commodity among collectors. For example, the letters from Grant and Sherman to General Howard: it's correspondence about Grant's peace policy regarding the Indians. Howard was a crusty, one-armed, pious son of a bitch who served with Grant in the Civil War. His men called him the praying general. Grant made him a presidential emissary. Any presidential correspondence of historical significance commands top dollar. Those letters are even more valuable because they fill in some gaps. Historians would kill to have them. I wouldn't sneeze at the Sherman letters, either. He ranks right up there as an important American personality of the time. The letters alone could bring hundreds of thousands of dollars.'
'Thanks, Leonard.' Kerney reached across the desk and retrieved the list.
'I'd love to have an opportunity to make an offer. Do you know who the buyer is?'
'Not yet,' Kerney replied. 'Any ideas where I should look?'
'It depends on the type of buyer. I'm assuming this isn't kosher.'
'It isn't.' Garcia gazed at the ceiling.
'Unfortunately, it isn't that hard to find unscrupulous dealers. If I was in the market to sell something illegally, I'd lower the risk and ship the merchandise out of the country. Western Americana is a hot item among collectors in the Far East and Europe. Especially the Japanese and Germans. They couldn't beat us in the war, but they sure can outbid us in the marketplace.'
'Would that be likely?' Leonard nodded.
'With the quantity and quality of the list, I would say it's very likely. The mega bucks are overseas, and once the items are on foreign soil, the chances of getting caught are almost nil.'
'Could an average citizen pull it off?'
'I don't think so. Not without a broker. There are too many complexities to deal with. If your crook isn't an expert in the field, he's going to have to split the profits with somebody who has the right contacts.' *** Eddie Tapia felt right at home on the Juarez strip. The gaudy, hot colors of the buildings, the rawness of the streets, the carnival atmosphere of the hustlers, whores, and street urchins, and the smells from the street vendors hawking food to pedestrians combined into one loud pulse of Mexican life. The streets were crowded with drivers playing a mad game of bumper cars. Shills made bilingual pitches along sidewalks, selling fake designer watches and gold jewelry that would turn green within a week. Bars cranked out loud Tex-Mex music to attract attention. The hookers wore dresses that stopped at the ass and pranced around in their spiked heels and cowboy boots working the streets. Open stalls in alleys displayed velvet paintings of Elvis, cheap sombreros, and pin atas Tapia soaked it all up.
The first twelve years of his life he'd grown up in Mexican border towns along the Rio Grande. From Matamoros on the Gulf to Piedras Negras, he moved with his family from job to job. His father, who rebuilt generators, particularly those for prized American-made cars, could always find work. Still, it was necessary for Eddie and his brothers to make money. At the age of five, he became a beggar's apprentice, working for his Uncle Adolfo. Every day Uncle Adolfo put on a harness with a padded hump and transformed himself into a jorobado-a hunchback. To Mexicans the jorobado brought luck. Gamblers, whores, housewives-even the priests-would touch Adolfo's hump for luck and give him money for the privilege. Eddie shilled and sold talisman jewelry.
After putting Isabel and the baby on a bus to Brownsville, Eddie had purchased all the material needed for his transformation: soft cowhide, which must feel like skin under his shirt; padding, which had to be firm yet pliable; a harness to round his shoulders; and finally the clothes of a beggar. He crossed the bridge into Juarez as a hunchback. Neither his wife nor Captain Brannon would have recognized him. Finding Petty Officer Yardman's trail hadn't been all that difficult. Concentrating on the GI hangouts and clip joints, Tapia quickly learned that Yardman had won a considerable amount of money and had stayed in Juarez for over a month. His winning streak was remembered by the dealers in the clubs he favored. There was talk that when he started losing. Yardman borrowed heavily to keep gambling, before dropping out of sight. Some people thought he was still in Juarez, hiding from a loan shark, while others reported he'd left town.
If he was still around, nobody knew where. After a long night, Eddie left the strip and walked through a working-class neighborhood. The casitas were small and packed tightly together along the street, but the sidewalks were clean and the houses well cared for. There were no whores, hustlers, or junkies in sight. He came to a small plaza with a gingerbread bandstand in the center, a wrought-iron fence around the square, and tall shade trees. He sat by the gate of an old hacienda with high, whitewashed adobe walls and watched the morning parishioners on their way to early mass. The church, with two tall spires and a bell tower, also painted white, gave the neighborhood a small-town feeling. Opposite the church, the largest building fronting the plaza was a converted general store that had been turned into a nightclub, restaurant, and gambling parlor. Lettered in Spanish on the door was the name of the establishment: the Little Turtle. It was open for business, and morning customers-mostly locals on their way to work-ducked in for a quick roll of the dice, a cup of coffee, or breakfast.
It was a relief to get off his feet. Eddie's muscles ached, and the straps around his shoulders had rubbed the skin raw. He wanted a shower, with lots of hot water and clean, dry towels. It would have to wait. He rubbed the stubble on his chin and checked the grime under his fingernails. Next to the gambling house was a boarded-up cantina. The two front windows were covered with plywood. On the sidewalk, padlocked to a streetlight, was a homemade food cart. It had automobile tires for wheels, a tin awning supported by metal brackets, and a screaming-pink paint job.
A stern voice interrupted Eddie's preoccupation. 'Move on, jorobado. You cannot beg here.' The policeman standing over Eddie had small eyes above full cheeks, thick jowls, and a head much too big for his body. A pencil- thin mustache under a fat nose drew attention to his crooked teeth. Eddie smiled, reached into his pocket for some bills, and held out his hand.
'Perhaps you would allow me to stay.' The cop took the mordida. With the bribe transacted, he smiled at Eddie.
'What is your name?'
'Eddie.'
'I am Dominguez.' The cop was burly, broad chested and had a huge gut.
'You will not make much money this time of day.'
'No matter,' Eddie replied.
'I will rest for a while and be on my way.' Dominguez nodded and rubbed Eddie's hump for luck.
'Don't stay too long,' he warned, before lumbering away in the direction of the gambling house. Eddie watched Dominguez enter the nightclub. The door to the adjacent cantina opened and a man in a white apron hurried out carrying trays of food. He was a fair-skinned, blond gringo with a full beard that hid his face. Yardman was blond and the same size as the man in the apron. The man placed the trays in the cart and went back into the cantina. Soon a street vendor emerged, opened a compartment at the rear of the cart, and put a box inside. Then he removed the padlock and pushed the cart down the street. During the next half hour, carts arrived at the cantina on a regular basis and the same routine occurred.
The gringo brought the food, and the vendors stowed boxes in a compartment of each cart. To Eddie, it looked like the cantina was used to distribute more than just tacos to sell on the streets. He decided to get a closer look. He crossed the plaza, sat on the curb, and watched the next group of vendors. They stocked the carts with bags of marijuana and cocaine. 'Get out of here, pendejo.
'The gringo was behind him. As Eddie hurried to his feet, the gringo kicked him in the butt and shoved him off the curb into the street, glaring at him with bloodshot eyes. Keeping his temper, Eddie shuffled away, convinced the gringo wasn't Yardman. He decided to move on, find a telephone, and report in to Captain Brannon. Dominguez stopped him as he crossed the square.
'Did you have a problem with the gringo junkie?'
'Who?'
'Duffy. I saw him kick and push you.' Dominguez shook his head. 'That was wrong of him to do. I will tell Senor De Leon.'
'Senor De Leon?'
'A very important man. Well connected. He owns the Little Turtle.'
'Does he also own the cantina?'
'Of course. It is one of his businesses.'
'There is no need for you to tell the senor,' Eddie replied.
'You are wrong, my friend. If I do not tell him, someone else will, and I could lose a mordida I have come to
