The Right Side of Wrong Read online

  When he returned to the car, the attendant had taken the liberty of washing the windshield anyway.

  Still no Ford.

  Cody dug for change. “You got anything to eat around here?”

  “Naw, all we got is cokes there in the machine.”

  “Well, I’m hungry.”

  “I got some rat cheese and crackers I brought for my lunch.”

  “What’ll you take for them?”

  “How ’bout a dollar?”

  “I’ll give you two bits.”

  “Six.”

  “Four bits.”

  The attendant smiled, revealing teeth bad enough to rob Cody of his appetite. “Deal.”

  Cody dug two dimes from his pocket, fed one of them into the cooler and removed a Coke after it crashed into the slot. He was repeating the action when the man returned with the cheese and crackers wrapped in wax paper. Tires hissed on the highway. Keeping his back to them, Cody handed the attendant fifty cents and then watched the Galaxie pass at a leisurely pace.

  They were a hundred yards away when he returned to his own car. “Thanks for the windshield.”

  “You bet,” the attendant said and dug in his ear some more.

  Cody waited until the Ford disappeared over a rise before shifting into first and giving it the gas.

  Chapter Thirty

  The new loop around San Antonio made it easier for Cody to keep the Galaxie in sight. Going through town would have forced him to stick closer in the unfamiliar city, and be recognized. The virtually unused loop through open, sandy desert kept the Ford in view. Cody finished his drinks and pitched the empty bottles overhanded so they sailed over the car to land on the shoulder.

  Workers were still parked at various locations, putting finishing touches on the highway behind a long line of smudge pots. Cody shook his head at the high overpasses and the channels slicing the hills, instead of going over them.

  They flew down the two-lane highway, cutting between shimmering fields of crops that would soon be picked by the hands of brown-skinned people. Rivers with Spanish names retreated into the distance, to be replaced with dry creeks named after animals and colors.

  The sun was high when they reached the Valley. The Brownsville radio station seemed to be all Mexican music. The accordions and trumpets set Cody’s teeth on edge. He turned the radio down and slowed as the Ford pulled into a Mexican café right off Main Street. Eagle Lake glistened like a cool island not far away. An open sign at the Chuck Wagon café across the street caught Cody’s attention.

  Home cooked foods.

  A narrow alley led to a dirt lot around back. He parked out of sight from the street. The rusty screen door in the back allowed the smell of frying onions to drift outside.

  Cody rapped on the wooden frame. “Is it all right to come through here?”

  The greasy-haired cook with a “Mama” tattoo on his forearm grinned around a gap in his teeth and waved a spatula. “Sure ’nough. Everybody else does.”

  “Thanks. Didn’t see a reason to walk all the way around in this heat.”

  “Go on through. What can I get started for you?”

  “Two burgers with cheese and all the fries you can stack on a plate.”

  “Comin’ up. Tell Cassie you’ve ordered and to bring you a drink.”

  The café was busy with a mix of Mexicans and white people, but a small table by the front window was vacant. Cody slipped into a chair with a clear view of the cafe down the street. He sighed in frustration at an “Out of Order” sign on the pay phone near the door.

  “You want something to drink with them burgers?”

  Cody smiled at the tired, plump waitress. “Don’t phones work down here in south Texas?”

  She returned the grin, and he wished she hadn’t. Cassie was missing more teeth than the cook. “You must be from up north.”

  “Yep. Chisum.”

  “Honey, I don’t know where that is. There’s lots of phones that work around here, but not this one. Whadda ya want to drink? Beer or tea?”

  Surprised to hear beer offered in a café, Cody had to think a minute. Where he came from up on the Red, it was almost scandalous to know there were places in the world that sold beer where teetotalers ate. “Sweet tea.”

  “Sweet for the sweet,” Cassie flirted and gave his shoulder a little squeeze as she left to drop off a customer’s check.

  ***

  Hours later, Cody had used up every excuse he could think of to keep the table. Cassie thought he was hanging around until she got off work, and that worried him. His tea glass was never more than half empty. She showed him the check for the burgers, then tucked it into her ample bra with another flirty grin.

  “It’s on the house.”

  Lordy, what a high price to pay.

  Finally, near the end of Cassie’s shift, the Galaxie’s occupants left the Mexican café and got in the car. It was the first good look he had at them. Whitlatch with his bandage, big muscles, and flattop was easily recognizable. The others matched Wanted posters he had on the table back home. Their names escaped him, but he knew they were the ones Whitlatch kept on the payroll. He also recognized the man with slit eyes as one of those on the creek they day Cody was fishing with the family.

  Their car had been sitting in the hot sun all afternoon, so they rolled the windows down and almost immediately pulled onto the street.

  The movement was so fast, Cody was almost caught unawares. He jumped to his feet and headed for the back.

  “Honey, I don’t get off for another half an hour,” Cassie said, grabbing his arm as he hurried toward the kitchen.

  “That’s all right. I’m gettin’ the car.” It wasn’t a complete lie.

  “Okay, honey.” She slipped two fingers under her stained uniform and half pulled the unpaid check into view.

  He knew what that mean. Cody quickly yanked a five dollar bill from his shirt pocket where he’d stashed it earlier in the day and stuffed it into her bra beside the check. “I pay what I owe.”

  She winked. “So do I, hon.”

  Cody was through the kitchen and out the door with a flash.

  “I’d run, too,” the cook shouted after him.

  Cody jumped behind the wheel, started the engine, and shot through the alley. He caught a glimpse of the Ford on Main Street. Falling in behind, Cody had a feeling they were close to their destination. They were soon headed west out of town through dry, rough country, and he let them get ahead on the two-lane highway with wide sandy shoulders that were sometimes almost drifted over with sand.

  He hung back, but it was easy to keep the Ford in sight. An hour later, the Galaxie made a hard left off the highway onto a perfectly straight, narrow road. Cody slowed, let them get out of sight, and when they disappeared over a slight rise, he hurried to catch up. As he topped the hill, they disappeared over next crest. Ten minutes later Cody was in the border town of Hembrillo. Without stopping, Whitlatch continued south between wide, sandy lots sitting empty and surrounded by thick stands of mesquite.

  Cody’s blood ran cold when Whitlatch finally passed under a huge sign that said “Bienavides Mexico.”

  Welcome to Mexico.

  He’d dreamed of Mexico, deserts, and snow. It had all come true.

  Shit.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  There was no way to have predicted how badly things would go when Cody hit Mexican soil.

  Several cars back, he caught up as the Galaxie rolled slowly through the dirty streets of Carreta Ciudad. Whitlatch and the others appeared to be looking for a particular building, because he kept tapping his brakes, causing the others behind to roll bumper to bumper.

  Whitlatch finally located the one he wanted and nosed into an empty parking place, cluttered with trash piled at the curb. As Cody drove past, Whitlatch tapped his horn twice. None of th
e occupants noticed the Olds driving slowly behind them. Their attention was on the front door of a cantina called El Escorpión.

  Cody repeated the familiar maneuver of circling and parking to watch the Ford. He’d barely shifted into park when two uniformed Mexican police officers left the bar and waved for Whitlatch and his men. The officers briefly disappeared around the side of the building, and then re-emerged in a dusty and nondescript Chrysler.

  It left quickly, followed by Whitlatch. Cody hung back, keeping them in sight through brief glimpses and reflections on chrome in the bright sun.

  They drove for fifteen minutes, leaving the small city behind. Cody became concerned when they angled sharply onto a dirt side road. He barely slowed on the highway, keeping an eye on the cars as they finally stopped at the top of a slight hill. The highway was empty, so he watched over his shoulder through the shimmering heat waves and wondered what to do.

  With the suspects gone, the only alternative was to return to town and call Ned. They were probably worried sick already, and he needed to let Norma Faye know he was all right. He U-turned on the rock and dirt shoulder, and started back the way he came. Ahead, two military-style trucks appeared, driving fast, and cut the corner across the desert to intersect the road behind the Galaxie.

  Both vehicles had benches in the open backs, and a dozen uniformed men rocked from side to side as they bumped through the shallow ditch and onto the smoother gravel.

  Cody slowed and watched the trucks full of men raise a cloud of dust until they stopped at the top of the sharp rise. Going any slower would attract attention, so Cody continued until he came to an arroyo shaded by tall cottonwoods. A faint track led toward the dry depression hidden by scrub and cactus. He left the road and threaded his way through the gray vegetation and rocks, until the car was hidden from view.

  Knowing it was a bad idea, Cody killed the engine and left the door open on the Olds. He made his way along the arroyo as it meandered through weathered rock formations in the direction of the stopped vehicles. Soon he heard voices.

  On hands and knees, he crept out of the dry ravine and worked his way through thick mesquites, hoping there were no rattlesnakes lying in the shade. The voices were clearer, but he only understood one side of the conversation. Moving slowly, he slipped around a thick clump of cactus and finally maneuvered into a position to see through the mesquites.

  Cody watched Whitlatch cross his arms in the open on the edge of a thin hogback full of gray rocks and cactus. Shades, thick biceps, and a clean flat top, the big man was anchored to the rocky ground in a stance that signified defiance. Spread out in an aggressive line in front of the four men Cody had trailed from the Red River, the truck-load of Mexican police faced them with the clear intent of taking them in.

  Cody settled back in shock. He finally got a good look at Whitlatch and the last piece of puzzle fell into place. A week before Christmas one frosty evening nearly six months earlier, Cody pulled a car over in Arthur City for what he suspected was drunk driving.

  The two men inside were cooperative, but Cody couldn’t get past the uneasy feeling they were up to something. For fifteen minutes, the coatless men shivered beside the highway while he ran the license plate that came back clean. The driver had purchased the car only the week before, after moving to Chisum from Odessa, Texas.

  The man Cody now knew as Whitlatch was sullen, but cooperative the whole time. He didn’t want to offer any information about his home town, and Cody kept wondering why he refused to maintain eye contact.

  That cold day, the men spoke clearly, didn’t show signs of intoxication, and there were no empties in the car. With nothing to charge them with, Cody let them go, but with the warning that he’d be watching for them in the future.

  The encounter must have been significant to Whitlatch.

  There in the Mexican desert, Cody grasped how little it takes to start a chain of events that leads men to commit murder.

  What Cody figured was a hired gang of crooked Mexican lawmen scattered even wider in a broken line facing Whitlatch and his men. Some stood in the fragile shade, others beside the trucks. All of them held rifles pointed at the Americans.

  “I don’t care what you say.” Whitlatch’s arrogant voice was full of confidence. “We did our part. The supply line is complete and all the competition is cleared up. Hell, we damn near buried everybody that looked sideways at us. The next load is ready to go. We just want what we’re owed, what you owe the boss, and our expenses to this point.”

  An obviously angry officer answered in rapid-fire Spanish. Whitlatch crossed his arms. He understood the language, but answered in English. “Our expenses got out of hand. There ain’t but a couple of roads up there that cross the river, like here. We had to keep buying cars every week so the laws wouldn’t recognize us.

  “I done told you how much we spent. Now, give me the damned cash so we can get out of this heat. I’m tired of dicking with you pepper bellies. God, I hate this sorry-ass country. What do you say, pendejo?”

  The hair rose on the back of Cody’s sweating neck when the officer answered for the first time in broken English. “All right, señor. We’ll get you out of this heat, but it’ll be hotter where you’re going, pendejo.”

  His vision was partially blocked by mesquite limbs, but Cody made out enough. On the obviously prearranged signal, the uniformed men raised their weapons.

  Gunfire thundered over the arid landscape. A spike buck hiding nearby leaped at the explosions and launched into a flat out run across the desert.

  Whitlatch and his men crumpled like rag dolls, shredded by dozens of bullets.

  The echoes were barely gone when Cody heard a heavily accented voice behind him. “Why did you kill those Americanos, amigo?”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Pepper and I weren’t in the house when the phone call came in. We got tired of playing secret agent and went in the smokehouse to shoot dirt dauber nests with our BB guns. The tiny explosions of dried mud was always satisfying, and we figured we were doing Miss Becky a favor by keeping them from nesting in the rafters, and on the rusty bedsprings hanging high overhead.

  Miss Becky’s shrieks jolted us out of the smokehouse and into the yard. I’d never heard her make that sound, and it scared me to death. I heard Grandpa’s voice over hers, yelling to beat the band. They’d been joking about her loud washing machine when we went outside after supper, and the terror in her voice ran down my backbone.

  We raced across the yard, past the propane tank, and up the steps onto the porch. Hootie skidded to a stop behind us. Miss Becky was sitting at the kitchen table and crying even louder when we pressed our faces against the screen.

  Tied to one end of the living room by a six-foot cord, Grandpa was stomping back and forth with the telephone in one hand and the receiver in the other.

  He reminded me of a horse rearing up against a lariat rope. “Grandpa’s mad!”

  “Shitfire! He’s madder’n a sore-tail tomcat!”

  Miss Becky caught a glimpse of us and shrieked. “Oh, my God! You kids come in this house right now.”

  I figured there must be a booger out there fixin’ to get us, so we ran inside. As soon as Hootie was in, I dropped the screen door’s hook latch into place. Miss Becky grabbed Pepper and held on for dear life, like a drowning person holds a life preserver.

  Grandpa stopped in the middle of the living room and quivered. I didn’t know if he was crying, or furious.

  Pepper pulled away and tears ran down her face. “What’s wrong?”

  Miss Becky reached out to me with one arm, and I let her pull me in close. “Cody’s hurt bad and he’s in prison down in Mexico!”

  I prickled all over. Uncle Cody couldn’t get in prison, not him.

  We listened to Grandpa’s side of the conversation. “What town are you in, son?”

  He paused.

  “
This line’s crackling bad.” He sat down at the telephone table and picked up one of them giveaway Harold Hodges Insurance pencils. “Spell that.”

  Miss Becky got control of herself, but her deep, shuddering sobs were so strong I felt them in my chest.

  “Shit,” Pepper said.

  “Hush, child,” Miss Becky said, not really hearing Pepper’s language.

  We quieted when Grandpa raised his voice.

  “What town did you go through on this side of the river?”

  Pause.

  “How bad are you hurt?”

  Pause.

  “Did you kill ’em like they said?”

  He paused again. I hated being on the quiet end of a one-sided conversation.

  “They ain’t even gonna give you a trial?”

  Pause.

  “Did they say anything about bail?”

  Pause.

  “When are they gonna do that?”

  Pause.

  “It’ll take us a while to get down there.”

  Pause.

  “Damn this phone. Say that again and tell that Mexican son of a bitch to quit talking over you. I’m having a hard enough time hearing you as it is.”

  Pause.

  “Did he just hit you?”

  Pause.

  “Goddamn it!”

  Pause.

  “All right. All right!”

  Pause.

  “I’ll tell her.”

  Pause.

  He stood. “Wait! I need to know more to be sure…hello? Goddamn sonofabitchin’ bastards!”

  I thought he’d slam the receiver down, but with his back to us, he slowly lowered it into the cradle. His shoulders slumped and his head dropped. Grandpa stood still as a fence post, arms limp at his sides and knees buckled inside his overalls.