Paul Levine: Illegal

Rutledge watches Cardenas and Zaga run their crews, shoveling mud around the rusted-out cars, both men on their feet for days, taking breaks only to piss, snort cocaine, and sip whiskey. Good men, both of them. Brothers in arms.

Cardenas is half-buried in muck, his arms braced against the hood of a Mercury Marquis that has flipped onto its side halfway down the levee. Two of his men, grunting and cursing, muscle the car upright. One man slips in the mud, screams something unintelligible, and lets go. The Mercury slides down the slope into the water, spins in a circle, catches the current, and sails downstream.

Rutledge watches it, cursing. Fuck! The damn car will crash into Pump Station Two, fouling the pipes, maybe even cracking the concrete caissons. "Christ, Hector! Watch what your men are doing."

Cardenas peers toward his boss. In the rain and fog and diesel fumes, Rutledge can't make out the Mexican's face. Cardenas trudges through the mud toward him.

"What now, Hector? Got no time for your shit."

Cardenas reaches under his slicker and pulls a pint bottle of cheap blended whiskey from a back pocket. He takes his time draining it, then hurls the empty bottle at Rutledge. It sails into the darkness.

"Goddammit, Hector! Get your brown ass back to work."

Cardenas charges him. Rubber boots glopping in the mud, it seems to take forever for the short, stocky Mexican to close the distance. Rutledge crouches, sidesteps, and clotheslines Cardenas, catching him under the chin, knocking his feet out from under him. A quick kick to the backside flattens Cardenas, facedown in the mud.

Spitting a wad of clotted earth, Cardenas gets to his feet. "You fuck my wife, bastard cocksucker."

"Got no time for this, Hector! Not tonight. Not fucking tonight."

Cardenas comes at him again, taking Rutledge to the ground. They roll down the slope to the water's edge. Rutledge gains leverage, gets his hands around Cardenas's neck, and squeezes hard enough to crack walnuts.

Cardenas tries to pry his hands off, but Rutledge is bigger, stronger, and meaner.

Zaga splashes toward them. "Hey, Sim. How 'bout letting up now?"

"Shut up, Z!"

Rutledge twists Cardenas's head to one side, forces the Mexican's mouth and nose underwater. Cardenas chokes, and inhales the slime. His limbs spasm. The other workers look away. Rutledge does not let go until Cardenas stops twitching.

"I told him, not tonight," Rutledge says to Zaga. "Not fucking tonight!" He turns to the rest of the crew. "Get the fuck back to work!"

Payne watched each man's body language. Cardenas stood stiffly, locked into a two-handed grip. Rutledge appeared relaxed, his limbs loose, even with his right hand hovering above the holstered. 45.

"When you get down to it, Javie, your old man was weak." Rutledge pinched a nostril and blew out a clot of blood, soiling his mustache. "If he'd come to me first thing and told me to stay the hell away from your mother, I'd have respected that. But he just let it go on. Then, with everything I own on the table, he melts down."

"So you killed him? A man who gave you everything. Even his wife."

"You're goddamn right I killed him! And now that I think about it, you're sure as hell Hector's son and not mine. A gelding's got more balls than either one of you."

Cardenas's jaw muscles danced and his eyes narrowed.

Now Payne was certain. The chief was going to shoot the old bastard. But there would be three witnesses.

Just what will Cardenas do to us?

Again, Payne glanced toward the ground. Still one knife, one baseball bat. And two men with guns.

"At long last," Cardenas said, "the real Simeon Rutledge. Rapist and murderer."

"Ain't asking your forgiveness," Rutledge said.

"Ain't giving it."

One of these men was about to die, Marisol knew. The policeman's eyes burned with hatred. But Rutledge seemed defiant, his right hand motionless, his fingers spread, close enough to draw his gun in a split second.

The policeman held his own pistola in both hands. But were his arms trembling? Marisol had the horrible thought that the old man-even with a gun pointed at him-was the one in control. She doubted that the young policeman had ever killed a man. But with Rutledge, there were no doubts. He would neither hesitate before killing nor be remorseful after.

"Do what you got to do, Javie," Rutledge challenged.

Marisol wrapped her arm around Agustino. She had left Mexico, had come all this way, wanting only one thing, to save her son from harm. She looked toward Payne. Agustino had told her all about the man. He had turned down money-a fortune-to bring Agustino back to her. So decent and courageous. She had never known such a man. Now she sought some gesture from him, some instruction. What can we do to save ourselves?

Without taking his eyes off Rutledge, Cardenas spoke to Marisol in a formal policeman's voice. "Ms. Perez, do you recognize Mr. Simeon Rutledge?"

"Yes."

"Is he the man who raped you?"

"Yes, that's the pig."

Tino spit in Rutledge's direction. "I'll kill you, old man."

"No, you won't," his mother said.

"I will!" The boy squirmed out of her embrace. "He hurt you, Mami."

"Quiet, now!" She grabbed his arm.

"Payne, how about you?" the chief asked. "Is Simeon Rutledge the man who horsewhipped you?"

"You know he is," Payne answered without hesitation.

"Unhook your gunbelt, Sim, and drop it to the ground," Cardenas ordered.

Rutledge coughed and a pink bubble of blood formed on his lips. "Why not try taking it away from me?"

"You resisting arrest, Sim?"

"That's what you want, isn't it? Shoot me down right where your daddy sucked his lungs full of mud. Poetic fucking justice."

"Last warning."

"You been holding that sissy gun a long time, Javie. Your arms ain't getting tired, are they?"

Cardenas moved the barrel a bit lower. "Right in the belly, Sim. Gonna watch your guts spill out."

"I remember your first wild hog. What'd it take? Three shots? Four?"

"Drop the gunbelt, Sim."

"Thought you already gave your last warning."

Marisol tightened her grip on Tino. She did not want him to see this, but did not know how to prevent it.

Rutledge's fingers flexed and seemed to move even closer to his gun. "You'll get off one shot, for sure. But when you miss, I'll blow a hole right through your chest."

"Shoot him!" Tino yelled at Cardenas.

Cardenas's eyes flicked toward the boy.

Instantly, Rutledge drew the. 45. Cardenas fired and missed.

Rutledge slapped back the hammer.

Tino tore away from his mother and scooped up the knife. "I'll kill you, cabron!"

Marisol reached for him, but he dodged her.

Rutledge swung the gun toward the boy just as Marisol stepped between them. She felt a thunderbolt strike her chest, felt her feet fly from the ground, and by the time she landed flat on her back, felt nothing at all.

The day baked with desert heat, the Santa Ana winds pushing the smog out to sea. The San Miguel Cementerio, leaves rustling on its spindly pear trees, was a patch of green in the parched foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains a few miles from Pasadena.

Next to the open grave, three people were squeezed so close together as to seem to have one body. His hair trimmed and brushed back, Tino stood rigidly, a stoic little man in a crisp new suit. He clutched a bouquet of white lilies so tightly that the stems might snap. On one side, Sharon gripped the boy's shoulder. On the other side, Payne, his left arm bandaged, wrapped his right arm around Tino's waist.

A somber altar boy from Saint Phillipe the Apostle swung a silver thurible over the grave, smoke wisping upward before disappearing into the breeze. The air smelled of incense, freshly cut grass, and moist earth. An elderly priest, a Mexican-American man in his sixties with a kindly face and a soft voice, prayed aloud. Payne tried to listen but heard only fragments.