Randy White - Night Vision

I liked the potential of that. Neither Melinski nor anyone else knew where I was. The two men at the gate had no idea who I was. I could talk to the men or slip by unnoticed and search the area alone. Do it right and no one would ever know I had been there.

I got my wish. No reception.

I lifted my gear bag onto the passenger’s seat as I shifted into reverse and swung the truck around. By the time I got to the gate, both men were standing in the road, dark bandannas now covering their faces like bank robbers in a TV western, their body language communicating a rapper’s insolence. The bandannas and the tattoos told me they were members of a Latin gang- pandilleros, in Spanish slang.

Should I stop? Or should I park a mile up the road and jog back?

I foot-flicked my high beams on long enough to convince myself that neither man was palming a weapon. It gave me a reason to stop, which is exactly what I wanted to do-another perverse preference. I can tolerate stupidity because it is a biological condition. Ignorance and arrogance are choices, though.

I got out of the truck, engine running, lights on and my gear bag within easy reach if I needed it.

Beside the bag was the palm-sized laser I’d brought along, the Dazer Guardian. Because I had demonstrated the weapon to Emily earlier, I’d already overridden the twenty-four-hour security timer, which meant the weapon was operational, ready to use at the touch of a button.

I gave the thing a long last look, then almost stuck it in my pocket before I swung the door closed. But then I reminded myself I had never tried the light on a shark, let alone a couple of two-legged gangbangers, and now was not the time to risk a disappointing first test.

I felt confident I wouldn’t need it, or any of the other weapons in my bag.

I was wrong.

Because both men assumed I didn’t speak Spanish, I listened to them exchange nervous and profane assessments of me as I walked toward them.

I was a homosexual cowboy who had lost his hat as well as a horse that I abused anally. I was a drunken Gomer-a welfare redneck-who was too poor to buy a truck that was not inhabited by rats.

Hearing that caused me to take a closer look at the lane beyond the gate, wondering about their truck. It was all tree shadows and darkness, but my headlights were bright enough that I should have seen reflectors on their vehicle.

I did not. It confirmed what I had suspected: The dirt road led to a cabin or some sort of area where these two had parked.

Maybe Squires and the girl were there now. If not, someone else was there, because I heard radio static and then watched one of the men pull a little VHF from his pocket, saying in Spanish, “Don’t bother us now. We got a visitor. Some white Gomer-he’s probably pissed because Dedos just flipped him off.”

Latin gang members use nicknames. Dedos was appropriate. It meant “Fingers. ”

The radio crackled in reply, a voice saying, “Tell that pendejo to stop causing us problems! A white dude? Jesus Christ, get rid of him! What kind of car? You call me back if there’s any trouble, you hear me, Calavero?”

Calavero-another graphic nickname.

“A truck. An old redneck piece of shit, don’t worry about it,” Calavero said, looking at me now as he shoved the radio into his pocket. Then he said in pretty good English, “What you doing way out here, Gomer? You lost or something? Hell, man, my homey, he was just using his finger to point to the best direction for you to go. Straight up, unless you want to drive through a bunch of cow shit.”

The man laughed, glancing at his partner, Dedos, then used his chin to motion toward me. It was a signal to separate, possibly, because Calavero started moving to my left as Dedos took a couple of steps toward the truck’s passenger side.

I had stopped midway between the men and my truck, a hazed silhouette to them because of my headlights. If they hadn’t separated, I would have continued to assume they weren’t armed. But movement was all the warning I needed. So I maximized my Florida accent, saying, “I’m lookin’ for an ol’ boy named Harris Squires. You boys know where I can find him?”

That stopped them. I used their momentary surprise to take a long step back, then leaned a hip comfortably against my truck, close enough to get to the door fast if I needed to.

Calavero was the talker, and I listened to him reply, “ Amigo, we can’t even see your face ’cause of them lights. How we supposed to answer a question like that? I suggest you get back in your truck and get the fuck outta here, man.”

I planned to. But not yet.

“It’s a pretty simple question,” I said. “He’s a great big guy, Harris Squires. I met him last night. He’s not the one who said it, but I heard he has something for sale out here I might want to buy. Why don’t you call him and let him know I’m here?”

I could only guess at what Squires might have to sell, but the pandilleros knew.

In Spanish Dedos said to Calavero, “He wants to buy steroids from jelly boy this time of night? Or maybe the V-man’s right. Maybe they been running our girls outta here. Call Chapo, tell him we got to speak to the V-man right now.”

Chapo-the voice on the radio and another nickname. Shorty.

It didn’t tell me everything I wanted to know, but it told me enough-enough to get a rough estimate of how many people I was dealing with. Also, that there was an established pecking order. There were at least two more pandilleros beyond the gate, including a boss man named V-man. Plus Squires and, hopefully, the Guatemalan girl.

I had also learned that Squires wasn’t a friend of the gang-perhaps he was even their captive. It was unlikely but a possibility. Referring over the radio to a man the size of Squires as “jelly boy” required a controlled environment or some firepower to back it up.

It was time for me to get going, I decided. Time to drive fast to an area where there was phone reception because I’d walked into something bigger than I had ever anticipated. This situation required the police-a whole squad of pros, including a chopper. In another country where there were fewer laws, maybe, just maybe, I would have tried to handle it on my own. But not here. And not when there was a chance that Tula Choimha was alive and still in danger.

Because I didn’t want the men to know what I’d learned, I said, “I don’t have time to stand around listening to you boys talking Mexican. If you see Squires, tell him I stopped by. But don’t blame me when he gets pissed off ’cause he didn’t make a sale.”

I stood and turned my back to them, paying close attention as the two bickered about whether they should let me go or not. Because the exchange was in Spanish, they believed there was no need to keep their voices low. Dedos was the violent one, but Calavero was the boss.

“Stab him with a knife, that’s just stupid!” he hissed at Dedos. “For what, to rob him? He don’t have any money, look at his goddamn truck! We gonna have enough bodies to deal with!”

I almost stopped when he said that but forced myself to keep moving.

Dedos’s response: “Man, we can’t just let him go-the Gomer knows Squires! Call the V-man. The dude could bring the cops the moment he’s out of here. Then what’s the V-man gonna say?”

It wasn’t until my hand was on the open door, my foot on the running board, that I allowed myself to risk a glance over my shoulder.

My timing could have been better.

Dedos was fast and quiet. He had closed the distance between us, suddenly only one long stride away from the truck. His arm was extended, something in his hand. A cell phone, I thought at first, but his partner was yelling, “Don’t shoot him, you idiot!” so I knew that I was mistaken.