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The Tracker

John Ragusa

    There was a loud knock on Emile Hervey’s apartment door. He put out his marijuana cigarette in an ash tray and went to answer it.
    A huge, scarred Mexican stood in the doorway. “Mr. Hervey?”
    “I’m not buying anything.” Hervey tried to shut the door, but the other man prevented it.
    “Don’t you recognize me?” he said.
    Hervey peered closer at him. “You do look vaguely familiar.”
    The man forced his way in. “I’m Manuel Ruiz,” he said. “You must recall working with me on my father’s Mexican ranch.”
    “Oh yes. Now I recollect my years over there.”
    “They were very tough times, weren’t they? We worked our fingers to the bone for mere peanuts. My father was a hard man to work for, eh?”
    Hervey nodded. “I’ll say.”
    “There was nice compensation for you, though. By that, I mean your relationship with my teenage sister, Rosetta.”
    “Ah, Rosetta! I’ll always think of her with fondness.”
    “What you had going with her was not exactly platonic, was it? Sexual is how I would describe it.” Ruiz chuckled, sounding like a snake’s rattle.
    Hervey winced. “Well, I guess that would be an accurate way of putting it.”
    “And now here you are in the States, nice and comfy with your drug dealing. It took me much time and trouble to track you down, and here I am.”
    “Exactly why have you done that, Manuel?” Hervey asked.
    Ruiz shrugged. “I have some business to do with you.” His face hardened. “You happened to leave without telling us after Rosetta had a little problem.”
    Hervey was sweating now. “A problem?”
    “You know darn well what I’m talking about, you rat. My poor sister killed herself because you wanted nothing to do with the child. I take that real personally, I really do.”
    Hervey swallowed nervously. “What are you going to do?”
    “Me? I am going to do nothing. It is you who will be doing something.”
    He produced a gun from his jacket and placed it on a table. “You will think about what you’ve done and take the proper action.”
    Then he turned and casually left the apartment.
    If he thinks I will shoot myself out of bad conscience for sweet little Rosetta, he is quite mistaken, Hervey thought.
    There came another knock on the door. When Hervey opened it, an unshaven, heavyset guy showed his badge.
    “I am Lt. Marc Range of homicide,” he said. “May I enter?”
    Hervey let him in. “What’s this all about?”
    “A liquor store down the street was robbed a short while ago, and the thief fatally shot the cashier. I have since received an anonymous tip saying the gun is in your apartment. I have a warrant to search for it.”
    “W-wait a minute!” Hervey stammered. “I didn’t commit those crimes! A guy who had a score to settle with me shot the cashier. Then he came here and left the gun on the table. After that, he gave you the tip about the gun being with me. Don’t you realized what has occurred? He’s planned to get me arrested so he can exact revenge on me. That’s the truth!”
    “Yeah, yeah, that’s a likely story,” Range said. “Come along with me. I have some questions for you at the station.”
    As the two men exited the apartment, Hervey was extremely sorry to have abandoned Rosetta Ruiz and her baby.

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