Three weeks later
Perry let the county SUV creep along a dusty, narrow street. This was not one of his favorite areas to patrol, but it was in his territory, and he usually found something to deal with. Once, Fuego de Oro had been another mining camp. That was probably at least seventy-five years ago. Now it was a shantytown where the down-and-out camped. When they had been displaced from Esperanza, the folks who did not get jobs elsewhere came here. They patched up the crumbling adobes and cobbled together huts from the ruins of older cabins and shacks. A ragtag mixture of older Latino couples and the less ambitious of their children and grandchildren, along with some real riffraff that preyed on them, had claimed the dead town.
The old company at Esperanza had allowed people to live in cheap company housing if so much as one family member was an employee. That meant as long as a son mined or a daughter worked in an office, the old folks had a place to stay. That ended. Perfectly livable houses sat vacant behind a prison-style, chain-link fence, but the company didn’t give a shit. That sucked, especially when it ended up this way. Perry shook his head, shoving his anger to the back of his mind. There wasn’t a fucking thing he could do except try to help anyone he came across who’d accept assistance without making demands.
At that moment, a kid darted out from one of the dark shacks. A few shacks had electricity, but most didn’t. He wasn’t sure about water and sewer. There were some outhouses, he knew. He braked as the child circled the vehicle to his side. He rolled down the window. “What’s the matter, mi’jo?”
He used the familiar term, an abbreviation of mi hijo or my son. Most grandparents used that for the boys in their family.
“Mama, she won’ wake up. Me and Nita are hungry. Poppi went to town to the bar, and he busted mama’s phone. Said all she did was call the drug dealer on it.”
Perry swore under his breath. The situation was so typical. “Okay, let me see if I can get your mama to wake up. Ella esta boracho?”
The drug of choice here was meth, but some used pot, coke, or even heroin. There was no way to know what the child’s mother had taken. Maybe she was just drunk. People often turned to alcohol when other drugs could not be had.
The small boy shrugged. “Yo no se. Creo que no.”
I don’t know, but don’t think so. As he mentally translated, Perry got out and followed the ragged child to the nearest shack.
He had to use his flashlight since there did not seem to be any lights. The thin woman sprawled on a broken-down couch, spittle dribbling from her slack mouth. She was breathing. He took that as a positive sign. He put two fingers against her neck and found a jerky pulse. After that, he shook her to no effect, not hard although with force enough to have wakened a person from normal sleep. On a box at one end of the couch, he found a crude pipe holding a crystalline residue. Shit. No telling what it was—probably meth. He didn’t doubt it was a drug. He dug a baggie out of his pocket and slid the pipe into it. It would have to be tested to find out what she’d been using.
Nothing to do but call the EMTs since the girl—he could hardly call her a woman, though she appeared to have a son about six and a daughter maybe three or four—seemed to be suffering an overdose. He could not smell alcohol, but her breathing was increasingly ragged, and the pulse he felt was, too. The county would have to take charge of the kids since he saw no other adult in the hovel.
When the ambulance arrived, several people emerged from adjacent hovels, but they lingered in the shadows. None approached. Perry could see the EMT crew was not happy, although they would do their job efficiently. Dealing with drug issues had become all too common lately, and he knew they hated it. Car wrecks, mostly with DWI involved, and domestic abuse situations were other major issues requiring their services. None of it was fun—picking up the messes left behind by human weakness, meanness, and stupidity. That was a big part of Perry’s job, too.
He’d have to take the kids to the shelter in Riata. They were both dirty and poorly dressed. The little girl sniffled, snot streaming down her face. The boy wiped her nose with the ragged tail of his shirt as Perry put them into the back seat. Before he settled in the front where Badger watched the proceedings with a hint of disdain, an older woman approached out of the covering darkness.
“Un momento. I have to tell you this. It’s the skinny, ugly one, El Feo. He sold her the shit. He’s trying to get my daughter hooked, too, but I tell her it’ll kill her baby if she does it. So far, she won’t, but he’s the one you need to find, take him off the street. That pendejo. Candy man, they call him, but I call him el caca. Get him. He lives in Riata or maybe La Bajada.”
“I’ll try,” Perry said. “I know the results of the poison he peddles. I’ve seen what it does. Gracias. Any information helps.”
Before he could ask her name or anything else, the woman scuttled away. Perry started the SUV and turned back toward town. A dark mood settled over him as he drove. Even if he caught this dealer and the guy was convicted and locked up, even if he squealed on ten levels above him, almost up to the cartel, there would be a dozen more to take his place.
Sometimes Perry wondered why he even tried. Although he knew he never would, he could almost see why some cops went rogue, either turning to crime or trying to kill anyone they even suspected was dealing drugs or doing anything else illegal.
For an instant, a chilling doubt swept over him. The skinny one—it seemed like this guy was a new dealer in the area since he’d only heard the nickname a time or two before, all recently. The skinny one—that could describe Ike. Even after three weeks of decent meals, the guy was still very thin. He’d been in town exactly twenty-three days. As far as Perry knew, he worked ten or twelve hours most days, and the rest of the time was either sleeping or doing chores around Perry’s. Still, Perry was on duty for ten hours or more five days a week and sometimes got called out on his days off. There was a lot of time he had no way to know where Ike was or what he was doing…
No, it couldn’t be. He had a gut feeling about Ike, one he’d had from the first. The lean man was a good person, trying his best to atone for and leave behind the result of his one mistake. Ike didn’t want to go back to prison, so why would he be pushing drugs? He wouldn’t, but there would be many who’d suspect him. Perry had to find the real El Feo and find him soon, before Ike was fingered for crimes he did not commit.
* * * *
Returning to Riata, Perry drove by the shelter operated jointly by the Catholic Church and a group of concerned citizens. Anabelle Vega was on duty at the front desk. He’d never really been interested in women, but if he had been, he would have dated Anabelle. She wasn’t the prettiest woman around, but an inner sweetness radiated from her smile. Kids loved her.
“Oh, no, I see you’ve got Mr. Delgado’s grandkids again. That means he’s drunk or off getting drunk, and his daughter is probably stoned out of her mind or took off with some guy.”
“So, you know them. I don’t think I’ve brought them in before, and I wasn’t sure who they were. The boy ran out to intercept me and said he couldn’t wake his mother up and they were hungry. She wasn’t in good shape, maybe an overdose. The EMTs took her in. And yes, the kids said Poppi was gone.”
Anabelle shook her head, sadness clear in her pale gray eyes. “There are so many now, with the mine closed. Whoever is left is struggling to survive. Most of them turn to alcohol or drugs or both. As far as I know, Rosa Delgado’s never been married, but she has these two kids—and she’s not really old enough, much less mature enough, to be a mother. This time, the state may just take them.” She sighed.
“Probably best if they do,” Perry said, jolted when he heard his own harsh tone. Most of the time, he didn’t take things to heart this much. Maybe like Anabelle said, it was just so many. Life seemed to get more harsh, more cruel, all the time. Like Ike—nothing he’d seen so far showed a man who deserved to go to prison, deserved to be suspected…Oh, shit, he needed to get his head back straight. Maybe he’d ask Ben for a few days off and go somewhere, even if it was winter. Hardly the time for a fishing trip or a campout. Still, he felt a need to get away and turn his back on the constant troubles for a short time.
Knowing the children would be fed and cared for, he went back to the SUV and then paused, not sure where to go next. The radio had been quiet most of the evening. It was cold and windy, felt like another storm blowing in. One often did, about a week or two before Christmas. If drug dealers were out, he’d have next to no chance to stumble upon them. So what should he do?
Maybe he’d go get some coffee. The wind left a chill in his bones. Suddenly, he felt an urgency to see Ike, to know the former prisoner was okay and not in any trouble. Maybe he’d still be at the diner. It wasn’t a logical urge, but he rarely ignored such a strong hunch. Turning at the next corner, he headed for Dot’s.
* * * *
Ike worked through the afternoon at Dot’s. It was a slow day. He watched curlicues of dust twist down the street and clouds go scudding by to the north and east, gradually growing thicker and darker. Not many folks were out and about. With just over a couple of weeks until Christmas, he figured anyone with money was off to one of the bigger towns to do holiday shopping. Even though he had a little money saved, he was hoarding that to try to find a place to rent for himself and the little red dog. At first, he had thought to call the mutt Esperanza. Now that word had too many bad connotations. In time, he’d think of something. For now, he was just Rojito or Little Red Dog.
Perry kept saying they were welcome to stay at his place as long as they wanted. And he hadn’t done a thing to cast any doubt on his sincerity. It was more that Ike still wasn’t comfortable taking charity—not from anyone. He already owed Perry more than he could ever repay. As much as he wished he could get his new friend something special for Christmas, he had no idea what the deputy might need or want.
The sun was sliding into the hazy sky at the edge of the mountains when Dot arrived. She checked the till and sighed. “Slow day, huh?”
Ike nodded. “Yeah, seems like everyone has gone to the city today. I served a couple of cars going through town and needing a quick meal, but that was about it.”
“Well, you can hang around if you want even though you’re now off the clock. Can’t afford to pay you for what I can do. Still, you’re welcome to cook yourself something or have some of the menudo I’m fixin’ to make, seeing as how tomorrow is Sunday. It’s the sovereign hangover cure, you know.”
Ike had to grin. “Oh, yeah, I remember that from the old days. Ate my share of it on some Sundays way back when.” He studied the floor for a moment and then looked straight at the café owner. “Everything that I get from customers goes into the cash drawer,” he said. “I just wanted to be sure you knew. When I’m cooking and stuff, I don’t take tips.”
Dot nodded, then gave him a smile. “I know. I wouldn’t have you workin’ here if I didn’t trust you. Yeah, you were in the pen, but that’s over and done. I call you honest until you prove me wrong, and I don’t figure you will.”
Ike gave a slow nod. “Thanks for that. It’s hard, making a new start and hoping a few folks will have some faith in you. First, it was Perry, and then you and the sheriff. Thank the saints for the three of you.” He fell silent for a few breaths. “Think I’ll head on home, er—over to Perry’s, that is. He’s working split shift tonight. If he gets in early, I’ll fix him something unless he stops here first. If he’s eaten, then I’ll just get breakfast for him in the morning before I go down to clean the jail. I owe him a lot.”
With that, Ike turned and walked toward the door, followed by Dot’s chuckle. “It’s home, Ike. At least for now and maybe longer.”
What did she see that he either had missed or was denying to himself? His slip had jolted him. No, this was not home. He didn’t have a home, yet or still. Then his boss’s comment made it much worse. Maybe he needed to move on.
He was about halfway to Perry’s house when a shiny black SUV with dark tinted windows pulled up beside him. The window on the passenger side slid down an inch. Ike kept walking. Something about the vehicle stood the hair up on the back of his neck. This was not anyone he wanted to talk to or even be seen near.
“Hey, muchacho, stop right there. Got a message for you.”
The voice was low, with a faint accent Ike could not quite place. Although it might have been Latino, it didn’t sound quite right. As much as he wanted to flee, he stopped. Hell, there could be a gun pointed at him. Dusk had fallen, and with the tinting, he couldn’t see anything inside the car.
“You need to move on, get outta here. This is not your turf. And if you’re the one they’re calling El Feo, quit trying to deal in our territory unless you want your clock stopped.”
Before he could frame a denial, the car sped away, rounded a corner, and vanished. Although he tried to blow it off as a prank, the encounter left him rattled. He was even too shaken to try to get a license number. He stumbled the two blocks to Perry’s house and let himself in by the back door.
His wish to cook had faded, but he decided being busy might help counteract his sudden case of nerves. Doubts he had managed to hold at bay swept in, blotting out the glimmers of hope that had barely begun to glow. He probably wanted, expected, way too much. Swearing in both English and Spanish, he dragged out a mixing bowl and a big, cast iron frying pan. The little red dog crept close, looking up at him with worried eyes.
“It’s okay, kid. I ain’t mad at you.” He poured some kibble into the dog’s new dish and added a few scraps he trimmed off the pork steaks he’d started to slice into fajita-sized strips.