The Renegades

41

Saturday night was starless and damp, a night for secrets and consequence.

Draper steered the Touareg south on I-5, past the power plant and on to Pendleton. He looked to the place he had pulled over to retrieve the piece of chrome trim caught under the chassis of the M5, and reminded himself that this had been a curse that he could still turn into a blessing.

“So, this is all we do?” asked Bradley. “We drive a few hours and I make five grand?”

“This is all we do.”

“Rocky doesn’t trust me.”

“You’ll have to do better with Herredia.”

“He’s not famous for trusting. I heard he used a cartel rival for chum on one of his fishing trips. He personally cut up the pieces.”

Draper heard no worry in the boy’s voice. Bradley looked out at the ocean, slid his automatic from the deep pocket of his duster, considered it, then put it back. Next he brought out a pack of chewing gum, gave a stick to Draper and took one for himself.

“I saw the flash of green once,” the boy said absently. “Right there, off Trestles. I was sitting on my board outside, waiting for the set. It was November and when the sun went behind the water there was a green rectangle and it sat on the sky, then it was gone.”

“I watched three sunsets in a row from Mallory Dock in Key West,” said Draper. “I never saw any flash of green or anything else.”

But it was dark now, the sun hours down, and Draper aimed his thumb toward the box in the backseat. “What’s your gift for El Tigre?”

“You’ll see. A lot more impressive than your collection of fishing trinkets.”

Draper enjoyed the boy’s truculence and was annoyed by it, too. Earlier, when Bradley had loaded his box into the backseat, Draper had seen that it was heavy. The boy handled it with care. It was a square pasteboard box, big enough for a computer or a small TV perhaps, sealed with clear packing tape.

“So,” said Bradley. “Where we picked up the luggage and weighed the money, that’s not the usual place, right?”

“Why do you think that?”

“There was an air of uncertainty.”

“It was more than uncertainty.”

“But I’m right. That’s not where it usually happens. I understand that Hector Avalos was Herredia’s L.A. man. But Hector bought it, and the money wasn’t in Cudahy. So I’m thinking Rocky is the man now. And you.”

“Things change, Bradley. Routine is death.”

“For Avalos it was.”

“You should watch, shut your mouth. Learn.”

“Yep. For five grand a week, I can do that.”

Bradley was quiet for a while. Draper saw the lights of Oceanside to the south. At the border, Draper didn’t recognize the American Customs man, who quickly waved him through. Saturday shift, he thought, not the Friday night people he was used to.

The desultory Mexicans were new to him, too. They looked at his ID and LASD shield and asked him to roll down the windows of the SUV, and in the white glare of the floodlights they perused the plastic tubs of fishing gear, the loose rods, Bradley’s pasteboard box, and the rolling luggage in the back.

When Draper had passed through Tijuana and got onto the toll road he felt the familiar relaxing of his body, the comfort of American law surrendering to the darker, more flexible liberties of Mexico.

In the dusty driveway of the compound Old Felipe pointed his shotgun at Bradley while a companero patted him down. Draper studied Felipe’s puzzled expression as he sized up the boy. Bradley chattered away in Spanish. Draper saw the other gunmen, more than usual, stationed in the shadows. He knew that word of his troubles in Jacumba had traveled south on Herredia’s network. And that news of a new partner nominated to replace Terry Laws had been dispatched by Rocky through his Eme confederates. Draper had asked Rocky for positive spin. Draper was bullish that Bradley would pass his audition. Rocky had clearly disliked the boy, but the decision was Herredia’s. Draper remembered what El Tigre had once said about Laws: The desert is made for secrets. Draper hoped to hear none of that tonight, fully understanding that he was the executor of the fate of Bradley Jones.

They entered Herredia’s inner sanctum. First went Felipe, then Draper, then Bradley, bearing his gift box, then a big man and a skinny man who went to the back corners of the room. Two more men wheeled in the luggage and went outside and closed the door behind them but Draper didn’t hear them walk away. He looked back at Felipe in his usual seat by the door, the combat shotgun across his lap, his hand on the grip and his weathered brown index finger tapping the trigger guard.

Herredia sat at his big iron desk. The huge Desert Eagle revolver lay in front of him. He didn’t rise to greet Draper, or smile, or even acknowledge him. All of his dark attention went to Bradley. Draper saw something ancient in Herredia’s stare, and he thought of lions eating cubs, and Pharaoh and Moses, and wondered if he’d need to shove Bradley off in a bulrush basket.

“What are you?” asked Herredia.

“An outlaw, sir, by birth and profession.”

“What is loyalty?”

“The greatest gift that can be offered or received.”

“Who has your loyalty?”

“Those loyal to me.”

“Take one step forward and set down the box. At your feet.”

Bradley stepped toward Herredia, squatted and lowered the box to the floor, then straightened and folded his hands contritely behind his back.

“How important is your life to you?” asked Herredia.

“Pretty damned. This is all we get, as far as I can see. I’ll negotiate the afterlife when I see that I have one.”

“Did you kill the man who shot your mother?”

“Yes.”

“How many others?”

“None, sir.”

“Did this make you proud or ashamed? Did it draw you toward God or the Devil?”

“Proud. The Devil. Of course.”

Herredia idly picked up the gun and set it back down on the desk, pointed at Bradley. He never took his eyes off of him. “Why do you say ‘of course’?”

“I thought you would understand, sir.”

“You presume to understand what I understand?”

“I don’t mind the company of the Devil, Mr. Herredia. I’m just a thief. If you feel closer to God, then I apologize to you and to Him. Very sincerely.”

Herredia looked at Draper for the first time. Draper saw no recognition in the black eyes. Then they were back on Bradley.

“How old are you?” asked Herredia.

“Eighteen.”

“Your driver’s license says seventeen.”

“I round up on the little things. But I always count the big things with extreme care and accuracy.”

“Such as in the luggage.”

“Yes.”

“Open the box slowly. Felipe has a knife.”

But Bradley flicked his wrist and a switchblade appeared and the blade clicked open. Draper saw the ripple of surprise in Herredia’s face. Bradley knelt and swept the knife across the taped seams-middle and both sides. He closed the knife with a one-handed flourish and dropped it into a pocket. He pulled out a red, green and white beach towel from one end, uncoiling it from within. Then another. The Mexican colors, thought Draper: cagey.

Bradley dropped the second beach towel to the floor and looked down into the box. All Draper could see was what looked like a glass bottle of water. There was something dark inside but the light reflected off the surface of the liquid and Draper could not make out what he was seeing.

Then Bradley reached down into the box and hefted out the bottle by its bottom. He held it outward toward Herredia.

Draper saw the head bobbing in the liquid and the long black hair floating just off the bottom. The head was pale. He couldn’t see the eyes or the expression of the face.

“This is the head of Joaquin Murrieta,” said Bradley. “He was my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. He is the same Joaquin Murrieta that you’ve read about-the legendary horse thief, marksman, gambler, seducer and generous benefactor of the poor.”

“Set him on my desk.”

Bradley stepped forward and set the jar in front of Herredia.

Draper watched El Patron peer into the jar. The head tilted and wavered slowly in the liquid, as if it were carrying on a conversation.

“His head was supposed to be lost in the San Francisco earthquake of 1906,” said Herredia.

“It was stolen the day before by his great-grandson, Ramon. It was passed down to my mother, the outlaw Allison Murrieta.”

“But where is the hand of Three-Fingered Jack?”

“It was never in the same jar with Joaquin. That was an error of history. There were many errors about Joaquin.”

“Fantastico,” said Herredia. “Felipe.”

The old man came forward and leaned his craggy face to the jar. His voice was a whisper: “Murrieta!”

With this, Bradley turned and looked at Draper, whose attention went back and forth between the head in the jar and the wide-eyed delight of Carlos Herredia.

Then Bradley turned back to El Patron. His voice was clear and calm. “I can’t let you have him, sir. He’s family. I wanted him to meet you. I want you to understand that I am who you need.”

Herredia frowned and snarled something to the men in the corners. They burst past Draper and closed in on Bradley, a pistol held to each of his temples as they wrenched back his arms and pushed him up hard against the iron desk.

“He is not a gift?” asked Herredia.

“I am your gift.”

Herredia stood and lifted his tremendous handgun and pushed the end of the barrel into Bradley’s chest.

Draper estimated the line of fire through Bradley’s heart and took a small step to his left.

“You bring me Murrieta then try to take him away from me?”

“I am Murrieta. You, of all the men on Earth, understand that.”

Herredia spit out a command and the men forced Bradley to his knees. Draper watched Herredia lean across the desk, brace himself on his left hand, and touch the barrel of the gun to Bradley’s forehead. Draper squinted at the dire tableaux.

Bradley said nothing. He didn’t bow his head. From where he was standing, Draper couldn’t see the expression on the boy’s face but he could see Herredia’s menace and when the hammer of the revolver locked back into place, the sound seemed to come from every corner of the room-from above and below, ahead and behind, from left and right.

“I do not like you,” said Herredia.

“I was hoping you would, sir.”

“You are not trembling. You look up at me with fear but without terror. Where is your terror?”

“I have faith in you instead.”

“Where did you get this faith in me?”

“From Draper. He’s a good judge of men, and he fears and loves you. As do I.”

Herredia looked at him and Draper held his gaze. Herredia straightened and set his gun back on the desk.

“Of what real use to you is this head?” he asked.

“It’s a family thing, sir. Like an old Christmas ornament passed down through generations. Or a cane carved by an ancestor. Or the metal shaving mirror that my great-great-grandfather brought home with him from World War I.”

Herredia gestured and sat back down and the gunmen lifted Bradley to his feet.

“Gracias, hombres,” said Bradley. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then straightened his back and shook his head as if to clear it.

Herredia looked him up and down, and smiled. “What is this? What has the new Murrieta done to himself?”

“I was hoping you’d overlook it.”

“I overlook nothing.”

Draper saw the sparkle of liquid on Bradley’s left boot, and the small pool of liquid on the floor.

“Actually,” said Bradley. “I felt a wee bit of terror.”

“Bravo, Jones,” said Herredia. “You are maybe a little less crazy than I thought you were. Coleman, take him to his room while we weigh the money. You will stay here tonight.”

Draper felt a flood of goodwill sweep into his heart. He couldn’t remember the last time that things had seemed so possible.

Bradley bowed deeply to Herredia, turned and followed Draper out.

Late the next morning Draper flashed his ID and shield to the U.S. agents manning the booth and they waved the Touareg through with only a cursory second look.

Picking up Interstate 5 north, Draper’s head pounded smartly from the night before. Herredia had insisted on a bacchanalia just like in the old days with Terry. He enjoyed impressing Bradley with his power and wealth and his taste in wine, women and guns. Draper looked over at Bradley, slumped, head bobbing, a weathered Stetson pulled down low, sunglasses slipping down his nose. The kid could party, no doubt about that.

“How does it feel to have five grand in your pocket, tax free?” asked Draper.

“I can’t feel my pocket.”

“Every week, month after month, year after year.”

“I’m not going to drink like that once a week.”

“Learn to control yourself.”

“I did exactly what I wanted to do.”

Draper sped north through National City, looked out at the great ships docked there, the massive warriors of the U.S. Navy in for repair and maintenance.

“It’s a great gig, Coleman. I wonder why you decided to cut me in.”

“This isn’t a job for one man.”

“There are plenty of other men. Why me?”

“Because we’re similar.”

“Yeah. Two arms, two legs and a hangover.”

“And because I see and understand you. I endorse your handling of Kick. Two can accomplish what one can only dream of. We have a future.”

Draper was aware of Bradley studying him over the sunglasses.

“You think you understand me,” said Bradley.

Draper said nothing but he knew he understood Bradley better than Bradley understood himself. Bradley was still a child. He believed that he deserved everything he had: his good mind and strong body and sharp eyes, Erin, his friends, his luck. But Draper saw foolishness in him, too, and he believed that Bradley would never discover his true self until much of what he had was taken away. Draper could help with that, especially with Erin, when the time was right-a bright moment in the future, something to look forward to, a diamond in a dark mine.

But as the miles slipped behind him Draper’s thoughts darkened to Hood and the awful predicament that the young deputy had forced him into. Since the Jacumba disaster, Draper had all but surrendered his two fine homes, his two lovely women, his little girl, his auto repair business, and his reservist’s position in the LASD. They were all too hot to touch. He was nothing more than a fugitive. Using false ID, he’d rented a Culver City apartment from a landlord happy to accept cash from a man who wanted no receipt. He felt displaced, bullied, humiliated. He refused to run: this was his home, his land, his people. He had to get his things back. Maybe not the sheriff’s reserve badge, but everything else. Everything else. But now, all he could do was lie low. Luckily he had large stockpiles of cash, and his precious weekly gig for Rocky and Herredia, constantly bringing in more and more money.

He felt a growing anger at Hood, who had brought all of this down on him.

“I need your help with something,” he said.

“I’m not going to loan you my five grand.”

“I want you to set up a meeting with Hood.”

Draper looked at Bradley and saw the gears working in the boy’s mind, trying to engage.

“Why?”

“I need to see him. But if he knows I’ll be there he’ll bring the cavalry. If he thinks it’s only you, he’ll come alone. Somewhere unremarkable. Somewhere public. The boardwalk in Venice, say. You don’t even need to show up. Better if you don’t.”

In the boy’s dark eyes Draper saw the glimmer of something seen and grasped, if not yet completely understood.

“Hood,” Bradley said quietly.

“Look what he did to your mother,” said Draper. “Look what he’s done to me. He’s the only one who has actually seen me. He’s the only witness against me. And he’ll damage you too if he can, Bradley. He eats away at things.”

Bradley said nothing for two miles. Then he turned and studied the cardboard box containing the head of his notorious ancestor, lovingly repackaged for transport by Felipe back at El Dorado. Looking then at Draper, Bradley’s expression was unknowable after having his picture taken with it.

“I’ll think about that,” Bradley said. Five minutes later his hat was on his lap and his head was lolling back against the window.