J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

“You had Nesbitt killed? César put you up to it.”

The question surprises him as he’s taking a sip. He spits his drink back into the glass. “Is that what you think? Then you really have drunk the Kool-Aid, March. Nesbitt got himself shellacked because the fear got to him. If I had people back home willing to assassinate on my orders, you really think you’d be walking around today? But I’ll admit,” he says with a mirthless laugh, “things couldn’t have worked out any better for me. César was happy being a drug lord and wasn’t interested in helping Nesbitt dismantle the cartel. He wanted Nesbitt out, and Nesbitt got out. So what if I took the credit? Then the Bureau stepped in and Ford tells me all they want is one last favor.”

“The arms trade?”

“You got it. Are you familiar with Operation Gunrunner, the ATF’s attempt at stopping the flow of guns to Mexico? Huge failure. They didn’t bag any of the big fish, for all their posturing. This would be different, though, because César is a hands-on kind of guy. He’d want to do the deal himself. I knew him well enough at that point to make it happen.”

“And that was supposed to go down tonight?”

“Well,” he says, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Things started going crazy after Nesbitt’s little psycho got into the picture. He killed one of Ford’s men, thinking he was Ford himself, only the guy didn’t know anything. If Ford had come to me, I would have walked him through the situation, but he got this lunatic idea of passing the dead man off as himself-and to do that, he needed major assistance. He went to Englewood. The thing you have to know about this Ford guy is, he thinks he’s a player. I can sympathize. I thought I was, too. But these guys are snakes; you can’t handle them without getting bit. Englewood turned him out just like Nesbitt did to me, and since then it’s been a roller coaster.”

“The deal was tonight,” I tell him, “and it all went wrong. Which means the Jefe knows you’re not on his side, and he’ll be coming for you.”

“Consider this, March. If the deal was tonight, then Ford would have had backup waiting to swoop in. Where are they? I don’t see any flashing lights.”

“Don’t let that fool you,” I say, hoping he won’t call my bluff.

He doesn’t. “What do you want from me, March? I can sense an offer coming.”

“I want César. And I want Englewood, too. Can you deliver them or not?”

“Are you asking, will I testify against them?” He shakes his head dismissively, but then a strange look comes over him. Realization dawning. “You’re offering me a lifeline, is that it?”

“I’m not offering you anything. But if you can help me bring those men down, then I’ll get you out of here somehow. Otherwise, I’ll just walk you into the nearest police station. You make the call.”

“Can I take a moment to think it over?”

“Go ahead.”

He pours himself another drink, the tinkle of ice against glass. My mind fills with the logistical impossibility of smuggling an injured man like Ford and a wanted felon like Keller back into the country. I don’t trust the local police, who’d have too many questions about my presence, and there’s no one I can call to part the waters on my behalf. Even Bea couldn’t do all that-and if she could, I doubt she would. Bringing all this into the light was never part of her plan.

I could always gun the engine past the Mexican side of the bridge and then turn myself in at the other end, like Cold War asylum seekers jumping the Berlin Wall.

What am I even doing here? Cutting a deal with Reg Keller? Risking anything for this man is insane. Maybe I’m the one who’s been sucked too far down, my moral compass spinning. How do you reckon which is the lesser of all available evils? Nothing makes sense but to flush them all down, and myself along with them.

Prosecutors cut deals like this all the time, I tell myself. But that’s the reason I could never stomach working as a prosecutor. I don’t want to cut the deals. It’s not in me.

Big Reg gets up out of the chair, the ice sloshing in his glass. He crosses the room, giving the revolver a wide berth. His pet bird starts flapping as he approaches. Downing the dregs of the mojito, he flips the cage door open. “Fly free, little man.”

“You’ve made your decision?”

He turns to face me. “Get me out of here, March, and I’ll do it.”

I hate myself for saying the words: “It’s a deal.”

Under my watchful eye, Keller takes two minutes to pack a bag and then leads the way out. Despite the open cage, the bird still twitches on its perch inside, afraid to come out. Reg pauses, shaking his head.

“Goes to show,” he says, walking through the door.

From the top of the stairwell I can see down the alley to my car parked on the street. It’s lit from behind by a pair of headlights, though the other vehicle is out of view. My passenger door hangs open, but there’s no sign of Ford.

I reach my hand out to keep Keller from descending. He stops just as two men step into the mouth of the alley. One of them raises a hand in greeting, and I recall him from the crowd of heavies outside the cantina.

“These guys with you?” Keller asks, turning on the step.

I’m already raising my pistol as the first man fires.

The only thing that saves us is that our sudden appearance at the top of the stairs is as much a surprise to them as their entry into the alleyway is to us. They loose the first shot, but it’s fired in haste and zings past my left ear. My answer comes in a wild, unaimed volley, spraying and praying, the flash of the muzzle in the darkness temporarily blinding me.

Somehow I grab a handful of Keller’s shirt with my free hand, dragging him back up the stairs. The other end of the alley explodes, bullets tearing past us.

As I pull him off the landing and onto the veranda where we’re shielded from view, Keller flinches and slaps his hand to his neck, as if he’s swatting a mosquito.

“Are you-?”

My voice chokes off as the first pulse of blood drains through his clenched fingers.

I stick my gun around the corner and fire down the stairs. The bricks near my wrist burst open, showering me with dust. I pull my hand back before they shoot it off, hustling Keller back into the apartment.

The lights are still on, so I waste precious seconds flipping the switches and kicking the lamp’s power cord free from the wall socket. Moonlight pours in through the glass louvers, making the blood down the side of Keller’s neck and down his shirt look black as oil. With both hands on the wound he lumbers down a short hallway into the lavatory.

Alone in the living room, I crouch at the corner of the window farthest from the door, which affords the best view of the top of the stairs. I push the louvers open, wide enough for the muzzle of my gun. From here I can see them before they spot me, and when they return fire, the apartment wall should afford some protection. My hand goes instinctively to my belt, searching for the spare magazine loaded with 9mm hollow points. I switch mags again, just as I did at the gate on the highway, so no matter how one-sided the fight is, at least I’ll be going into it with a fully loaded weapon.

Footsteps on the stairs. It’s hard to tell, but in my imagination it sounds like more than two men ascending. From my vantage point, the veranda runs parallel to the apartment wall, dead-ending at an L-shaped turn that leads to the landing at the top of the stairs. When they come up, they’ll be silhouetted against the building across the alley, having to cross my field of fire to reach the veranda. The numbers are on their side, but the ground is mine.