Michael McGarrity - Tularosa

He prodded her through the large room, past a pile of tarpaulins and rags, to a massive wooden door anchored in the bedrock by thick iron hinges. He raised the heavy latch and pulled the door open. The air, cool and stale-smelling, rushed out. Sara recoiled, so he jabbed her again in a kidney to force her to move.

"Get in," he ordered, pointing the beam of the flashlight into the pitch-black room. He pushed her to her knees and lit a kerosene lamp that hung from the low ceiling.

"Stand up and turn around," he said when the lamp was burning. Sara did as she was told. The rock walls of the tiny room were uneven and black with soot. The jagged ceiling was inches above her head. The lamp cast a pale glow.

"Is this what you wanted to show me?" she asked. Meehan nodded and poked at some rotting boards with the toe of his shoe. A dozen insects scurried into view.

"Scorpions?" Sara asked.

"Big ones," Meehan confirmed, lifting the lamp off the hook and setting it on the ground.

"Heat attracts them. Especially body heat. Some of them drop from the ceiling. Keep your chin up." She stared at Meehan with loathing. He stepped back, swung the door shut, and threw the latch.

"I'll try to get back before the lamp runs out of fuel," he called to her.

"If not, keep yourself entertained."

"Screw you," Sara replied. She barely heard Meehan's receding laughter as he walked away, her attention riveted on the ceiling. The thought of scorpions falling on her made her shudder. She saw an insect dart from under a board and squashed it with her boot. She killed several more before she realized that she was crying. *** Eddie sat in his car feeling frustrated. Bordertown Storage Company was a series of long, rectangular concrete buildings surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped off with concertina wire. Finding it was no sweat, but locating the locker Benton had rented would be an entirely different matter. He coasted to the motorized gate and stopped at the curb. The manager's office inside the fence was closed for the night. The sign on the door advertised twenty-four-hour access, but there was no way in unless he climbed the fence and crawled over the concertina wire. He drove slowly past the gate and looked down the long rows of buildings, hoping somebody was inside who would let him in. The aisles, wide enough for semitrailers to maneuver in, were empty. He went back to the front gate and wrote down the phone number on the company sign. Back at the bar he would call, get somebody to come out to open up, and wait for Kerney. He turned the car around and headed back toward the barrio. *** Leaving the Little Turtle, Carlos was in fine spirits. Instead of having him beaten, as he'd expected, De Leon had given him an entry card and a locker key and ordered him to go to El Paso to search a storage unit. A careful man by nature, Carlos took his customary precautions. He drove past the business without stopping, and circled behind two large warehouses opposite the storage units. He parked in the darkness, took out his binoculars, and trained them on the fenced compound. He studied each aisle thoroughly. All seemed quiet. He would wait ten minutes before entering, just as a precaution. He put his thumb in his mouth and adjusted his upper plate. Headlights appeared on the pavement, and a car came into view, traveling slowly. It stopped in front of storage compound, motor running. He picked up the binoculars, but the glare of the lights by the gate blocked his view into the car. After a few minutes, the car moved away. Soon the car came back, and Carlos picked up the driver in his glasses. He grinned to himself when he recognized Eddie, the phony jorobado. He put aside the binoculars and reached for his gun. It would be interesting to talk to Eddie again, Carlos thought.

Eddie's car made a U-turn, and Carlos started his engine, headlights off. He let Eddie travel a short distance away from the bright lights before he made his move. He accelerated, jumped the curb, and rammed into the rear of Eddie's vehicle. The collision was harder than Carlos anticipated. Both cars recoiled, tires skidding, as Eddie responded to the sudden impact by hitting the brakes. Carlos was thrown forward, the seat belt tightening across his chest. He only had seconds in which to act. He got out, ran to Eddie's car, pulled open the door, and stuck his pistol in Eddie's face.

"My little jorobado friend," Carlos growled. "It is very nice to see you again." He brought the barrel of his weapon down on the front of Eddie's head. As Eddie slumped forward, he caught him, then pulled him from the car and carried him into the darkness between two buildings. He dumped Eddie next to a propane gas tank and went back to the automobiles stalled in the middle of the street. He kicked the pieces of broken glass toward the gutter and moved the cars to the curb, parking them close together to hide the damage.

Eddie was still unconscious when he returned. He rifled his pockets, found a wallet and a small leather case, and used his cigarette lighter to inspect the contents. The case contained a military police badge and an identification card with Eddie's picture. The hunchback was a United States Army criminal investigator. Carlos grunted. Don Enrique would be very pleased to have Eddie back. And pleased with Carlos, also. The wallet was less interesting, except for the money.

Carlos extracted and counted the bills: over seven hundred dollars. Masquerading as a beggar was profitable. He put the money into his coat pocket. He lit a cigarette and nudged Eddie with the toe of his shoe to see if he was awake. Eddie did not move. Using his lighter, he inspected Eddie's face. He was still unconscious. The blow to the head had sliced the scalp. A flap of skin dangled at the hairline on Eddie's forehead, and blood trickled down his face.

As soon as Eddie stirred, Carlos sat him upright against the propane tank. He wanted Eddie to see what was going to happen to him. He placed Eddie's hands palm down on the pavement of the parking lot and waited for his eyes to open. When they did, Carlos stomped on each hand with the heel of his shoe. *** Kerney stopped in front of the bar. Before he could get out of the truck, a fat hooker with a round, cherubic face leaned inside the open window. She wore a sleeveless dress that showed tattoos on both of her substantial arms.

"No thanks," Kerney said, pushing against the door to move her out of the way. Her bulk made it impossible for him to budge her.

"Are you Kerney?" the hooker asked.

"Yes," Kerney answered, puzzled.

"Eddie asked me to give you a message."

"What is it?"

"He said you'd pay me." Kerney didn't believe her but decided not to quibble.

"How much?"

"Fifty dollars," the hooker announced.

Kerney dug out his wallet and handed over the money. It was the last of his emergency cash.

"What's the message?" he demanded. The hooker pulled down the top of her dress and stuck the bills inside her push-up brassiere. There was a tattoo of the Virgin Mary above her left breast.

"He went to the self-storage units. He said if he wasn't back when you got here, you could find him there."

"What self-storage units?" Kerney asked. The hooker pointed down the street. The fat underside of her arm jiggled.

"Bordertown Storage. You can't miss it. Look for the lights." Kerney nodded, clutched, and put the truck in gear. His right foot missed the accelerator and the engine stalled. He was having a hell of a time with the leg.

"Want me to drive you there for another fifty dollars?" the hooker asked with a grin. Kerney glared at her.

"No thanks." He restarted the engine and drove down the street behind a slow string of low-riders. He was annoyed at Eddie. Deja vu all over again, he thought. Another cop who couldn't stay put. Away from the clip joints and motels, rows of assembly plants, sweatshops, and warehouses lined the street. Beacons from the smelter stacks across a field blinked warnings to aircraft in the night sky. The glow of a bank of mercury vapor lights announced the presence of