Power and Empire

31

It was just after four p.m. when Moco Goya parked his blue Chevy S-10 pickup nine houses down from the FBI bitch’s house on Buttermilk Circle. Zambrano had sent a kid to watch her, and he said she must have knocked off work early, because she was already home. The kid was born without a right hand. He was eager to get some trigger time, but Zambrano said he should be a lookout for a while. Everyone called the kid Chueco, or “crooked”—what you called a lefty. It was weird that the kid wasn’t parked out front like he was supposed to be. Lucky for him, Zambrano didn’t know he’d abandoned his post. He must have gone for a Coke or something. It didn’t matter. Moco didn’t need him anyway. He had Gusano, the village idiot.

The Worm sat in the passenger seat, gaping at the rows and rows of fancy homes like he’d never seen a nice house before. Moco cursed himself every time he brought the slow-witted sicario along — until the shooting started. Idiot or not, the Worm was a killing machine. In more than a dozen hits, Moco had never seen him hesitate. It was just getting to that point that was tedious.

Gusano turned and blinked like some kind of tree sloth. “¡Güey! What do you think these houses cost?”

Moco just shook his head and got out of the truck. Gusano was like a little kid. If you answered one question, he would only come up with another.

The houses were big, though probably not too expensive in the great scheme of things. An FBI agent lived here, after all, and she couldn’t be knocking down enough to buy one of the real McMansions that were springing up all over North Dallas. These brick monstrosities had high roofs and wooden privacy fences to keep the neighbors from snooping on one another, but they were pretty much all the same, with a rock wall here or a wood panel there to give off the illusion that the developer had used more than four different blueprints. A wide concrete walking trail ran behind the houses on this street, winding along a low creek choked with cottonwood trees and impenetrable tangles of mustang grapevines. The developer probably advertised it as a greenbelt and the homeowners got a healthy charge in their yearly association dues for the privilege of living next to a swamp that the developer couldn’t build on anyway.

No, the neighborhood around Buttermilk Circle wasn’t exactly wealthy, but it was rich enough that Moco and Gusano couldn’t just walk around without looking like they had a reason to be there. A couple Mexicans pushing lawn mowers for a bunch of white Texans was stereotypical — but Moco wanted to blend in, not climb up the social ladder.

It was warm, but Moco had fastened the top button on his Western shirt in order to hide most of the Santa Muerte tattoo. Gusano had a similar tattoo, but it was on his back, so a T-shirt was enough to hide his.

Moco opened the dented tailgate and slid out two treated two-by-six pieces of lumber before climbing into the bed and guiding the greasy lawn mower down the makeshift ramps. He wasn’t even sure the old thing would run. Gusano grabbed a Weed Eater and the red gas can that contained their guns. As slow as he was, the Worm had figured out on his own that a five-gallon fuel jug could hold two TEC-9 machine pistols, two Glocks, and a break-open shotgun with both barrels sawed down to ten inches. He’d cut the red plastic with a jigsaw and then used a piano hinge and a couple hasps to keep his new gun vault closed while he carried it. The hasps were visible, but cops wouldn’t even pay attention to a fuel jug.

They’d no sooner left the truck than an old guy with a young blond wife who was way too hot for his fat gut whistled Moco over as he pushed the mower past. The fat guy wanted to know if he had time to take on a new customer. Gusano was already in killing mode and braced beside him, setting the fuel jug on the sidewalk. Moco gave a slight shake of his head, hoping the crazy assassin noticed. In any other circumstance, he would have flipped the guy off — or maybe even beat his ass for disrespecting him with a whistle. But Moco smiled instead and said he’d drop back by when he was done with his present job and set something up. The lady, who obviously had better sense than her asshole husband, kept tugging on his hand to try to get him to follow her inside. The old man finally relented, listening to his wife for a moment, and then said not to worry about it.

Moco watched them walk inside and made a mental note of the address. The couple had gotten a good long look at him. He’d have to think about coming back and tying up that loose end. Moco chuckled to himself as the blonde peeked out a crack in her door one last time to give him the eye. Yeah, he’d come back, all right. It would be fun.

Moco pushed the lawn mower up the sidewalk until they reached the FBI lady’s place. Gusano read the number on the mailbox. It was mottled red brick to match the house. “Twenty-three forty-eight.”

“This is it, then,” Moco said, feeling the tightness in his lungs that he felt before every hit.

A large ceramic frog squatted among neatly trimmed shrubs along the concrete porch. Fresh wood chips covered the manicured area under a newly planted pecan tree in the front yard. This lady cop had obviously already hired another company to take care of her yardwork. Moco felt a pang of professional jealousy, and then remembered he wasn’t there to do her lawn.

He’d expected to see an unmarked cop car out front, but the driveway was empty. The curtains moved a little, and he caught a sliver of light, so she had to be home. She’d probably just put the car in the garage. He studied the house as they approached. The gate to her backyard privacy fence stood open. Moco figured FBI agents probably traveled too much to have a dog, but the open gate calmed him nonetheless.

Gusano stopped on the sidewalk before they turned to walk to the front door. “Can I go first?”

Moco didn’t want to appear too eager. The Worm might mention it later and the boss might think he was a coward. But the truth was, he didn’t mind at all if Gusano was first at the door. Lady cops died just like everyone else, but this one was certain to try to shoot back. The curtains had moved, so for all Moco knew, she was sighted in on him with her finger on the trigger. Being a cop, she was probably paranoid enough to have a shotgun by the front door. Hell, Moco wasn’t even a cop and he had a shotgun by his front door.

“If you really want to go first,” he said, “I guess that’s okay.”

Gusano hefted the Weed Eater in a salute of gratitude and turned to walk quickly toward the door. Moco followed, standing off to the side toward the garage, clear of the line of fire in case the lady cop decided to go all Rambo on them.

Gusano set the fuel jug on the concrete porch between them and then reached down to flip the hasps, lifting the handle to reveal the guns inside. He made sure the TEC-9s were clear of the other weapons, butts pointed up, and then rang the doorbell.

A few moments later, there was a shuffle of movement inside. The door opened a crack.

“Lawn service—” Gusano said, throwing his weight against the door at the same moment he came up with the TEC-9. A shadowy figure fell away under the assault. There was a short, yelping scream as Gusano rushed in, hitting the door with such force that it rebounded off the wall and slammed shut behind him, leaving Moco standing outside on the porch.

Three quick pops followed, muffled by the heavy door. Moco threw a quick glance over his shoulder. The sprinkler across the street still hissed. Kids still played soccer in the nearby field.

With his own gun tucked in close to his waist, shielding it from view of passersby, Moco reached for the door handle. Gusano opened it first, sticking his head out through the crack as if he wanted to spare Moco a look inside.

“Hey,” he said. “I think we might have a problem.”

“What?”

“Éste es un hombre rubio,” he said.

Moco groaned and shouldered his way into the house. Sure enough, Gusano, the Worm, had just shot a man with blond hair.

“Is anyone else in the house?”

“Right.” Gusano grimaced. “We should check.”

Moco thought about killing the idiot right then and there — but then there wouldn’t be anyone to blame when they told the boss. Instead he stepped over the dead man and the two would-be hitmen searched the rest of the house. The blond man turned out to live alone.

“Where is she?” Moco said to himself while he stood over the dead man. He knew better than to engage Gusano with an important question. All three rounds from the Worm’s TEC-9 had impacted him center-chest, killing him in seconds.

There was a wallet on the kitchen counter, next to some keys and a loaded Ruger LC9 pistol. Moco hoped against hope that this was another FBI agent — maybe the lady cop’s boyfriend or something. He cursed when he found an ID card from a nearby mortgage company that identified the dead man as Aaron Bennet.

Gusano just stood and stared at the man he’d killed, nodding smugly, as if he were proud of his handiwork.

Moco glanced around the living room. Every piece of art, all the furniture, the photos above the mantel, all had to do with hunting and fishing. The few photos of women were of Bennet with the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders or family shots with his mother. No females lived in this house.

Moco scratched his head. “I don’t get it. This is the house. Twenty-three forty-eight Buttermilk Circle.”

Gusano gave a sideways look. “This is Buttermilk Place.”

Moco’s hand tightened around the butt of his pistol. His head began to shake.

“Are you shitting me? You knew we were at the wrong address?”

The Worm shrugged. “I was wondering why we came to Buttermilk Place.”

“We need to go,” Moco said through clenched teeth. “Did you touch anything?”

“No,” Gusano said. “You think I’m stupid?”

Moco didn’t answer. The boss was going to hack them up alive with a chainsaw. But there was nothing they could do about it now. Too many people had seen them to risk another hit right now. But Moco was sure of one thing. There was only one way he could rectify his mistake. He had to find the FBI lady and kill her.