Tularosa

Chapter 10

Armed with a list of low-grade snitches grudgingly provided by a customs agent who wasn't about to turn over his most valuable confidential informants to a cop he didn't know, Kerney got to work. El Paso filled barren hills stubbed up against the Rio Grande, and spread like a bloated octopus into the Chihuahuan desert north of Mexico. The city was hot, the traffic miserable, and the jumble of housing developments, barrios, and miles of strip malls depressing. Kerney found Cruz Abeyta in his pawnshop, a seedy establishment filled mostly with stolen televisions, stereos, power tools, and weapons. Abeyta wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt, and a bandanna around his head to hold back his long hair.

About forty years old, Cruz sported a two-day beard and had prison tattoos on both arms. Abeyta smiled at the fifty-dollar bill, and a gold front tooth with a star flashed at Kerney. He picked the money from Kerney's fingers.

"What do you need, man?"

"Information. I need to find someone to move some merchandise south."

"Ain't my specialty, man," Cruz replied.

"You must have friends in the trade," Kerney prodded.

"For fifty dollars, I'll give you a name."

"Fair enough." With the name and address of Eduardo Lopez in his shirt pocket, Kerney left and drove to a barrio on the outskirts of the city. A fronterizo enclave of illegal Mexican and Central American refugees, the barrio was a string of tar-paper shacks along a dirt road, with no electricity, no sewers, and one community well. The place teemed with barefoot children, mangy dogs, and women with malnourished faces. Few young men were in sight. Kerney found his way to Lopez's shanty, conspicuous by the presence of a half-ton Chevy truck adorned with running lights. Lopez was buff-waxing the truck by hand under a tattered picnic canopy held up by scrap lumber. Fifty dollars made him stop for a chat.

"I can deliver anything you want," he told Kerney. Lopez was short, about five feet five, and had jet black hair greased down and combed straight back.

"In or out of Mexico," he added.

"That's good to know," Kerney said. "But I need a buyer first."

"What kind of merchandise?" Lopez asked, licking his lips.

"Artifacts."

"Indian pots? That sort of stuff?"

"Close enough." Lopez gave him a cunning look.

"That kind of information is worth more than fifty bucks."

"If I make a deal, you can make the delivery," Kerney proposed.

"That's cool. Talk to Miguel Amal. He owns a curio shop downtown." By eight o'clock at night, Kerney was dejected, hungry, and tired. His attempt to move up the smuggler's food chain had resulted in being passed from one small fish to another, at a total cost of four hundred dollars. And he was no closer to getting the name of a major player than he had been when he started out. On a boulevard driving back into the core of the city, Kerney stopped at a Mexican diner for something to eat. There were enough working-class cars in the parking lot to predict the food would be at least decent. Outside the building, an old adobe home painted white, was a row of newspaper vending machines. He popped some coins in a slot, pulled out the El Paso paper, and glanced at the adjacent machine.

The headline story, in Spanish, was about the Zapatista revolutionaries in the Mexican state of Chiapas. He bought a copy just for the hell of it. Over dinner, he skimmed the El Paso paper and set it aside. The Spanish paper, a left-wing weekly, was published in Juarez. The article on rebels in the state of Chiapas was well written and sympathetic to the cause. The featured columnist, a woman named Rose Moya, presented the third in a series of articles on government corruption and the Mafiosios in Juarez. With a lot of bite, facts, and allegations the lady tore into the Juarez drug lords, smugglers, and malfeasant city officials. Maybe Rose Moya was somebody he should talk to, Kerney thought. He tucked the paper under his arm and paid the bill. It would have to wait until the morning. It was midmorning when Kerney stood at the bridge that connected El Paso to Juarez. He had five thousand dollars of his own money, wired from the bank in Santa Fe, in his pocket. It was the sum total of his wealth.

The Rio Grande, a sluggish brown stream, smelled of effluent and industrial waste. On each side of the river, chain-link fences defined the border. Vehicles on the bridge were backed up at the checkpoints, and pedestrians moving in both directions pushed through the gates along the walkways. Kerney entered the procession and joined the tangled stream of people and cars along Juarez's Lerdo Street. The boulevard, lined with dental clinics, cut-rate pharmacies, bars, liquor stores, and tourist shops, was a conduit for day-trippers from the north looking for bargains or entertainment. The sidewalks were congested with hookers, street vendors, and musicians mixed in with tourists. A large plastic tooth hung suspended over the door of a dental office and neon signs blinked furiously along the strip. Cars in the street, jammed bumper to bumper in both directions, lurched in and out of traffic lanes, horns blaring and drivers cursing. Kerney got a taxi and gave the driver the address for the newspaper.

The offices for the newspaper were on the Plaza Cervantine, a tiny square with a gold bust of the Spanish poet as its centerpiece. The buildings surrounding the plaza housed artist studios, workshops, apartments above, and an experimental theater that put on plays in a renovated cafeteria. The building for the newspaper had a number of passageways that took Kerney to a patio cafe in a central courtyard and up a flight of wooden stairs to a suite of offices that opened on a balcony. The door was open, and Kerney entered to find an unoccupied room filled with books stacked haphazardly in piles on every available space. The walls were plastered with art and film posters. An enlarged photograph of Pancho Villa on horseback was tacked to a side door. Against one wall a desktop computer was running, the screen-saver pattern flashing a colored starburst on the monitor. A messy desk with a phone and ashtray filled with cigarette butts completed the decor. Kerney called out in Spanish, and a very pretty woman opened the side door and looked out. She held a teapot in her hand. Her hair, cut just to the bottom of her ears and close to her neck, draped down to the top of her left eye. Her eyes, brown, speculative, and direct, were provocative. At the corner other right eye was a small mole. Her full lips did not smile. She wore a pink top with a scarf over a long skirt and black hose.

"Yes?" the woman said, in English. Kerney switched languages.

"I'm looking for Rose Moya."

"One moment." She stepped back and closed the door. After a minute, the woman reappeared carrying a coffee cup in her hand. She paused to examine the man before moving to the computer table. He was tall and rather good-looking in a cowboy sort of way.

"Why do you want to see Rose?" the woman asked as she put the cup on the computer table.

"I would like to speak to her about the series on corruption."

"You've read them?" Her tone was skeptical.

"Only the most recent one," Kerney admitted.

"What is your name?"

"Kevin Kerney." He held out his badge case. Tentatively, the woman crossed to Kerney, took the case, opened it, and looked quickly up at him, her expression cautious.

"Is this real?"

"Yes." She sized Kerney up one more time before speaking, switching back to Spanish.

"I'm Rose Moya. What do you want?" Kerney followed suit.

"Information."

"What kind of information?"

"Everything you can tell me about the Mafiosios. Especially smuggling."

"And why do you need that information?"

"To catch a murderer." Rose Moya gestured to a side chair filled with books.

"Sit down. Lieutenant Kerney, and tell me your story." After an hour of conversation. Rose Moya came through with a confidential source. Kerney had the cabby stop along the Avenida 16 de Septiembre, where the cityscape changed from tourist sleaze to an upscale, cosmopolitan area of theaters, restaurants, and department stores. Using plastic, Kerney went shopping. From what Rose had told him about Francisco Posada, he needed to dress for the occasion. According to Rose, Posada was an elderly, rich retired pharmacist who sold information to cash customers with good references, and asked few questions. Most of Posada's clients sought introductions to people who circumvented any number of Mexican laws. He got back in the cab, and the driver sped past a row of old mansions under shade trees with deep lawns, rattling over cobblestone streets until the residential area gave way to auto junkyards, repair shops, garages, and car upholstery shops, all with signs painted in hot, screaming colors. After a long stretch where the only scenery was the Juarez dump, they entered an opulent neighborhood of modern houses on winding streets in a series of low hills. The driver stopped in front of a two-story house with a tile roof, arched windows, and a wide set of granite steps leading to double entrance doors. The archway to the doors, supported by columns, was built of wedge shaped stones, each cut individually.

A burgundy Mercedes was parked in the curved driveway. Kerney asked the driver to wait. The door opened almost immediately after Kerney rang the bell. The houseboy, a young Indian in his late teens, dressed in an immaculate white shirt, trousers, and sandals, looked Kerney up and down without expression.

"Yes?"

"I would like to see Senor Posada." The boy studied Kerney, taking in the tailoring of the new suit and the shirt and tie that went with it. He dropped his eyes to Kerney's feet, clad in four hundred-dollar Larry Mahan boots.

"Do you have an appointment?" the boy inquired. He was as slender as a girl, with the lithe body of a swimmer. His eyes, darker than the rich color of his skin, were soft and innocent. He had the most beautiful natural eyelashes Kerney had ever seen on a man.

"No."

"Who referred you?"

"Rose Moya." The boy stepped back and let Kerney enter. He pointed to a chair in the foyer.

"Wait here." Within minutes Kerney heard padded footsteps on the marble floor as the houseboy returned.

"Follow me. The senor will see you." The foyer gave way to a courtyard with colonnades that supported arches under a low veranda. Ornamental trees ringed the space, and in the center a fountain gurgled water from a fish mouth. The boy opened a door under the veranda, stepped aside, motioned for Kerney to enter, and closed the door, leaving Kerney alone in the room.

It was a great room, bigger than Quinn's library; a large sunny space, with a wall of windows that looked out on an expansive patio, swimming pool, and cabana. The interior consisted of several conversation areas of plush off-white couches and easy chairs arranged to give the best view of the artwork on the back wall of the room. A large Diego Rivera painting held center stage over the fireplace, illuminated by recessed lights. It was a portrait of a strikingly beautiful woman wearing a Franciscan habit. Her arms were folded below her breasts and she faced a distant, unknown horizon with passionate eyes. It felt both pious and pagan.

"It is compelling," a voice said, speaking in Spanish. Kerney turned. An elderly man with long white hair, a waxed gray mustache, and a courtly manner, Francisco Posada smiled at him peacefully, his hand resting on the houseboy's thin shoulder. His fingers, grotesquely deformed, were twisted into a claw.

"Diego Rivera," Kerney said.

"You know his work," Posada said approvingly, continuing in his native tongue. He shuffled closer.

"There is a story to the canvas. Diego fell in love with this woman, but she was fulfilling a promise to God to do penance. That is why she wears a friar's robe. Rivera could not have her physically, so he possessed her through his art."

"I have never seen this image before," Kerney said, using his best Spanish.

"Few have. It has always been privately owned and never exhibited or reproduced." Posada eased himself down to a couch and gestured for Kerney to sit across from him.

"How did Rose Moya come to refer you? She has never sent someone to me before."

"I lied and told her I was a policeman working on a murder case involving the Mafiosios."

Posada chuckled, but his eyes hardened.

"I'm sure that appealed to her sense of social justice. Are you a policeman, Mr. Kerney? Kerney laughed.

"I was. Now I'm in business for myself. Imports and exports. I would like to expand into the Mexican market."

"What do you wish to export, Mr. Kerney?"

"Artifacts. Historical documents of great value. Military memorabilia and rare coins."

"An unusual assortment of merchandise," Posada commented.

"But quite valuable," Kerney replied.

"You need a broker, I assume," Posada noted. "Someone who will act on your behalf with discretion."

"Exactly."

"It might be possible to arrange an introduction," Posada said, with a serene smile.

"I would be grateful."

"But I am reluctant," Posada added. "You have come to me in a most unusual way."

"I am new to my profession, senor," Kerney replied.

"It is difficult to find one's way without assistance." Posada rubbed his mustache with a twisted knuckle.

"How much is your merchandise worth?"

"It has been appraised at four million dollars." The figure didn't startle Posada at all.

"If you agree to a two percent commission, plus my standard fee, I would be inclined to accept you as a client."

"What is your standard fee?" Kerney asked.

"Five thousand dollars." The whole wad, Kerney thought. "I'll go one percent payable after delivery with the five thousand up front," he said.

"Agreed," Posada replied. He gestured to the houseboy, who stepped quickly to his side. The boy helped Posada to his feet.

"Seek out Enrique De Leon at the Little Turtle gambling house. I am sure he would be interested in your desire to do business in Mexico."

"Will you speak to Senor De Leon on my behalf?" Kerney asked, as he stood up.

"Of course. Do you wish me to pass along a message?"

"No. I would like you to keep the details of our discussion confidential, if that is possible." Posada nodded in agreement.

"All my client conversations are privileged. Senor De Leon will be satisfied with the knowledge that I have accepted you as a client."

"Excellent."

"Please pay Juan before you leave." He smiled lovingly at the young man.

"Thank you, Senor Posada," Kerney replied with a slight bow of his head. Posada bowed back.

"It is a pleasure to meet a norteamericano who speaks our language, admires our art, and knows how to conduct business. I look forward to seeing you again." *** Greg Benton hung up the phone in disgust. He dug out the portable printer, hooked it up, disconnected the phone jack, plugged in the laptop computer, and accessed the fax modern program. The motel room phone had been rewired at the junction box the night Benton checked in. It was secure, direct, and untraceable.

He paced the room waiting for the fax. The whole fucking scheme had started to go haywire from the day he whacked the Indian soldier up on the mesa. And unexpected events kept floating in, like shit from a plugged-up toilet: the burglary at the old lady's house, Gutierrez's failure to make the final delivery, the tossed apartment in Santa Fe-all signs that the plan wasn't neat and tidy anymore. Benton walked to the window and looked out.

The motel was a dump; the whores kept him awake at night, and the air conditioner barely worked. He looked at his watch. Meehan wanted him to meet with De Leon and tell him the delivery might be delayed. Damn right it would be delayed, with Gutierrez dead and the last shipment missing. De Leon would be pissed but probably wouldn't cancel the deal. Not with the amount of money that was at stake. He would have to come up with a good story for De Leon.

Benton looked at his watch again. It was too early to catch De Leon at the Little Turtle. He was never available until evening. There was time for a workout at Kike's Gym and a good steak before crossing the border. He hated Mexican food. In the bathroom, Benton stripped down and examined himself in the mirror. He liked what he saw. His body was fit and hard, and his gray eyes under curly black hair drew a fair share of attention from the ladies. The small scar on his chin made his face interesting. He smiled at himself and put on his sweats.

Then he pulled the fax off the printer, put the computer away, grabbed his gym bag, and walked out into the hot west Texas sun. The garbage blowing down the street didn't bother him anymore, and the graffiti-adorned car wash, the boarded-up gas station, and the junked cars in the vacant lot were now just part of the normal barrio landscape. The street ended at a concrete abutment where the freeway cut off through traffic. The fat hooker in front of the Caballito Bar saw him and waved as he got into his car. He waved back. Each time he went to buy lunch at the bar, she showed him a different tattoo and offered to fuck him for ten dollars-the going rate for locals. With all the low-riders, addicts, pimps, and whores in the neighborhood there was no difference between the barrio and Juarez. Benton thought it would be a good idea to give El Paso back to the Mexicans.

He drove toward the freeway on-ramp, looking at the fax picture. So this was the cop Meehan wanted him to find and kill. No problem, Benton thought to himself. After all, damage control was his specialty. It gave him something to look forward to. *** The painkillers the doctor had given Eddie made him woozy. He had spent the afternoon either chained to the cot or throwing up in the bathroom. Now Carlos stood over him, a clean white cook's uniform in his hand.

"So, you are going to live, Eddie," Carlos predicted. There was a hint of friendliness in his voice.

"Have you finished puking?"

"It would seem so," Eddie agreed, "although my stomach now thinks I am starving."

"There will be food for you." Carlos picked his nose with his forefinger while he pushed his upper plate into place with his thumb.

"Are you well enough to work tonight?"

"Of course. I must. I gave my word to the patron." Carlos bent over and unshackled Eddie's leg.

"Friday night is very busy. Many of Don Enrique's friends come early before leaving for their homes in the country. Clean yourself. Can you do it with one arm?"

"I can manage," Eddie answered, swinging his legs off the bed.

"And your wound?" Carlos asked. Eddie stood and wiggled the fingers that protruded from the sling around his arm.

"I must thank the doctor when I see him. The arm feels much better."

"Tomorrow he will stitch you," Carlos reminded him. "Thank him then."

"I will," Eddie replied, determined that in the morning, at the latest, he would be at the Fort Bliss military hospital being treated by an Army doctor who wasn't on De Leon pad. Carlos walked him to the dressing room and told him not to be long, as others might have need for the toilet.

He would be outside, waiting. Eddie bathed quickly, keeping the wound dry as he sponged himself, washed his hair, and used his left hand to shave with a razor Carlos gave him, nicking himself several times. He dressed in the clean clothes-a much better fit than yesterday's apparel-dried his hair, and adjusted the sling and the hump. He felt good enough to think about escaping. His plan was simple: given enough of a distraction he would run away. Carlos knocked at the door. Eddie opened it, and one of the cooks brushed by him on the way to the urinal, unbuttoning his fly as he went.

"Time for your meal, jorobado," Carlos noted, "and then to work."

"I am ready." Eddie smiled at the ugly man as he handed back the razor. *** Kerney stood inside the Little Turtle and looked around the room. The gambling house was filled with well-dressed men and women busy placing bets, socializing, and milling about the casino. It had a party atmosphere to it, and from the way people mixed, it was not a gathering of strangers. Kerney picked out a bodyguard hovering near a man with a slick-looking woman draped on his arm, and another close by an older gentleman betting at a monte table. He counted six more bodyguards in the room before switching his attention to the bar. More muscle, Kerney thought to himself, as he sized up the man standing directly behind a table at the corner of the bar. A thug with acne scars and a bushy mustache, the bodyguard carefully scanned the room with watchful eyes.

At the table the goon guarded, a man and a young woman were talking. On a bar stool to one side sat a hunchback dressed in a cook's uniform, smiling stupidly at everybody. Kerney walked toward the table, and the bodyguard cut him off.

"What do you want?" Carlos asked in heavy English, looking the gringo up and down. The man wore an expensive suit with an Italian cut that accentuated his square shoulders. He was tall and deeply tanned, with blue eyes that crinkled at the corners. He's a big son of a bitch, Carlos thought to himself. Kerney smiled.

"I have an appointment with Senor De Leon he said in Spanish.

"Your name?"

"Kevin Kerney."

"You must wait, senor," Carlos said, nodding at the table. De Leon was still talking with the girl, who wore tight designer jeans and a scoop-neck silk top that revealed remarkable breasts.

"I will tell the senor you are here." Kerney nodded, slipped onto the empty stool next to the hunchback, watched Carlos walk quickly to De Leon and whisper in his ear. De Leon looked up in irritation, glanced at Kerney, nodded to the bodyguard, and returned to his conversation.

Kerney watched De Leon for a brief time and spoke to Eddie. "Are you bringing the customers luck?" he asked in Spanish, patting the hump.

"I hope so, senor," Eddie answered, trying to mask the astonishment he felt. Dressed up, Kerney looked like a major player, not at all like a shit kicking cop from New Mexico. Kerney pointed to the sling and held out a twenty dollar bill.

"It looks like you didn't keep any luck for yourself."

"A minor accident." Eddie put the money in his pocket. "Thank you." He glanced at Carlos and decided he couldn't risk saying more.

The girl with De Leon pouted, stood up, flipped her long hair over a shoulder, kissed De Leon on the cheek, and pranced off to a monte table. De Leon gestured for Kerney to approach.

"Senor Kerney," he said, rising.

"Please join me."

"Thank you." Kerney studied De Leon as he settled in. A good-looking man with pale blue eyes and strong features, freshly shaved and dressed in a tan business suit, De Leon smiled back at him. His hands were soft and his nails manicured.

"Francisco Posada said you wished to secure the services of a broker."

"That is correct."

"What type of products do you wish to ship?"

"Artifacts." De Leon raised an eyebrow.

"That covers a wide range." Kerney handed De Leon a typed copy of Gutierrez's list and waited for a reaction. De Leon scanned the contents and smiled warmly at Kerney, his mind racing. His chartered plane, scheduled to leave Mexico City for Hong Kong in two days, would carry an identical cargo. It was an impossible duplication.

"Where did you get such treasures?" De Leon inquired.

"That's not important," Kerney countered. "Do you know anyone who specializes in such antiques?"

"A select few deal in antiques," De Leon replied, tapping his fingers together in thought.

"But all I see are items written on paper. Authentication would be necessary."

"I can provide samples," Kerney replied, "but there is some urgency to the matter."

"I understand," De Leon replied.

"Time is money, is it not? I have an associate who might be interested. May I keep the list to show him?" Kerney didn't like the idea, but he had no choice.

"Certainly." De Leon folded the papers and put them in a pocket.

"Excellent. Could you return later this evening?"

"Will your associate be joining us?"

"Yes. Come back after midnight." De Leon stood and offered Kerney his hand.

"I'm sure we can accommodate you."

"I look forward to it," Kerney said.

He shook De Leon hand and left, walking past a man at the door entering the club. The man eyed Kerney intensely. He had a weight lifter's build, gray eyes, and a small scar on his chin. Kerney nodded and kept moving. Benton pushed his way through the crowd to De Leon who whispered something to Carlos as the bodyguard leaned across the table. De Leon eyes snapped when he saw Benton.

"Wait," he ordered Carlos. He shoved some papers across the table at Benton.

"What is going on?" he demanded.

"He's a cop," Benton said, thumbing through the inventory.

"How did he get the list?"

"Our courier died in a traffic accident. The inventory was in his vehicle, and the cop found it. He's just snooping around."

"And the last shipment?"

"Still on the base. We'll get it out."

"Are you lying to me, Benton? Benton shook his head.

"The cop's name is Kevin Kerney. He's a sheriff's lieutenant from Las Cruces. All he has is the fucking list. I swear it."

"Then you will dispose of Lieutenant Kerney, instead of Carlos."

"That's why I'm here."

"Do it," De Leon ordered, his eyes narrow, "and clean up after yourself when you're finished." He walked toward the young woman in the scoop-neck top and the stone-washed jeans, who was still at the monte table, betting heavily. *** Outside the club, Kerney looked for a taxi. Expensive automobiles were double-parked around the small plaza, blocking most incoming traffic, and there were no waiting or cruising cabs. A fat cop with an enormous head wandered between the cars, his hand resting on his pistol grip. Kerney gave him some money and asked him where he could get a taxi.

"I can call one for you, senor," Dominguez replied.

"It can be here in less than ten minutes."

Kerney could see the thoroughfare about a mile in the distance, down the narrow residential street leading from the plaza. He didn't like the idea of waiting. It only gave De Leon time to have him followed, which was a sure bet.

"The night air feels good," Kerney said. "I'll walk. Thanks anyway." He started out at a brisk pace, looking for some thing he could use as a weapon if De Leon decided to send some muscle after him, which was another possibility. What he really wanted was the pistol safely locked in the glove compartment of his truck.

Carlos watched Benton hurry from the club and felt Eddie tugging on his sleeve.

"I must go to the bafio," Eddie announced, in a loud voice. Several people at the bar looked up from their drinks.

"Not now," Carlos answered.

"I will soil myself," Eddie rejoined shrilly, trying to look miserable.

"My bowels are loose." Carlos gave him a peevish look.

"If you must go, be quick about it."

"I won't be but a minute." Eddie scooted toward the cantina, almost knocking over a waiter coming through the swinging door. He moved through the kitchen to the rear door and ran into the alley. No one tried to stop him. The lane paralleled the plaza and ran straight to the main drag. Eddie took off in a sprint, tugging his arm out of the sling. He ripped off his shirt, yanked the harness free, and threw the contraption to the ground. He veered through the backyard of a small house and onto the street, stopping to catch his breath. Ahead, he could see Kerney walking toward the strip, making slow progress. He stepped into the darkness at the side of a house and checked for Benton behind him. Nothing yet. The street was quiet. A few viejos were on the front steps of a house, enjoying the mild evening.

Eddie froze as a car drove out of the plaza coming in his direction. As it passed under a streetlamp, Eddie recognized the driver and relaxed; it was one of De Leon customers. He started running again. He had heard De Leon order Kerney killed, and he needed to reach the lieutenant before Benton showed up. *** Greg Benton saw an obese cop at the end of the square chasing some kids away from a Range Rover. He called him over, gave him a fistful of dollars, and asked about a gringo in a suit with a limp. The cop pointed in the direction of the main drag and told him Kerney was on foot. He ran his car up on the sidewalk to avoid the parked vehicles on the plaza, found an opening, bumped into the street, and floored the gas pedal, burning rubber as he accelerated toward the strip. He flicked on his high beams and saw two men on the sidewalk about a hundred yards apart. He passed the first one; some punk in white pants running at full tilt. Up ahead Kerney moved in an awkward gait. Benton laughed; it was a ludicrous sight.

First Kerney, Benton decided. If the kid posed a problem, he would deal with it later. Kerney heard the car coming and left the street at a run, disappearing between two houses. Tires screeched on the street, and he ran faster. He pulled himself over a backyard fence, ducked under the low branches of a tree, and doubled back down the cobblestone alley. He needed to find cover and something to use as a weapon. Benton left the car in the street and gave chase on foot. He stopped at a backyard fence next to an alley, where the low branch of a tree moved gently in the still air. He listened for sounds and heard a slight clacking of heels on the cobblestones. Kerney was moving back toward the Little Turtle.

Benton smiled to himself and reached for the knife in his ankle sheath. It would be a good hunt after all. He stepped into the alley and started stalking. *** As far as Kerney could tell, he was alone in the alley. He found the jagged top of an oil drum that had been cut with a welding torch and a stubby piece of metal pipe. They would have to do. He stood with his back against the wall of a shed listening to the rats inside squeak at his presence. He knew someone was out there, going, he hoped, in the wrong direction. He took a fast look down the alley. The light from the concourse gave him enough illumination to pick up any movement. Nothing. A car door slammed and he pulled back his head. The sound was followed by rapid, loud Spanish. Somebody wanted to know who the asshole was who had left his car parked in the middle of the street. He looked again and saw movement, a shadowy ripple against the light. The movement stopped under a solitary tree, a good fifty feet away. Slowly Kerney crouched down, hoping his attacker would be searching at eye level. Risking one last glimpse, Kerney saw a discernible shape moving cautiously in his direction. Kerney held his breath and waited until the man was almost on top of him. When he saw the knife, he came out of his crouch and swung the stubby pipe at the man's head. Benton skipped back and kicked, the blow landing full force on Kerney's bad knee. The leg caved in and put Kerney on his back. Rolling to avoid another kick, he threw the lid as a distraction and scrambled to his feet, his back against the shed wall, waiting for the man's next move. He was the gray-eyed bodybuilder with the scar on his chin. Benton laughed. He had a knife in his hand, held low so it could rip into the belly.

"Can't you do any better than that?" he jeered. Benton stepped in for the kill, feinting an overhand lunge at Kerney's chest. He stopped the thrust in midair, rotated his wrist, and arched the blade up to slash Kerney's gut. Kerney slammed the metal pipe on Benton's wrist. Benton grunted and sprang back as Kerney tried to swipe him across the face.

"Now you're trying," he said indulgently. The son of a bitch isn't even breathing hard, Kerney marveled. His knee locked up as he circled to the center of the alley. Benton turned with him, relaxed and watchful. He came at Kerney in a textbook move: wheeling, faking a kick, driving the point of the knife at Kerney's exposed torso. Stepping into the thrust, Kerney turned sideways, caught the knife hand, locked the pipe against the wrist, and wrenched it back with all his strength until the bones snapped. Benton yelled in agony as the knife clattered to the ground, and hammered a solid left into Kerney's eye with his good hand.

Kerney held on to the wrist, trying to bend the man to his knees. Refusing to go down, Benton hit Kerney again, flush in the mouth, followed by a solid smash to the stomach. The blow put Kerney on his hands and knees, with a searing pain that exploded in his stomach. His vision blurred, he clawed desperately on the cobblestones, searching for the pipe. He had to get to his feet. He tried to push himself upright. The knee failed, and as he tried again he felt the knife against his throat.

"You son of a bitch," Benton rasped. "You broke my fucking wrist." The man bent over him, his gray eyes locked on Kerney's face, savoring his victory. Get it over with, Kerney's mind screamed. The jagged oil-drum top came out of nowhere, like a discus. The rusty, sharp edge caught Benton in the neck and severed the artery. Blood gushed over Kerney as Benton turned toward his attacker, both hands clutching his neck. He crumpled to the ground, his dying heart pumping blood into a pool that seeped into the porous cobblestones around his head. Kerney clutched his stomach, blinked away the pain, looked at the man walking toward him, and didn't believe what he saw. It was the hunchback from the Little Turtle, only he wasn't a jorobado anymore.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, speaking between the jolts that ripped through his stomach.

"Eddie Tapia. Provost Marshal's Office. Criminal investigations. White Sands." He bent over Kerney.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?"

"No, I'm not all right." Eddie inspected Kerney again, more closely. He was beat up, but the damage seemed superficial.

"You seem to be in one piece," he said.

"Hardly."

"Are you cut?"

Kerney shook his head.

"Forget it. Just a private joke." He held out a hand.

"Help me up."

"Can you walk?"

"Of course I can." On his feet, Kerney felt light-headed. If he could puke, maybe he would feel better. He swayed, and Eddie grabbed him around the waist to keep him steady.

"Can you make it to Benton's car?" Eddie asked.

"Benton's car?" Kerney repeated vaguely, wondering if Benton was the dead man.

"Yeah. He left the keys in the ignition."

"Let's go." At the car, Eddie checked for any sign of Carlos, hurried Kerney inside the vehicle, and drove to the main drag as quickly as possible. Surrounded by Friday-night traffic and heading toward the bridge, he risked a glance at Kerney. The lieutenant, doubled over with his head between his legs, seemed to be gagging. Kerney sat up and rested his head against the back of the seat.

"I just threw up," he said. "Sorry about that."

"I know how it feels," Eddie said. He sniffed, wrinkled his nose, rolled down the window, and turned on the air conditioner.

"Mind telling me what the fuck is going on?" Eddie asked. *** Enrique De Leon paced on the loading dock waiting for Carlos to return with Eddie. Carlos would have to be punished. His inattentiveness had allowed the jorobado to flee. A beating would improve his attitude. He heard footsteps running down the alley. The warehouse foreman moved to his side protectively, pistol in hand. Carlos arrived winded, and stood looking up at De Leon with a distressed expression. He placed a bundle on the dock at De Leon feet.

"The hunchback was a fake, patron," he said. De Leon knelt and inspected the bundle. Inside the arm sling was an elaborate harness and cowhide skin formed into a hump with padding. The cowhide, expertly tanned and supple to the touch, felt remarkably lifelike.

"What else?" De Leon said, rising. Carlos held up a knife.

"Benton is dead, Don Enrique."

De Leon raised an eyebrow.

"Really?" It was unexpected news.

"How?"

"His neck was cut," Carlos replied.

"Tell Dominguez to remove the body from the alley and send men to look for the gringo and the jorobado."

"Yes, patron." Carlos started to leave.

"Wait," Enrique ordered.

"Bring Francisco Posada to me."

"Yes, patron." De Leon waved him away.

"Go." Carlos scurried off. De Leon decided he would not have Carlos badly beaten. Eddie had fooled them both, along with dozens of customers and employees.

A gifted young man, De Leon thought dryly. He felt a need to know more about Eddie. Francisco might have information, and if not, he could get it. It was also vital to learn more about Kerney, now that Benton was dead. Frustrated, De Leon went back inside the Little Turtle.