The Devil’s Redhead

“Francisco,” Cesar said, smiling. He was a small and wiry man with a disfiguring birthmark above one eyebrow. He eyed the twins, then extended his hand to Frank.

“Francisco, amigo. Quihubo?”

The man beside him in the passenger seat giggled. In contrast to Cesar, this man was huge. The third man in the back was huge as well. Frank had met them once before. Humberto and Pepe.

“Whatch’all doin’ out here?” Frank asked. All down home.

Cesar said, “Abrazos from Senor Zopilote. He’s happy. So am I.”

Cesar’s command of English rated somewhere between competence and mimicry. Frank, who’d grown up in San Diego, knew the accent well. The border was swimming with guys who spoke just like him.

“That name again?” Frank said.

“Zopilote,” Cesar replied, the goodwill draining from his eyes.

“I grew up along the border,” Frank said. “My mother was half-Mexican, she drove me in and out of TJ twice a month to score diet pills. So I know a little Spanish. In particular, I know what zopilote means.” It meant ‘vulture.’ ”I don’t recall it coming up before.”

“He’s the boss,” Cesar said.

“I thought you worked for some guy named Moreira.”

“Don Rolando?”

“Rolando Moreira, yeah.”

“He owns the hotel where we met,” Cesar admitted. “A hacendado, land owner, developer, you know. But I work for El Zopilote. He’d like to meet you, by the way.”

“Abrazo,” Humberto shouted suddenly from the backseat. “Quihubo, amigo.” He and Pepe started giggling again. Cesar reached over and slapped at Humberto’s head. Humberto yipped in mock pain and he and Pepe fell into dopey laughter. Cesar turned back to Frank. “Idiots,” he said apologetically.

“Tell Senor Zopilote or whatever you really call him I’d be glad to make his acquaintance,” Frank lied. Buy time, he thought.

“Bravo,” Cesar said. “Tonight?”

Overhead, the moon vanished again beyond the clouds.

“Tonight’s a little soon,” Frank said. “When things settle down. There’s gonna be quite a stir once Felix finds his stuff is gone.”

“Perfect,” Cesar said. “Because I was told to pass along a little something. An offer. If you want to make some real money, we are very interested in learning how to get a message to Mr. Felix.”

Frank, to conceal his shaking, toed the gravel at his feet. “No fooling? What sort of message?”

“A friendly message.”

From behind, Frank heard Mooch whisper, “Fan mail? From some flounder?”

Frank spun around and glared. Mooch coughed in his hand and stared off toward the refineries. Turning back to Cesar, Frank leaned down closer to the car window and asked, “This wouldn’t have anything to do with that chavo got strung up to a tree out on Kirker Pass Road, would it?”

With his forefinger Cesar scoured a cigarette pack tucked inside his shirt pocket. Shortly he withdrew a mangled cigarette and put it to his lips. “A friendly message,” he repeated.

“I thought your boss Moreira had no truck with crank,” Frank said. “Just a builder.”

“Absolutely,” Cesar responded.

“But El Zopilote, he’s more broad-minded.”

“Francisco…”

Frank leaned down closer and whispered, “That’s what this was all about, right? You didn’t need any cable, you didn’t need any of that shit, or not so much you were willing to pay me thirty grand. You wanted a crack at Felix Randall. A little venganza, am I right? What was the boy’s name? Gaspar Arevalo. From the county of Sonora, if I remember right.”

“We would be very interested,” Cesar responded. He extended his hand in the Latin fashion, palm down, for Frank to take. “We’ll make it worth your while. We already have. We’ll talk?”

Frank took Cesar’s hand, gripped it perfunctorily, and stepped backed from the car.

“Till then,” Cesar said. He put the sedan in gear and eased it from the gravel shoulder. As they went, Humberto sang, “Vaya con Dios… Quihubo culero Francisco…”

Frank stared at the receding car with newfound dread. Collecting himself after a moment, he signaled for the brothers to get back in the truck.

“That little guy,” one of the twins remarked. “He’s one butt-ugly little cooze.”

Frank turned about in a sudden fury. It was Mooch, of course. “Come again?”

Mooch took a step back. “Hold the phone, Frank.”

“You know what ‘cooze’ means in the joint, right?”

The boy kept retreating.

“I asked you a question.”

“ ‘Cooze.’ ‘Cooze,’ it’s a fucking word.”

“Hey, Frank,” the other brother said, stepping between them. He was chafing his arms. “Frank-o buddy, he didn’t mean anything, okay? Let’s hit it.”

Frank stood his ground. “That’s just what you need, Mooch,” he shouted. He felt strangely infuriated at the boy’s helpless stupidity. “Some joint time. Let some buck nigger put some flavor in his behavior. You can chalk his stick.”

“Frank,” Chewy said again, reaching out for Frank’s arm. “Let it go. All right? He didn’t mean anything.”

Frank tore his cap off, flung it to the ground then kicked it for good measure. Standing there stock-still for a moment, he realized it had all been decided. It was out of his hands. He picked up his hat, swatted it against his leg and fit it back on top of his head.

“Get in the truck,” he said.

With the twins in back he put the four-by-four in gear again and headed up Pacheco Creek, south to the highway. There he turned east, toward Willow Pass where they’d cross the Diablo foothills. As he drove, Frank checked in back, to make sure the twins were occupied, then he withdrew the Ruger from his waistband and the clip from his pocket, stowing both in the glove compartment. After thinking it over he removed the eight ball of cocaine from his shirt pocket and threw it in with the gun.

They followed Marsh Creek through the arroyos into pasture lowlands, heading toward the Delta tule marshes. The brothers rented a split-level house near Sand Mound Slough. The house sat alone on a dirt road rimmed with cattails. Grime hazed the windows. An antenna clamped to the chimney hung loose, shorn free by the wind.

Frank pulled into the garage. After securing the door behind the truck, the twins came front. Frank opened the glove compartment, removed the eight ball, and waggled it at eye level. “I’d say we deserve ourselves a little victory ball.”

Mooch eyed the bundle with fond surprise. “Well, hey,” he said.

“Check out what the wets left behind.” Frank pulled out the 9 mm and its clip and held them out in his palm.

Chewy eyed the weapon with instant dread. “I knew it, I fucking knew it,” he said. “You’re a damn fool, Frank, walking unpacked into a trade with those fuckers.”

“I walk in packed,” Frank said, “something goes haywire, they toss me and find a gun? Here, take this.”

He handed the Ruger to Chewy. Chewy accepted it in both palms and held it there, like it was sleeping. Like it might wake up. Frank took the clip away from him, emptied it of rounds, then handed it back. He pocketed the bullets, which were hollow-points. “Feel better now?” he asked.

“Some,” Chewy admitted.

Frank brandished the eight ball again. “We gonna hoot the toot or think deep thoughts here?”

“What about the count?”

Frank shrugged. “Money going somewhere?”

The brothers looked at one another. Trick question.

“Thought not,” Frank said. “Let’s get hammered. I hate counting. Thankless goddamn chore.”

Inside the house, every surface wore a glaze of dust. Discarded socks and magazines lay scattered under