Tim Randall sat at a wrought-iron table in the shade of an um-brella. He wore the same clothes he’d been wearing the day Harry’d met him on the street in Hue City: a frayed pinstriped shirt, tennis shoes, a leather vest, jeans, and a Chicago Cubs baseball cap. He was smoking a taboo Pall Mall.
Even dignified with age, he was still the last guy in the joint you’d ever want to meet.
The man who sat across from Randall was a sinewy, dark Latino in jeans, a tank top, and slick black hair gathered in a ponytail. His sturdy mechanic’s fingers drummed on the table and jailhouse tattooes twined on his arms like plump coral snakes. He stood up and watched Harry, Hollywood, and Becky approach.
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Hollywood spoke offhand. “His name is Hector Jefferson Cruz.
An L.A. street entrepreneur who didn’t quite make the grade as middle management with a multinational out of Bogata. With a little plea-bargain evangelism, we made Hector see the light. He’s our Lobo now. Watches the border,” said Hollywood. He nodded at the guy. “Hiya Hector.”
Hector’s glassy obsidian eyes fixed on Harry.
Hollywood clucked his tongue. “Hector’s been down some pretty hairy ratholes for us. But he never mentioned Witness Protection until we showed him a picture of you and this Maston guy.”
They stood at the table, Harry face-to-face with Hector Cruz.
Randall had not moved from his chair. Impassive, he ignored Hector and seemed more interested in Becky. Hollywood said, “Tell Hector what happened last night to Jason Emmet Cox.”
Harry engaged the nervous shine in Hector’s eyes. “Bud Maston killed him.”
“Does he kill like a man or like a devil?” asked Hector.
“He mutilates.”
Hector nodded. “Remove the shades.”
Harry took off the Ray-Bans. Hector raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross. His fingers stayed on his muscled bronze chest, clasping a crucifix on a gold chain, and his eyes jockeyed, eerie, in trance. His voice made a hoarse whisper in the dry air.
“Hombre, this ain’t right. I seen you dead.” He held up his powerful hands. “Martin, I put you in a body bag with these hands.”
59
Becky was drawn to Randall and they sat at the table and began a quietly intense conversation in the shade of the um-brella. Hollywood, Harry, and Hector drifted to the edge of the patio and, as they began to talk, they squatted 366 / CHUCK LOGAN
peasant-fashion on their haunches. Harry drew nonsense designs in the sand with a stick. Every time he looked up, Hector was staring at him.
Hollywood ran it down.
“Sheer damn luck. Drinking in the basement at Justice after hours.
For the hell of it, we ran Cox through the computers. At first he turned out innocent enough. Retread, lots of mileage. Jarhead lifer.
Three tours in Nam. Wounded. Ninety percent disability. Great Lakes, then mucho VA hospital time out in Washington State. De-faulted small business loans and a few hassles with the IRS. He had a small construction business in Seattle.”
Hollywood looked at Randall. “Colonel says dig deeper. So I ran a spot search through the files of current DEA operations. Cox’s name pops up in a surveillance log they were running with Hector.
Year ago, September. Time frame ring any bells?”
Harry squinted. “Just before Bud Maston dropped out of the primary for Congress.”
Hollywood nodded. “Uh-huh. Cox visited Hector here in Chato.
DEA ran his stats. No drug connection. Just like Hector reported.
So we ran a parallel check on both their backgrounds to see if they were associated any time in the past.”
Becky left the table and joined them and sat cross-legged with Jesse’s saddlebag purse between her knees. Slowly she poured sand back and forth between her hands. Randall stared at the mountains, stroking his chin in the cleft of his palm.
Hollywood went on. “Both jarheads, in the same platoon at the same time in Vietnam in 1969. Guess who their commanding officer was?”
Harry chewed his lip. “Bud Maston.”
“Right. So we decided to fly out here and have a talk with Hector.”
Hollywood stood up, he put his hand on Hector’s shoulder like the snitch was his pet Caliban. Hector shook the hand off. Hollywood smiled and removed his sunglasses. His lynx-eyes were the color of cold honey. “Had Dorothy fax some pictures of Bud she had around the house from a party. The idea was to show him Bud’s picture.”
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Hector broke in, “One look and I freaked. Not about Maston, but you in the picture.”
“The same way Cox reacted the first time he saw me,” said Harry.
“Randall told me that. I ran your military records against Hector’s and Cox’s. No way you two were in any of the same places at the same time, either in Nam or stateside.” Hollywood nudged Hector, who pulled a picture from his back jeans pocket.
Hector shrugged. “I had it in my stuff.”
A young Bud Maston, his shirt off, warrior-lean in a bush hat, arm in arm with a young man who bore a striking resemblance to Harry Griffin. In the background, a mamasan in baggy pantaloons bent under the weight of a carrying pole. Rice paddies. Mountains.
The photo was sepia-toned but Harry could see the heavy saffron air, the red dirt, and feel the sweat on the young bodies.
“Jesus.”
“Creepy, ain’t it?” said Hector.
Becky held up her hand. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a battered mask cut from a photograph. It was an enlargement of the expression on the man’s face who stood next to Bud.
“I’ve got a twin,” said Harry.
“Not quite,” said Hollywood. “Look at the teeth. His are straight.
Back then, you looked like a werewolf.” He turned the mask in Becky’s fingers. “So what the hell is this?”
Becky looked away. “Bud made Chris wear this when they…had sex.”
“Christ,” muttered Hollywood.
Hector stood up and walked like a matador into his house. He returned with a can of Coke and bottles of Mexican beer. He gave the Coke to Becky, then he twisted the caps off the beers with his
