Tim Green: Above The Law

At eleven-fifty she ushered a pregnant teenage girl-hoping for child support from the married executive of a large software company-out the door with promises of help. She thanked Tina and told her to take lunch. As Tina passed through, Casey saw Stacy marching toward her with a file. Before she could get her office door closed, Stacy jammed her foot between the door and the frame and barged in, closing it behind her.

"Wait," Stacy said. "One more."

"Give it to Sharon."

"She says she'll only see you."

"I've got a lunch and I've got the DA," Casey said, looking at her watch.

"Just one more."

"There's always one more," Casey said, rounding her desk and stuffing some files into her briefcase.

"Maria Delgado," Stacy said, slapping a hand on the desk. "You helped her older sister get away from some creep. She has another sister, younger. Her husband's dead. She's got a two-year-old baby, and they've got her in custody and the baby in some foster home."

"Drug dealer?" Casey asked, glancing up.

Stacy shook her head. "A hunting accident."

"It's really important?" Casey asked, snapping the case shut.

"Absolutely."

"Then tell her to wait," Casey said, slinging the briefcase over her shoulder and making for the back door. "Paige Ludden and her friends provide about half our operating budget and I'm already going to be late for lunch, and then I've got a meeting with the DA about Rosalita Suarez, who's looking at manslaughter one.

"If it's really that important, then she'll be here when I get back. You can tell her that."

"Go if you have to," Stacy said, hands on her hips, wagging her head toward the waiting room. "But if you could see this woman's face? You wouldn't be worrying about lunch."

WE GOT AN OPEN CONTAINER LAW IN THESE PARTS. "

Teuch squinted through the tail of cigarette smoke leaching from his nostrils. Frowning, he told the old white man behind the counter to kiss his ass, then opened the forty-ounce bottle of King Cobra, popping the twist top with his teeth and taking a long hard pull. He wiped the foam from his mouth on a bare, tattooed arm and belched. The old whitey had already given him the address he needed so there was no longer any reason to pretend to be polite.

He scooped up his groceries and stepped outside, the cuffs of his baggy jeans dragging in the grit, the noon sun smacking him in the face, and the heat waffling up from the parking lot. He hawked up something from the long drive and spat, expecting it to sizzle like hot grease on the blacktop, disappointed when it didn't. The midnight-blue Chevy pickup rode low with twenty-inch Neeper Titans buried in the wheel wells. He dumped his bag on the passenger floor, then slid in and eased back into the reclined seat, pulling out onto Highway 45 and into the little four-corner town of Wilmer. On the seat next to him, a MAC-10 rested under an army blanket. He reached in to fondle it, then took a bottle from the bag on the floor and drank as he drove.

He turned left and after half a block the dusty trees opened up onto a small stone church built on a gravel lot. A wooden cross marked the high point on the arch above the doors and two small stone belfries stood out front like midgets hawking tickets at the big top entrance. The priest looked up from his broom on the flagstone stoop and squinted at Teuch.

Teuch stopped and leaned across the seat.

"Father Diego," he said.

The priest nodded, leaned the broom against the stone wall, and crossed the gravel yard in his heavy brown robe until he stood at eye level with Teuch.

"Teuch?" the priest said, his eyes small but languid beneath the blunt border of his dark bangs.

"You're good with names, Father," Teuch said, speaking English for the priest.

"Paquita's godfather," the priest said, speaking in Spanish, his eyes going sad. "How could I forget? We were able to repair the nave window with your donation. I'm sorry about your brother."

"Sorry doesn't do anybody any good, Father," Teuch said, still in English. "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Doesn't it say that?"

"And turn the other cheek," the priest said.

"Not me."

"I should show you something," the priest said. "It was something I showed your brother, a tragedy for our people."

"We both know what really happened to my brother, don't we?" Teuch said. "He couldn't keep his snake in his pants."

"Your brother was a good family man," the priest said, shaking his head. "You should know what he tried to do for others."

"That doesn't matter to me, Father," Teuch said. "Only the people who did this matter."

The priest shook his head. "Maybe you could help. The Lord brings His blessings to those who help the weak."

"I gave that money to your church because of my goddaughter," Teuch said. "Sorry, Father. I help my own. I have an appointment."

Teuch pulled away, kicking up a cloud of dust that made the priest cover his nose. Teuch carried on until he hit Belt Line Road. He turned right and kept on the main thoroughfare until he came to an auto-body shop on a parched and stony half-acre behind a rusted chain-link fence.

He pulled in and drove around to the back. Each of the three bays held a car in some stage of repair. A handful of Mexicans milled about in gray jumpsuits. They reminded Teuch of his brother. Sorry-ass beaners working for gringos who were no better than the chilango politicians in his own country, whores and thieves who hid behind the law. They didn't fool Teuch with their laws. He had a different law. He knew how to get even and he knew how to protect his own, as a Latin King should. He had his eyes on the third crown of his chapter, the warlord, and a termination this big would guarantee it for him.

The one who'd murdered his brother was a big gabacho , as big as they got. That's why he'd taken the trip up from San Antonio. That's why he'd play the Mojo slave, just to get close. Respect, that's what it was about. Teuch got out and ambled into the first bay, scanning the area for whites and seeing none.

He adjusted his wraparound Oakley sunglasses and ran his hand through the ragged thatch on his head, then walked through the bays as if he belonged there, assessing the men who worked there, looking for a sign that might tell him who would talk. The two old-timers rebuilding the front end of a Ford Explorer didn't even look up. In the next bay, though, a skinny kid with a pock-scarred face and wearing a red bandana on his head glanced Teuch's way, showing off a bit of gold with a half-smile.

In Spanish, Teuch asked the kid how he was doing. The kid wiped his hands and stood up from the hubcap he'd been lining up. Teuch told him he was from out of town and looking for work. He told the kid he'd heard about a big ranch outside town where they'd hire men without papers.

One of the old-timers wandered over with a paint gun in his hand. Through his mask he told Teuch that he didn't look much like a ranch hand. Teuch told the old naco to kiss his ass and that got a giggle out of the kid. Teuch observed that this job must be a pain in the balls for a kid who didn't like to take shit from ignorant old nacos . The kid showed his teeth and agreed out loud that they were a sorry bunch, and then Teuch asked again about the ranch.

Sure, the kid said with jittery eyes, Lucky Star Ranch, east of town out on Malloy Bridge Road. There was a big stone fence with an iron gateway that read lucky star, but that was to the main house. He'd want to take the next gravel road after that. If he crossed the river, he'd gone too far. Or he could wait like the rest of them outside the rail yard about six in the morning. That's when those who didn't get work at the yard got picked up for day labor. The ranch always had someone there to pick up some cheap hands.