Nora crosses the bridge. Just get Barrera and walk back to the car. She don’t know what’s going to happen. There’s no reason to let her know. He hopes she’s back in the car by the time he has to pull the trigger.

She don’t need no more blood splattered on her.

They meet just west of the middle of the bridge.

Scachi walks ahead of the rest, comes up to Art and says, “No offense, Arthur. I need your weapon.”

Art slides his jacket back and Scachi takes his. 38 and tucks it into his own belt. Then he turns Art around, makes him lean against the bridge railing and frisks him. Finding nothing, he waves for the others to come ahead.

Art watches Tio come toward him with Nora on his arm. Like he’s walking her down the aisle, Art thinks.

Hobbs lags behind.

Tio looks at Adan’s bleeding, broken face and says to Art, “You haven’t changed any, mi sobrino.”

“I should have put one in your head when I had the chance.”

“You should have,” Tio agrees. “But you didn’t.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came so my nephew would know he was being delivered to safety,” Tio says, “and not to be murdered. It looks as if I’m just in time.”

He hugs Adan, both hands behind his head, being careful not to get blood on his suit. “Mi sobrino, Adan, what have they done to you?”

“Tio, it’s good to see you.”

“Take the handcuffs off him, please,” Tio says.

Art steps behind Adan, takes the cuffs off and nudges him forward.

Hobbs looks at Art and says, “You’re a man of your word, Arthur. You’re a man of honor.”

Art shakes his head. “Not really, no.”

He grabs Hobbs and spins the old man in front of him as a shield, his left hand at Hobbs’ neck, the other behind his head. One twist will kill him.

Scachi pulls his gun but is afraid to shoot.

“Put the guns down, Sal, or I’ll break his fucking neck.”

“You do and I’ll kill you.”

“Okay.”

Sal lays his gun on the bridge.

“Now mine.”

Sal lays Keller’s. 38 down beside his. Then he looks up at the ridge behind Keller and nods.

Callan sees it.

He puts the crosshairs squarely on the back of Keller’s head and takes a deep breath.

Change your life.

Art says, “Nora, toss one gun over the bridge and give the other to me.”

Adan laughs.

Until Nora goes and throws one of the guns over.

“What are you doing?!” Adan yells.

She looks him square in the eye.

“I was the soplon, Adan. It was always me.”

Adan’s head snaps back. “I loved you.”

“You killed the man I loved,” Nora says. “And I never loved you.”

She hands Art the gun.

Sal looks over his shoulder and yells, “Shoot!”

Art spins to face the shooter.

Scachi pulls a second gun from his waistband and trains it on Art’s back.

Callan puts the bullet square into Scachi’s head.

Sal drops from the scope’s sight.

Tio dives and grabs Scachi’s gun.

Art turns.

Tio raises the gun.

Art puts two shots into his chest.

Tio’s hand reflexively pulls the trigger.

The bullet goes through Hobbs’ hip and into Art’s leg.

They both go down.

Hobbs pulls himself up, grabs his cane and starts to stagger away on the bridge, wobbling crazily like a bad stage drunk.

Callan lays his sights on the man’s frail chest.

Blood blossoms on Hobbs’ back.

His cane clatters on the stone.

Adan crawls to Tio.

He takes the gun from his uncle’s hand.

Callan tries to get a shot, but Nora’s in the way.

Art struggles to his knees, sees Adan kneeling by Tio.

Adan’s gun goes off once, twice, both bullets zinging past Art.

Dizzy, he aims his own gun and fires.

The bullet smacks into Tio’s dead body.

Adan shoots again.

Art’s head snaps back, a ribbon of blood swirls in the air, and he falls back into the bridge railing, his gun dropping to the highway below.

Adan turns his gun on Nora.

“Get down!” Callan yells.

Nora drops to the ground.

So does Adan.

He drops to his stomach and crawls along the bridge, firing behind him as he goes.

Callan can’t get a shot through the railings, can’t even see Adan now. He drops his rifle and runs toward the bridge.

Adan gets up and runs.

The pain is ferocious. Blood flows from the deep cut on Art’s forehead into his eyes so that he can barely see. He sways and fights the tunnel vision that’s shrinking his brain, threatening to black him out. He looks up and can just make out the form of Adan running away. Adan looks like he’s running in a fun house, with the floor slanting this way and that.

Art struggles to his feet, falls, then gets up again.

Then he starts to run.

Adan can hear the footsteps chasing him.

Keep running, he tells himself. He knows he doesn’t have to make it across the border, he just has to get into the barrio and knock on the right door and the doors will open for Adan Barrera and close for Art Keller.

So he runs down the Prado, empty now in the small hours of the morning, the museum buildings looming like the walls of a lost city around him. If he can make it off the Prado and onto Park Boulevard he’ll be all right. There’ll be a thousand places he can duck into darkness, then work his way into the barrio.

He sees the fountain maybe fifty yards in front of him, marking the end of the Prado, its light shining on the tower of silver water.

Art sees it, too.

Knows what it means.

Adan gets past that and he’s gone, probably for good. The Twenty-eighth Street boys will hide him, get him back across the border. He forces his legs to move faster, even though every fall of his foot sends a jolt of pain burning through his leg.

He hears sirens in the distance and wonders if they’re real or in his head.

Adan hears them, too, and keeps running.

A few more yards and he’ll be gone.

He turns to see where Keller is.

Art jumps.

Takes Adan high around the shoulders and drives him over the fountain’s low wall and into the water.

Adan gets up and jams his hand into Art’s face, clawing at his eyes.

Art’s head explodes in pain, but he has a grip on Adan’s shirt and won’t let go. Just hold on, Art tells himself, just hold on. Adan’s shirt rips free and he starts to pull away.

Art throws himself blindly, desperately, and feels Adan’s body land under him and hears Adan grunt as the air is blown out of his lungs. Blood rises in the water where Adan struck his head. Art grabs him by his hair and forces his head under the water.

He lifts him up, hears him gasp and then pushes him down again, screaming over the sound of the fountain’s cascade: “This is for Ernie, motherfucker! This is for Pilar Mendez and her children! This is for Ramos!”

He holds him down, loving the feel of the man’s legs kicking helplessly beneath him, loving the feel of his body quivering, his suffering, his dying.

“This is for El Sauzal!”

Art presses down harder. Adan bucks beneath him, his back arching like it’s going to snap. Art doesn’t see that-he sees a baby dead in his mother’s arms. He feels the power of the dog.

“This is for Father Juan!” Art yells.

He jerks Adan’s head up and out of the water.

The two men kneel in the water, gasping for air, their blood swirling around them, water pouring down over their heads.

Art sees red lights flashing, then cops walking up on them, their guns out. He keeps one hand on Adan’s neck and throws the other in the air.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” he yells. “I’m a cop! This is my prisoner! This is my prisoner!”

In the distance, as if in a long tunnel, he sees Nora and Callan walking toward him.

Then he falls back into the water.

It feels cool and clean.