Michael McGarrity - Nothing But Trouble

“He’d made six previous runs,” Bratton said, “with the coyote who heads up the operation. Each time the crossing took place at a different location.”

“On those earlier runs he was sent back to Mexico after the crossings,” Fidel added, “while the coyote finished the transport alone.”

“So you don’t know the final destination,” Kerney said.

Fidel shook his head. “Or who the coyote is working with on this side of the border.”

“We think they’re using someplace in the Bootheel as a holding area for the illegals,” Bratton said, “before moving them on to Tucson, Phoenix, and L.A.”

“Playas?” Kerney asked.

“No way,” Fidel said. “We’ve had people from Homeland Security through this town a dozen times, posing as part of the team that put together the purchase agreement to buy it for use as an antiterrorist training center. The people who live here are clean as a whistle.”

“What kind of vehicle would be used to move the human cargo on this side of the border?” Kerney asked.

Bratton sank down on the couch and leaned forward. “It was always changed on each run. That’s why what you saw could be important.”

“You obviously know what I saw,” Kerney said, “or you wouldn’t be here.”

“But where you saw the vehicle the second time could be important,” Fidel said.

“The panel van at the smelter may or may not be the same vehicle,” Kerney replied.

“But it was similar enough to catch your interest,” Bratton said, “and it’s owned by a state Motor Transportation officer, who just happens to moonlight on his days off as a security guard at the smelter.”

“You did a background check on Mendoza?” Kerney inquired.

“On everybody who lives in Playas,” Fidel replied. “All fifty-six of them. Mendoza enlisted in the army at eighteen and served as a truck driver. After discharge he got a job as a long-haul driver for an outfit in El Paso. Three years ago he joined the Motor Transportation Division as a recruit and went through the New Mexico Law Enforcement Academy. He was assigned to Lordsburg upon graduation and has been there ever since.”

“Do you think he’s your man?” Kerney asked.

Fidel eased himself down on the arm of the couch. “Unknown, but consider this: The smelter is a sprawling, huge plant, off limits to outsiders. It’s run by a skeleton crew of ten employees who are just there to basically maintain it and deal with environmental cleanup issues. Can you think of a better place to warehouse illegals? There must be a dozen places in that smelter where you could hide people for a short time with no one the wiser.”

“That makes sense,” Kerney said, “but back up for a minute. Your undercover officer saw six different vehicles on his runs with the coyote. Didn’t he get license-plate and vehicle information to you?”

“The plates were stolen from trucks in the States,” Bratton replied, “and the vehicles were abandoned in Phoenix and L.A. All of them had been originally registered in Mexico under fictitious company names.”

“Okay,” Kerney said. “Now that I know all this, tell me why you’re really here.”

“Tomorrow Officer Sapian will call and tell you the body couldn’t be identified. Because there is no probable cause that a crime has been committed, we’d like you to suggest that he close the case as an accidental death.”

“That’s easy enough to do,” Kerney said. “What else?”

“Bratton here is going to join the film crew as an apprentice employee vetted by a theatrical stage employees’ union. He’ll be a gofer for the set decorator, or something like that. You’ll be his contact. What he tells you, you’ll pass on to me.”

“What purpose does putting Bratton undercover serve?”

“We’re after a network here, Kerney,” Fidel answered. “One that has been way too successful at not getting caught. The coyote on the Mexican side is a former corrupt cop. Mendoza is a cop. There may be other officers involved that we don’t know about. Maybe some Border Patrol officers are on the pad, looking the other way. Or some of the good citizens of Playas could be supplementing their incomes. I lost a nice young kid who was doing his job, and now it’s personal. Somebody blew his cover, and I want the son of a bitch who did it, and the other son of a bitch who killed him.”

“And Mendoza?” Kerney asked.

“He’s under surveillance twenty-four/seven starting now,” Bratton said, “as are some of our own people.”

Kerney walked to the door and opened it. “Did you roust me because you thought I might be a dirty cop involved in this scheme?”

“Think of it as a reality check,” Fidel replied.

“It’s your show.”

“You’ll do it?” Fidel asked, as he and Bratton stepped outside.

“Yeah, I’ll help,” Kerney said, “in spite of your bad manners.”

Johnny Jordan and Malcolm Usher didn’t finish working on the new scenes until after midnight. It was all good stuff, and Johnny had to admit to himself that the changes totally outdid the rodeo in terms of high-octane action. He watched as Usher sent the new material by e-mail to the screenwriter in California so some fresh dialogue could be worked up.

“I still think we could use the rodeo scenes,” Johnny said, when Usher closed the lid to his laptop. “Maybe in a slightly different way.”

“How so?” Usher asked, looking at Johnny over the rim of his reading glasses.

Johnny leaned back against the couch. “You’ve been talking about plot points all night long. How the film has to move the action along. So, I’ve been thinking about the opening scenes. Except for when the rancher chases the BLM officer and the sheriff’s deputies off the land, there’s not a lot of drama.”

“The tension builds nicely,” Usher retorted.

“Yeah, but where’s the impact? The rancher stands down the cops, who go off to get a court order to force him off the federal land. Meanwhile, the rancher’s daughter goes looking for her brother, who’s on the pro rodeo circuit, and doesn’t come back with him until the day before the cattle drive.”

“How in the hell does a rodeo fit into any of that?” Usher asked.

“We do a scene where the daughter finds her brother competing at a rodeo,” Johnny said. “Maybe he gets thrown and busted up at bit. He’s short of cash and down on his luck. So is his buddy.”

Usher raised an eyebrow. “You’re talking Steve McQueen in Junior Bonner.”

“Yeah, a great movie. Anyway, the brother and his buddy agree to help out, because they don’t have enough cash between them to pay their expenses and enter the next rodeo.”

“And the rancher has issues with his son,” Usher added, “because he never came back to take over the ranch.”

“Just like it’s in the script,” Johnny said. “Except now the son comes home because he’s broke, not because he wants to make amends with his old man.”

“We’d need a real rodeo grounds to film it.”

“There’s a nice one just over the state line in Duncan, Arizona, a little more than a hour’s drive from here.”

“It might work,” Usher said, “if we used tight shoots to film your boys, Tyler and Clint, saddle bronc riding, and edit in some crowd background noise and a booth announcer’s voice to set the scene. We could put the girl at the arena railing with your Hispanic cowboys, Maestas and Lovato, to establish her presence, and then shoot a dialogue scene with her talking to her brother next to a horse trailer.”

“Do you like the idea?” Johnny asked.

“Can we get the rodeo grounds?”

“For a song, guaranteed. It sits unused most of the year except for a short horse-racing season in the spring and a community rodeo in late summer.”