ITCH PARKED A FEW SPACES behind the Audi. He remained in the car, surveying the dilapidated, ethnically-mixed, forty-year-old trailer park. Two trailers down was parked a late-model, full-size Chevy two-door, its chrome glittering in the sun. Its two Hispanic occupants, both wearing backwards baseball caps and designer sunglasses, leaned on the horn, the wail only barely audible over the throbbing beat pounding at the windows of the surrounding trailers. The car sat low, its soft under-belly only inches from the crumbling asphalt. A young man, similar in appearance to the other head-bobbing Mexicans, bounded from the broken screen door of the trailer and propelled himself through the sleek automobile’s open door.
The car’s squat tires squealed and the front end vaulted from the ground, angling skyward. The back end of the car followed. When the car approached a faded yellow speed bump that stretched across the road, it slowed to a crawl. The gangly, pigeon-toed car eased prudently over the bump, dropped back near the ground, and once more bounced off to the beat of the music.
Mitch smiled to himself as he watched the engineering fiasco hop down the narrow drive.
Bino’s turquoise trailer was a single-wide with roll-out slatted windows. Most of its ramshackle, sun-bleached metal skirting lay on the ground, exposing the cinder blocks that held up the frame. Litter dotted the cobweb-infested ground under the trailer.
Mitch got out and walked up to the tiny three-step porch. When he placed his foot on the weathered 2-by-4s, the entire structure rocked and swayed, moaning at the load. Taking care not to put all his weight in one spot, he inched his way up onto the shower stall-size landing.
The smell of cigarettes oozed from the cracks of the windows and door, forced outside into the hot, dry air by a window-mounted swamp cooler. The squeaky, vibrating contraption leaked precious drops of life down the faded siding, forming a muddy puddle on the ground. At the edges of the puddle, a tall harvest of grass and weeds had sprung up.
Mitch knocked on the hollow door, which left his knuckles coated with a chalky, turquoise paint residue. He wiped them on his jeans.
Bino’s distinctive hack preceded his raspy voice. “. . . Who is it?”
“Mitch Wilson.”
The trailer shook at the approaching footsteps. Bino unbolted the door and thrust his head through the smoke-filled gap. “What you doing here?” His squinty eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the light.
“I need to talk to you.”
“How’d you find me?”
Mitch smiled. “In the phone book . . . Bernalillo.
Bino brushed off the perceived slight. “What do you want?” He hugged the door and shot an angry glance in the direction of the street. Mitch followed Bino’s gaze. There, walking a stocky bulldog on a leash, was an overweight man with a close marine haircut. The dark, tattooed arms and six-inch cigar trapped in his lips cast a lasting impression.
Mitch turned back to face his adversary. “Can I come in, or do you want me to talk out here where everyone can hear?”
“Can’t it wait ‘til later? . . . I’ll be at the station . . . later this afternoon . . .” The man on the street stopped, staring over at them. He reached up and drew the cigar from his mouth, then spit on the ground.
Mitch tapped his foot impatiently; he needed to get some answers. “I’m leaving town, remember?”
Bino hesitated and drew a breath. Finally he relented, easing the door open.
Mitch entered the darkened room and allowed his eyes to adjust to the stale, barroom atmosphere. Sound equipment boxes, stacked ceiling-high, covered not only every inch of wall space but every window as well. Each stack was marked as a different item. “Quite an inventory,” Mitch mumbled under his breath.
“It’s not what . . . it looks like,” Bino started to explain through sporadic wheezes. “I buy the close-out . . . and defective merchandise . . . from two major electronics . . . manufacturers. . . .”
“I know. Janice told me.”
“The kids buy it . . . cause they think it’s hot. The price is as good . . . as if it was stolen.”
Mitch surveyed the room. A single overstuffed recliner sat alongside an overburdened ashtray. The recliner faced a big-screen TV, which flashed a life-size dose of porno into the dismal setting.
“Hey, but I’ve never . . . sold you anything that’s . . . defective,” Bino hastily added, reaching for the remote. “Sorry. My . . . Sunday afternoon entertainment.” The screen went blank.
Mitch punctuated the point of his visit. “I need a loan.”
Bino dragged his oxygen tank from the door to a small kitchen and stuck the mask up to his nose. Then he slid a cheap plastic seat from the kitchen over to the easy chair and sat down, out of breath. “I was afraid . . . you’d come asking. How much?”
“Five grand.”
Bino pointed at the recliner. “Have a seat. . . . A loan? Can’t do.”
“What do you mean can’t?”
“Don’t have that much. . . . It’s all in inventory.”
Mitch lowered himself awkwardly onto the edge of the easy-chair. “You told me the other night . . .”
“You want hard cash . . .” Bino butted in. “I know. . . . But Vinnie’s money’s dirty. I’ve decided . . . I won’t loan it to you.”
“Hard cash?”
“A loan you can’t ever . . . pay back. Five plus interest . . . makes ten, add the fees . . . and you’ll owe twelve . . . plus a few favors. When . . . you make the payment . . . a day late . . . you owe a few more . . . favors.”
“I can handle Vinnie.”
“Sure! That’s what I thought . . . two years ago. Now . . . I gotta jump off . . . a speeding train with . . . both arms and hands . . . tied behind my back. . . . Kind’a like suicide. I’ve decided . . . it’s time to do it. . . . Got to give you . . . credit for giving me . . . the courage. You woke me up . . . the other night . . . when you jumped the fence. . . . I realized I was . . . stabbing my friends in . . . the back.”
“We can take him on together.”
“Look kid . . .” Bino’s laugh ended up in a coughing fit. When he’d quieted it, he went on. “You’ve been living . . . a sheltered life where most people do what . . . they say they’ll do. This’s a different world. . .. You step onto Vinnie’s turf . . . you’ll never get off. He’ll . . . own you, lock, stock . . . and air tools . . . ‘til you’re dead.”
“He’s already got my tool chest in the trunk of my goat.”
“Write it off and . . . stay clear. He wants . . . the rest of your . . . inventory, too.”
“Inventory?”
“He’s squeezin’ you, kid. . . . Don’t you get it? You didn’t . . . take his offer . . . and he don’t take no for an answer . . . he needs a good . . . body, fender and paint man. . . . The last one quit . . . and went to work for Mike. . . . Haven’t you put . . . two and two . . . together yet? He knows . . . you’re short on cash . . . and he wants you in . . . his back pocket.”
Mitch’s eyes blinked. It was as if a light had come on inside his head. “Vinnie killed the guy?”
Bino brought a finger up and touched the tip of his nose. “But don’t really know. . . . Vinnie, Clint . . . Ty, Franky, his . . . friends from Jersey? . . . What does it matter . . . who did it? Everybody knows he’s . . . the one responsible. . . . He practically brags about it. ‘Course, nobody . . . can prove it. He’s ready . . . to hang it on some other . . . sucker, ripe for the picking. . . . A message . . . to everyone else . . . not to screw with him.”
Mitch shook his head. “You lost me.”
“Don’t matter. Said way . . . more than I should’ve . . . anyway. I’ve got . . . three hundred and change. . . . Pay me back . . . later, no fees– if I’m . . . still around when . . .” A second coughing spell bit off Bino’s words. He looked up, teary-eyed. “In a few months . . . I should have a . . . a couple’a grand. It’s . . . yours, too.” He pulled a wallet from his back pocket, emptied it of cash, and pressed the money forward.
“You’re talking crazy. If you’re in that much trouble, go to the FBI or something.”
“Been there, done that . . . and now I’m here. Look . . . I’ve lived a life . . . after my own making . . . rebelled against the . . . family traditions . . . trashed my body and . . . destroyed the lives of those . . . that depended on me. . . . Now it’s time to pay . . . the conductor or . . . get off the train. And . . . I’m getting off.”
Bino stood, drew a smoke from his pocket and pressed it to his lips, then stepped to open the door. “You can’t get on . . . this train kid. It’s full.” The unlit Camel fluttered up and down in Bino’s lips. “Besides, its . . . final destination is Hell . . . and you don’t belong there.” He drew a lighter from his pocket and lit the cigarette, then aimed it at the open door. Mitch stepped onto the rickety landing. “You even try . . . to get on and I’ll . . . have the cops on you . . . so fast you’ll think you’re . . . drowning. Remember, I . . . got a whole family full . . . of ‘em. Have a good trip.” Bino shut the trailer door in Mitch’s face.
Mitch stood on the porch, stunned. He could hear Bino hacking from inside his self-imposed dungeon. A string of domestic screams emanated from a trailer three or four doors down. He slowly climbed from the landing and into Stephanie’s car. Now what was he going to do? The little car started, sputtered, and quit. What was that? he wondered. Maybe it did need a new fuel pump. Mitch cranked over the ignition again. The little car purred. Strange. . . .
Next stop would be Mike’s to pick up a few tools for his trip.
The weight of his financial predicament seemed to grow heavier by the hour.
Stephanie sampled the fried cabbage and added more salt. The green glow of the clock on the counter said one o’clock. And Mitch wasn’t back. The cabbage was rapidly becoming too soft and the beans too dry. She lifted one bare foot and rested it in the back of the opposite knee as she turned off the burners to the stove. Her ankles were feeling a bit swollen.
I’m sorry, Mitch. Maybe I did mess up your files. It’s been so long since I’ve been in them I can’t remember . . . She rehearsed the lines in her mind. She wanted to be the first to apologize this time, beat Mitch to the punch. He always was so quick to say “I’m sorry”–even if he wasn’t in the wrong. It wasn’t that way for her growing up. Everyone in her home blamed everyone else. No one ever used the word “sorry.” It was from Mitch that she’d learned the power of those simple words. Within seconds an “I’m sorry” could suck the fire right out of a fight.
Stephanie retreated to the living room, propped her feet up for some Bible reading, and tried not to be cranky about the meal getting cold. She could hear Al and Joan quarreling next door. Before a minute had passed, their screen door slammed shut and a coffee cup crashed out on the driveway.
I’m sorry I upset you with my comments about church. I’ll wait ‘til you’re ready to come with me, Stephanie repeated again, wondering which apology would be best to start with. Then she opened her Bible.
Mitch pulled up to the locked gate of Mike’s Body Shop and rattled the chain-link fence. Mike always came from the trailer to open up if it was locked, but no one stirred. “Mike, you there?” he yelled. Still no response. Mike’s brown 4x4 was parked next to the trailer where it normally sat. Either Mike was in the can, or something had to be wrong. Mitch had a hunch it was the latter.
Hoisting himself up, Mitch perched himself precariously on the wobbly gate, straddling the three strands of barbed wire that ran along the post. Not a very comfortable position, he thought. Gaining some leverage, he rocked his body and pushed off over the gate, dropping into the yard.
Hands cupped around his eyes, he pressed his face up to the small window at the bay door. The shop was dark. Everything was in its place. The locked door confirmed the fact that Mike wasn’t there.
Making his way to the adjacent trailer, he banged on the flimsy door. Still no answer. He reached for the doorknob. It, too, was locked. But as he drew his hand away, the door clicked open. Mitch shot a guilty look toward the street, then pulled open the door and called, “Mike, you here?”
The bathroom was the only place in the small trailer outside of Mitch’s view. Dirty dishes cluttered the tiny stainless steel kitchen sink, providing nourishment to several dozen flies. Olive green carpet and color-coordinated curtains dated the place. The fold-out bed was down and unmade, and the trailer smelled moldy–in a dry sort of way. Mitch shooed at the flies buzzing around his face and rapped on the bathroom door. “Mike?” It seemed strange that Mike wouldn’t be here when his pickup was parked out in the yard. Mitch reached for the knob.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice boomed. Mitch jumped and wheeled around. There, his head poked through the doorway, was Mike, a wide grin across his face. “Plugged toilet; smells like a dead rat in there.”
“Crud, Mike, you scared the crap out of me.”Mike chuckled and swung the door wide. “That’s what you get for snoopin’ in another man’s castle.”
Mitch didn’t even crack a smile. “I wasn’t snooping.”
“You weren’t? Looked to me like you were about to open the door to my commode. What if I’d been in there on my throne?”
“It’s just that you didn’t answer, and your truck was here.”
“Lighten up, man. Givin’ you a hard time, is all. I just picked up a customer’s car and was bringing it back. You need a few tools for your trip?”
“If you don’t mind.” Mitch exited the trailer.
As they made for the shop, Mike pulled his greasy hair up over his thinning scalp and took his keys from his pocket. “What’s up? The GTO still got you down?” He slowed his step to wait for Mitch, then reached over and gave him a slap on the back.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Right. . . you are. You look like someone just killed your best friend.” He fit the key in the door.
“Money’s just a little tight.”
“You were countin’ on the sale of the goat to pay the bills, weren’t you?”
Mitch nodded. “Rent’s way past due; credit cards, too.”
“Them cards’ll screw you up somethin’ awful. Don’t own a one of ‘em anymore. The ex and her cards got me in more trouble than I care to think about.” Both men entered the shop and Mike flipped on the lights. “I’ve been askin’ around about your car. I think I got a possible lead.”
“Forget it. I already know who has it, and it’s not worth the trouble.”
Mike glared at the corner of the room, where a hidden, voice-activated camera took slow-motion pictures of their visit. Linked to a concealed microphone, the surveillance equipment recorded every move and word of their conversation. “Who do you think took it?”
“Doesn’t matter. Best thing for me to do now is see if I can find a buyer for the Camaro.”
“That’s it? Mitch Wilson, state champ, four-point-O student, daddyto-be’s just gonna bend over and take a screwin’ from some punk Mexican kid?”
“You trying to tick me off?” Mitch calmly asked. “Because if you are, it won’t work. There’s a lot more at stake than a car.”
Mike stood with his back to the camera, his eyes doing a dance between Mitch and the garage door. “You ain’t got the guts!” Mike sneered, his voice rising. “You’re gonna let six months of your own sweat and blood drive away, and do nothin’ about it.” Mitch was staggered by the display. Mike sounded angry, but somehow his face didn’t look angry.
Mitch was growing more confused by the second. “What’s the matter, Mike?”
Mike bent over a tool chest drawer and began tossing tools into a canvas bag. As he did, he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “Just get
mad at me and walk out. I’ll explain later. . . .”
“What?”
“Walk out!” Mike banged the tools on the work bench. “Get the
hell out!” He clenched his teeth and jaw.
Still puzzled by his boss’s behavior, Mitch headed for the door.
“Later,” he said.
Mike snatched up the bag of tools and cut Mitch off. “Hold on–
better take the tools!” Mitch stopped in the doorway, completely off
balance. Mike slapped at the light switch, locked the door and walked
silently toward the gate, Mitch in pursuit.
“What was that all about? You smelling too many paint fumes or
something?”
Mike’s voice lowered. “Just open your trunk and pretend like you’re
arguing with me. Trust me. . . .”
Mitch glanced around to see what the show was all about, then
popped the trunk. The second it opened Mike flung the tools inside
and slammed it down. Again, in contrast to his actions, his voice remained calm. “Now, get in . . . drive two blocks down and wait for me
in front of Chandler’s Electric. Got that?” He pumped his arms in a
threatening gesture and waved Mitch off.
Mitch climbed in the car and backed away from the gate. What in
the world is going on? Bino talks like he’s going to die, Mike’s lost his
mind . . . . I don’t need any more of this. When he reached the electrical outlet he drove right on by. Then, about three blocks past, he pulled
over to the curb to sort it all out. Wait a minute. . . . How did Mike know
the car thief was Mexican? I never told him that. . . . The last body and
fender man went to work for Mike. What does he have to do with all
this? I’m not a coward–I just can’t take the risk. My kids aren’t going
to grow up without a dad. . . . He wrestled with his thoughts, then
asked himself, What would Grandpa do? He’d fight, that’s what. Mitch turned the car around and pulled up in front of Chandler’s the
same time Mike arrived. I’ll just see what he has to say. Mike obviously wasn’t in the mood to pussy-foot around. “Park it
and climb in.”
“You’re nuts. Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
Mike climbed from his car and walked around to the passenger door of the Escort, placing his forearms on the open window jamb. “I’m going to lose my butt for this. . . .” He took a deep breath. “Truth is, I’m Federal Agent Mike Hale.” He pulled a badge from a garter strap at his calf.
“A cop!” Mitch opened the driver’s door to climb out.
Mike stopped him. “Hear me out, Mitch. I couldn’t talk in the shop because we were being monitored. I’ve wanted to bring you in and put you on our team. But the ASAC thinks you’re as dirty as the next guy.
“ASAC?”
“Assistant Special Agent in Charge. Matter of fact, I’m the one who’s kept the Vegas PD from picking you up for the armed robbery the other night.”
“Dammit! I didn’t rob anybody. Doesn’t anybody understand? I saved the guy’s life. He was about to blow his brains out.”
“That’s not how the conductor saw it.”
Mitch’s heart began to race. “Screw the conductor! All he saw was me trying to make sure the guy was okay.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“Look, the thing brought back some ugly memories, okay?”
“I’ve seen your file; I’ll take your word for it. But we need to talk to my boss–both of us together.”
“I thought you were my friend. This whole time you’ve been playing me . . .”
“Right now I’m your only friend. I just put my tail on the line to tell you what this is all about. If I don’t lose my job or get demoted to some desk job it’ll be a miracle.”
“That’s how you knew about the Mexican kid?”
“I’m the agent assigned to this case until I get into Vinnie’s pocket, or even close. You’re my only chance. I’ve been following you the last few days.”
Mitch slammed his palm on the steering wheel, got out of the car, and slammed the door shut. “You’ve been spying on me?”
Mike leaned his arms on the little car, speaking across its roof. “Saw you jump the fence at the Husky the other night and scare the hell out of Bino. Saw you stop by his place this morning. . . . By now you know enough to get yourself killed.”
“How does Bino fit into all this?”
“Can’t say. Look, all you need to do is get me in the door. We’ll clear you of the possible armed robbery charges and try to get your car back. In the end, you walk away free and clear . . .”
“Free and clear my eye! Last time a cop told me that I got six months.”
“Won’t happen. I’ll take it to the press and force the issue, if I have to. I’ve been warning my boss you were going to get hurt over this thing from the beginning . . .”
“I’m already hurt. I’m about to get kicked out of my house, I’ve been lying to my wife, my car was stolen–along with nearly every tool I own–I think somebody’s been playing with my credit, and now you’re kicking my butt. I’ve got no protection at all, man.” Mitch raised his hands in the air to emphasize the point.
“Just get me in the door. That’s all you need to do. I give you my word.”
Mitch turned his back and sank down on the front fender. “What do you have in mind?”
“How soon is your flight?”
“What time is it?”
“Two.”
“Four hours.”
“Good, we’ve got time. If we can see Vinnie before you go, we’ll get a ticket for your wife and send you both out of town a few days.”
“No, no, no. I don’t want her involved in any of this.”
“All she’ll know is you’ve decided to take her with you–get a little R and R. With any luck, I’ll be in the door far enough to keep you clear when you get back.”
“With any luck. . . . And if you can’t get in the door?”
“We’ll deal with that when we come to it. Here, call Bino and tell him you need a job and a few bucks.” Mike drew out his phone and dialed.
“He won’t do it.”
“Tell him.” Mike handed over the phone.
Mitch held it to his ear and threw Mike a nasty look. The phone rang once and Bino answered.
“It’s Mitch. Say, I need that job you mentioned, and a loan.”
“Like I said . . . you’re over your head, kid. . . . Way over.” The phone clicked.
Mitch flicked the phone on the seat between them. “I told you–he won’t do it.”
“Not so fast. You’re going to need it.”
“He told me he won’t help. He’s done stabbing his friends in the back.”
Mike waited. The phone rang. “It’s for you,” he said.
Mitch punched “on” and raised the phone. “Yeah?”
“Three Queens . . . on Bridger. Dial 2113 . . . at the elevator.” Bino hung up.
“Three Queens on Bridger,” Mitch repeated.
Mike nodded. “That’s Vinnie’s thirteenth-floor penthouse. Now we’re getting somewhere. Give him some song and dance about you changing your mind ‘cause I’m going out of business and you’ll be out of work. Look his shop over and tell him you need equipment. And make sure he knows we come as a package. . . . I’ll supply all the equipment. Remind him that you’ll be gone a week, but you can start right away when you get back. He’ll want to talk to me about terms. Call me on this number.” Mike jotted his cell number on a Post-it and slapped it on the dash. “Don’t take his money. I’ll wait for your call.”
“But I’ve got to pay the rent.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll have the agency take care of it tomorrow.”
“I don’t like this one bit.”
“It’ll be fine. I’ve never lost a snitch yet.”
Mitch started to get back in his car. Mike tapped on the hood to offer one last word. “If anyone ever asks about the deal in the shop a few minutes ago, tell ’em you finally got pissed off enough about your car to do something about it.”