T Parker - The Renegades

“You presume to understand what I understand?”

“I don’t mind the company of the Devil, Mr. Herredia. I’m just a thief. If you feel closer to God, then I apologize to you and to Him. Very sincerely.”

Herredia looked at Draper for the first time. Draper saw no recognition in the black eyes. Then they were back on Bradley.

“How old are you?” asked Herredia.

“Eighteen.”

“Your driver’s license says seventeen.”

“I round up on the little things. But I always count the big things with extreme care and accuracy.”

“Such as in the luggage.”

“Yes.”

“Open the box slowly. Felipe has a knife.”

But Bradley flicked his wrist and a switchblade appeared and the blade clicked open. Draper saw the ripple of surprise in Herredia’s face. Bradley knelt and swept the knife across the taped seams-middle and both sides. He closed the knife with a one-handed flourish and dropped it into a pocket. He pulled out a red, green and white beach towel from one end, uncoiling it from within. Then another. The Mexican colors, thought Draper: cagey.

Bradley dropped the second beach towel to the floor and looked down into the box. All Draper could see was what looked like a glass bottle of water. There was something dark inside but the light reflected off the surface of the liquid and Draper could not make out what he was seeing.

Then Bradley reached down into the box and hefted out the bottle by its bottom. He held it outward toward Herredia.

Draper saw the head bobbing in the liquid and the long black hair floating just off the bottom. The head was pale. He couldn’t see the eyes or the expression of the face.

“This is the head of Joaquin Murrieta,” said Bradley. “He was my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. He is the same Joaquin Murrieta that you’ve read about-the legendary horse thief, marksman, gambler, seducer and generous benefactor of the poor.”

“Set him on my desk.”

Bradley stepped forward and set the jar in front of Herredia.

Draper watched El Patron peer into the jar. The head tilted and wavered slowly in the liquid, as if it were carrying on a conversation.

“His head was supposed to be lost in the San Francisco earthquake of 1906,” said Herredia.

“It was stolen the day before by his great-grandson, Ramon. It was passed down to my mother, the outlaw Allison Murrieta.”

“But where is the hand of Three-Fingered Jack?”

“It was never in the same jar with Joaquin. That was an error of history. There were many errors about Joaquin.”

“Fantastico,” said Herredia. “Felipe.”

The old man came forward and leaned his craggy face to the jar. His voice was a whisper: “Murrieta!”

With this, Bradley turned and looked at Draper, whose attention went back and forth between the head in the jar and the wide-eyed delight of Carlos Herredia.

Then Bradley turned back to El Patron. His voice was clear and calm. “I can’t let you have him, sir. He’s family. I wanted him to meet you. I want you to understand that I am who you need.”

Herredia frowned and snarled something to the men in the corners. They burst past Draper and closed in on Bradley, a pistol held to each of his temples as they wrenched back his arms and pushed him up hard against the iron desk.

“He is not a gift?” asked Herredia.

“I am your gift.”

Herredia stood and lifted his tremendous handgun and pushed the end of the barrel into Bradley’s chest.

Draper estimated the line of fire through Bradley’s heart and took a small step to his left.

“You bring me Murrieta then try to take him away from me?”

“I am Murrieta. You, of all the men on Earth, understand that.”

Herredia spit out a command and the men forced Bradley to his knees. Draper watched Herredia lean across the desk, brace himself on his left hand, and touch the barrel of the gun to Bradley’s forehead. Draper squinted at the dire tableaux.

Bradley said nothing. He didn’t bow his head. From where he was standing, Draper couldn’t see the expression on the boy’s face but he could see Herredia’s menace and when the hammer of the revolver locked back into place, the sound seemed to come from every corner of the room-from above and below, ahead and behind, from left and right.

“I do not like you,” said Herredia.

“I was hoping you would, sir.”

“You are not trembling. You look up at me with fear but without terror. Where is your terror?”

“I have faith in you instead.”

“Where did you get this faith in me?”

“From Draper. He’s a good judge of men, and he fears and loves you. As do I.”

Herredia looked at him and Draper held his gaze. Herredia straightened and set his gun back on the desk.

“Of what real use to you is this head?” he asked.

“It’s a family thing, sir. Like an old Christmas ornament passed down through generations. Or a cane carved by an ancestor. Or the metal shaving mirror that my great-great-grandfather brought home with him from World War I.”

Herredia gestured and sat back down and the gunmen lifted Bradley to his feet.

“Gracias, hombres,” said Bradley. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then straightened his back and shook his head as if to clear it.

Herredia looked him up and down, and smiled. “What is this? What has the new Murrieta done to himself?”

“I was hoping you’d overlook it.”

“I overlook nothing.”

Draper saw the sparkle of liquid on Bradley’s left boot, and the small pool of liquid on the floor.

“Actually,” said Bradley. “I felt a wee bit of terror.”

“Bravo, Jones,” said Herredia. “You are maybe a little less crazy than I thought you were. Coleman, take him to his room while we weigh the money. You will stay here tonight.”

Draper felt a flood of goodwill sweep into his heart. He couldn’t remember the last time that things had seemed so possible.

Bradley bowed deeply to Herredia, turned and followed Draper out.

Late the next morning Draper flashed his ID and shield to the U.S. agents manning the booth and they waved the Touareg through with only a cursory second look.

Picking up Interstate 5 north, Draper’s head pounded smartly from the night before. Herredia had insisted on a bacchanalia just like in the old days with Terry. He enjoyed impressing Bradley with his power and wealth and his taste in wine, women and guns. Draper looked over at Bradley, slumped, head bobbing, a weathered Stetson pulled down low, sunglasses slipping down his nose. The kid could party, no doubt about that.

“How does it feel to have five grand in your pocket, tax free?” asked Draper.

“I can’t feel my pocket.”

“Every week, month after month, year after year.”

“I’m not going to drink like that once a week.”

“Learn to control yourself.”

“I did exactly what I wanted to do.”

Draper sped north through National City, looked out at the great ships docked there, the massive warriors of the U.S. Navy in for repair and maintenance.

“It’s a great gig, Coleman. I wonder why you decided to cut me in.”

“This isn’t a job for one man.”

“There are plenty of other men. Why me?”

“Because we’re similar.”

“Yeah. Two arms, two legs and a hangover.”

“And because I see and understand you. I endorse your handling of Kick. Two can accomplish what one can only dream of. We have a future.”

Draper was aware of Bradley studying him over the sunglasses.

“You think you understand me,” said Bradley.

Draper said nothing but he knew he understood Bradley better than Bradley understood himself. Bradley was still a child. He believed that he deserved everything he had: his good mind and strong body and sharp eyes, Erin, his friends, his luck. But Draper saw foolishness in him, too, and he believed that Bradley would never discover his true self until much of what he had was taken away. Draper could help with that, especially with Erin, when the time was right-a bright moment in the future, something to look forward to, a diamond in a dark mine.