Above The Law

CHAPTER 9

TEUCH LET THE HALF-BREED FOREMAN, ELLS, PUSH HIM AROUND just as he did the others, but Teuch promised himself that if he had the chance, he'd put a bullet between Ells's beady eyes when the time came. Teuch got a good look at the main house since they were working on a bad septic line. Teuch toiled alongside a Mex named Gomez, digging out the shit hole most of the day, but all the while keeping one eye on the comings and goings of fancy people, expensive cars, and the army of staff at the big house.

After the first hour the stink stopped bothering him and the next time his red bandana slipped down off his face he let it stay there and soak up the sweat on his neck. By noon they had their shirts off and the lady of the house-a blonde bombshell with cleavage-stopped and shaded her eyes to look them over before she climbed into her Range Rover and sped off in a whirl of dust down the gravel drive. When they climbed up out of the hole just after three, Teuch dropped down beside the water bucket, his back against one of the ancient oaks. He ladled the tepid liquid onto his head, drinking from the rivulet that ran down alongside his nose.

When he looked up, he saw the half-breed staring at his chest.

Teuch looked down at the ink, a hooded demon, then offered Ells a wink. If Ells hadn't blinked, Teuch might have thought the foreman's face had turned to stone, so cold was his expression.

"You one of them Latin Kings?" the foreman asked.

Teuch grinned and shook his head. "I dropped the flag."

"I thought they say once a Latin King, always a Latin King."

Teuch shrugged, ladled a cup of water for himself, then spit out some grit.

"We don't want no bangers around here," the foreman said, scowling.

"It's just ink," Teuch said, surveying his arms and torso. "I got a lot of it."

The foreman circled him, pointed at the back of his shoulder, and said, "That's a prison tattoo. What were you in prison for?"

Teuch looked at him for a minute, sighed, then said, "Cunnilingus."

The foreman narrowed his eyes and balled up his fists.

Teuch waggled his tongue and said, "You believe they got a law like that? It ain't no crime in Mexico, but up here? A man don't know how to care for his woman is all. I know you Comanches don't do it. That's why we get at all your sisters."

The foreman took out his wallet, counted out a five and five singles, and flipped them Teuch's way. They fluttered to the dirt and the foreman pointed at the driveway leading out to the main gate.

"Get your greasy ass outta here," he said, still stone-faced. "Don't come back."

Teuch smiled and spat at the money. "I got what I need and it ain't your money."

He extended his thumb, forefinger, and pinky, the Latin King high sign, and said, "Amor del Rey."

Love of the King, his gang's creed.

Then he walked toward the driveway, studying the house from the corner of his eye as he went. With his shirt over his shoulder, he ambled along down the center of the gravel drive for nearly a mile until he reached the main gate. A camera mounted atop the wall whirred and swung his way. The gates hummed open. Teuch held up his middle finger and the camera moved with him as he walked through and headed down the last stretch of driveway to the road. He hung a left and headed toward town, sticking out his thumb at every passing vehicle.

Just before five, a battered white pickup pulled over in a dusty cloud and two Mexicans wearing cowboy hats drove him to the motel. He cleaned up, then went out for some cold beer. The back window of his room looked out over the scrub brush and some power lines to the west. With his feet up on the open windowsill, he sipped at a couple of forty-ounce King Cobras while the sun bled itself to death in a bed of purple clouds.

After a time he heard ringing in his ears and a pleasant light-headedness settled in. He felt good about how far he'd come and where the immediate future would take him. He felt a little too good actually, but he could sober up a bit with a meal at the Applebee's he'd seen one exit up on Route 45. The food supplies stacked up on the dresser would go to waste, but he hadn't expected to get as close as he had to the house on the very first day. Part of his success with the Kings came because he knew an opportunity when he saw one and he never hesitated to grab it. He'd grab this one.

He packed up the few things he had and pulled on a gray hooded sweatshirt over his T-shirt and jeans. He lay the MAC-10 next to the canvas duffel bag on the bed and banged into the bathroom door on his way to take a leak.

In the mirror he caught sight of himself, the sparkle in his dark eyes, the jaunty smile full of yellow teeth beneath a pencil-thin mustache. He gave himself a wink and bent over to wash his hands when someone began hammering on the front door. He marched across the room and grabbed the door handle.

"The fuck, homes?" he said, yanking it open.

A tall serious cop with a ten-gallon cowboy hat, a gold star that read chief, and a six-shooter on his hip let a hardened fist fall to his side. The cop's cold blue eyes scoured Teuch, then swept past him, casing the hotel room. Purple twilight glowed behind him and the evening air buzzed with crickets.

Teuch grinned at the police chief. He didn't mind dealing with cops and their laughable set of rules.

"Hey, Officer," he said, laying the accent on thick, saying off-fee-sour.

"Mind if I come in?" the police chief asked in a manner as polite as his tan uniform shirt with its sharp creases and its dark brown tie.

"Oh, sorry, homes," Teuch said, holding the edge of the door and knowing that a cop denied entry couldn't use anything he found inside to put you in jail, whether it was a MAC- 10, a bag of reefer, or someone's severed head, "but I'm going out for dinner so if you want to talk to me, you gotta talk outside. Let me get my keys and I'll be out."

Teuch started to close the door. He had turned for his things when the police chief kicked it open and marched into the room.

Teuch stumbled and spun and said, "You can't do that shit, man. I know my rights."

The police chief's eyes skipped to the bed, where the machine gun lay, then right back to Teuch. The tall cop drew his revolver like a silver-screen gunslinger, drawing back the hammer with his opposite hand and a click that cut through the musty air of the thirty-dollar room.

Teuch raised his hands and felt his bowels loosening. "I didn't do nothing."

"What's that for?" the police chief asked, wagging his head toward the MAC-10. "I heard you got kicked off the work crew out to the senator's place."

"Fuck the senator," Teuch said, angry at the jelly in his gut and confident in his freedom of speech.

The pistol's muzzle flashed, the explosion deafening Teuch instantly and the shot knocking him off his feet. He came down on his rump with a jolt. His head banged back into the leg of the desk. He groped at his chest, feeling no pain, but aware that his hand came up soaked in blood before everything went black.