Michael McGarrity - Tularosa

Everything was in order. The mordidas he paid to make the shipment legal and untraceable were minor compared to the profits. Delivery to the assembly plant was scheduled for the morning. Enrique employed a Japanese style of management. He stocked no unnecessary inventory and shipped only at the point of need. It made his business even more profitable by cutting the overhead for labor and storage. He walked through the warehouse, greeting the few employees on duty. Aside from the computer consignment, the only other scheduled delivery for the next day was VCR components to another large American company operating in Juarez. He used the old mercantile storeroom only for small, highly valuable commodities. It was made of hand-cut stone, three feet thick, and supported by huge timber beams. His other facilities, sprinkled throughout the city, were much larger but held no charm. He admired the old stone walls, the floor paving bricks, and the rough cut beams in the building. The restoration was expensive but the results were splendid.

He must do more with old buildings. When the hacienda was rebuilt, he would look around for another project. It gave him a feeling of fulfillment to preserve the heritage and history of the city. De Leon had decided to add one of the swords and scabbards from the missile range shipment to his collection of antiques. He would hang it over the fireplace at the hacienda. He also decided to keep Eduardo, the jorobado. The hunchback seemed intelligent. He would house him in the old cantina with Duffy until he was sure Eddie was trustworthy. If it worked out, Eduardo could do small, useful errands for De Leon when he wasn't entertaining customers. De Leon liked his decision. Now that the Little Turtle was fully revived and profitable, the hunchback would add good fortune to the casino. *** Major Tom Curry felt particularly good. His daily session at the piano had been a resounding success. Finally he could approximate the unique lefthanded roll of Erroll Gamer. He was so pleased with himself he ran through five renditions of "I'll Remember April" before his wife told him it was time to get dressed and go to work.

He entered Sara Brannon's office humming the bridge to the melody. She swiveled her chair away from the desk and stood up, her expression guarded.

"Relax, Sara," Curry said. "I'm not here to chew you out again."

"Major…" Tom cut her off with a wave of his hand. One apology was sufficient.

"It's a new day, Sara. Let's leave it at that. I have news for you. Our sister service, the Navy, has just informed me that Petty Officer Yardman turned himself in to the San Diego shore patrol a week ago. Your analysis was right on. It seems he went on quite a crime spree in Mexico to support his gambling habit. The police chased him from Juarez to Tijuana before he crossed the border. Nice of the Navy to let us know so promptly, wouldn't you say?"

"That is good news," Sara said, her voice brightening. She sat down at her desk and changed the subject.

"Agent Johnson called and gave me his preliminary findings."

"Did your story hold water?"

"So far. But there's more I need to tell you." Curry sat down in the chair in front of Sara's desk, his good mood evaporating.

"What is it?" he asked tersely. Sara took a deep breath and started talking. She held nothing back about Kerney's discovery of Gutierrez's inventory, his theory of the source of the treasure, and his decision to try to find the pipeline into Mexico. After the briefing. Curry left Sara's office feeling relieved and damn glad that this Kerney fellow was in Juarez, and not Sara. If what she said was true, and he had no reason to doubt her, the value of the treasure, historically and monetarily, was astounding. If artifacts of such importance vanished from the missile range, he would have to explain it to some very unhappy people with stars on their collars. And it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference that nobody knew about the treasure until it was stolen. The case was either a career-maker or career breaker for Sara. Failure to solve a case of such importance would dampen Curry's retirement party, which was not that far off. Curry didn't like that thought; it would be much better to go out on a high note. He went back to Sara's office and told her he wanted all available investigators assigned to the Yazzi homicide, and every piece of evidence, every interview, and every report gone over with a fine-tooth comb.

"Keep Tapia in Juarez," he ordered.

"Tell him to back up that sheriff's officer, if he can find him. And not a word to anybody about the treasure, Sara," he cautioned. "Keep it under wraps."

"Yes, sir." When Curry left, Sara almost whooped with delight as she reached for the phone. *** After midnight, the clientele at the Little Turtle changed, this time dramatically. The bohemians, young couples, families, and run-of-the-mill gamblers were gone, replaced by fashionable men and sleek ladies, some with bodyguards. The women were as elegant as any Eddie had seen in the fashion magazines Isabel brought home from the grocery store. The men were dressed in suits that cost more than Eddie made in three months, and sported watches of thick gold and jewels. The women favored diamond necklaces, pins, and earrings. De Leon had assigned a watchdog to Eddie, a middle-aged thug named Carlos. His face was pockmarked, his breath smelled of garlic, and he had an upper plate of false teeth that he constantly adjusted with his thumb. A bushy mustache completely covered Carlos's upper lip, and a low forehead gave him the appearance of a permanent frown. Eddie was told to greet arriving guests at the entrance. Carlos stayed with him, twitching his fingers at the hem of his suit coat to keep the shoulder holster under his armpit hidden. By two in the morning the Little Turtle resembled a commodities market for smugglers, drug wholesalers, and politicians.

Deals were being made by men throughout the room, in person and on cellular telephones, while the women gambled, drank, and socialized in small groups. Eddie made good money at the door, by Mexican standards, most of it in American dollars. Carlos, as a payment for his attentiveness, took half of it off the top. Enrique De Leon moved among his guests, occasionally glancing at the door to watch the jorobado, who seemed to be a popular attraction. De Leon wore a white linen banded collar shirt under a black linen jacket, with dark gray trousers. At his side, the director for cultural affairs solicited a donation.

"You know how important the Garcia Mansion is to the people of Juarez. And so close to the mayor's residence. We cannot allow it to be razed,"

Ramon Olivares said. De Leon looked down at him. Olivares, short, pudgy, and sweating, smiled up at him.

"It would be a tragedy," Enrique said.

"Have you plans for the building?"

"A fine arts museum. The mayor supports it."

De Leon nodded approvingly. "Have you a sum in mind?"

"We're asking one hundred thousand dollars from benefactors," Olivares replied.

"Of course, I'll participate," De Leon said, knowing Olivares would pocket 10 percent of the donations, "but Ramon, I'll want something more than my name on a plaque."

Ramon's smile turned into a knowing grin.

"As always. I have a Spanish Colonial wardrobe from the seventeenth century in storage. A modest piece, but significant. I had planned to consign it for auction. It would look perfectly at home in your hacienda, once the renovation is complete."

"What was to be the minimum bid?" De Leon asked.

"Five thousand dollars," Ramon replied, "but if it catches your eye, I would gladly present it to you as a gift." De Leon laughed and patted Olivares on the shoulder.

"You must show it to me. Do you like my jorobado?"

"He's wonderful." By the time Eddie was relieved of duty it was four in the morning and the crowd was rapidly thinning out. Carlos took him into the cantina and shackled his leg to the steel frame of the empty cot. Duffy, also chained for the night, was sprawled on his rack and snoring in spurts through an open mouth. Eddie, exhausted, tried to stay awake. He loosened the harness slightly to reduce the pain in his shoulders and stretched his muscles as much as he dared. He covered himself with a sheet to hide the hump and rolled on his side. One more day in the disguise was all he would chance. But with Carlos as his jailer, he would need to figure a way to escape. His eyes were heavy.