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Showdown at the House of Spirits

Wes Blalock

    It was hot that summer, and dry. Even two hours after sunset, the mercury sat at an even 86 degrees. He looked like a drifter, climbing out of the passenger side of the Peterbilt cab and thanking the driver for the lift, but this was all part of the plan. He had a reason to be here, on this night, at this time. He’d spent time in the Marines, and the work suited him-even Beruit, as bad as that was-but his inability to conform or respect authority sent him back into the world. He pulled his duffel out of the truck and hefted it over his shoulder as he scanned the dirt and gravel parking lot. Dimly lit by a single 1950s street light, an RV, two working class sedans, a pickup truck, three big rigs, a sparkly new SUV, and a sheriff’s patrol car populated the shadows.
    The House of Spirits, as advertised with a large sign and neon Kokopelli, sagged slightly left, timbers tired from decades of standing in the heat of the Sonoran Desert. Window lights shouting its name and proclaiming “homemade food,” “ice,” “water,” and “Corona Extra,” demonstrated some life was still tucked inside. He switched the duffel to his right shoulder and reached his hand into the hole cut at the top, gripping the stock of the sawed-off shotgun, reassuring himself that it remained safely strapped inside. The name, long since stenciled on the olive drab duffel was now painted over. Although, under careful inspection, “Jacob” could almost be made out.
    Pushing open the door, he was greeted by a grizzled white man with long, blonde braids and a Tohono-style vest over a sweat-stained blue shirt. Clearly, the Tohono O’odham Nation’s culture, a vast reservation that stretched along several miles of the Mexican border, and less than two miles from where they stood, had absorbed the man. He chewed a dead cigar and showed Jacob to a table, but the drifter asked instead for one near the kitchen. For a second, the host considered the stranger with squinted eyes and a furrowed brow but, shrugging, decided that it wasn’t worth the time of discussion and handed him a menu, waving toward the table at the far end of the room. Jacob took a seat, his back to the wall and the duffel in the chair beside him. The barrel pointed toward the middle of the open restaurant. He counted the people he could see-lettuce farmers, truckers, migrant workers, a family stopped after visiting the national park. That explained the RV in the lot. Two sheriff’s deputies leaned with their backs against the bar; two giants, at least six feet tall, both wearing Colt .45 autos in their holsters and serious expressions on their faces. Jacob speculated, but was confidant in his ability to outgun, outbrawl, and overpower either of them, despite their size and profession. Jacob flexed involuntarily.
    The deputies stared at a table of Mexicans near the center of the restaurant, eating steaks and drinking cervezas. The Mexicans had clearly noticed, but ignored them, choosing instead to laugh and joke loudly with one another in Spanish. Jacob’s high school understanding of the language and its insults meant he didn’t have to guess at the reason for the angry red hue of the gangly deputy’s face. These were not migrant workers, nor tourists come up from over the border to have some authentic American food. They were soldiers, soldados. Sinaloa Cartel. They were genuine Levi’s, snakeskin boots, custom-blocked, high-end, cowboy hats, and Jacob saw, firearms beneath their sport coats. Jacob’s interest was pulled inexorably toward the two, large, rolling suitcases that sat near their leader-a trim man with a pencil mustache and a tattoo of a tiger on his right hand. El Tigre, the cartel’s pre-eminent enforcer.
    The floor held another table full of young Tohonos from the nearby reservation, all denim jackets and grit. Clearly here to take part in the proceedings and get their cut. They drank in silence, beer mugs in weak hands, strong hands beneath the table, hidden from view by the red-checked tablecloths. They were nothing more than country boys who dabbled in organized crime; in well over their heads but completely unaware of how bad their worlds could turn. And each had a heavy satchel at their feet.
    A tired, young woman with black hair and dark eyes but a look that in Jacob’s mind said, “half-breed,” asked for his order and he pointed to the prime rib for which he had absolutely no intention of paying. Which was good, because he asked for mashed potatoes and was told it was only served with beans and fry bread before the waitress walked away, ending their discussion. As he sat waiting for his food, Jacob glanced over at Cracker, polishing glasses behind the bar, almost directly behind the two deputies and seemingly completely unaware of Jacob’s presence.
    Cracker looked up and smiled through his impossibly thick, blonde mustache, displaying a gap-toothed grin. He winked at Jacob and rolled his eyes toward the two lawmen within his reach. Cracker was in on it, having secured a job almost three weeks ago, as soon as Jacob realized the meetings always happened here, far from prying eyes. Jacob wished he would stop smiling at him, but Cracker was Cracker, and there would be no changing him. Way to be subtle, Cracker. He had served with Jacob in Beruit as well, and while his first name was actually Jack, his white, Mississippian heritage and demeanor had earned him the nickname. Vicious as he was racist, at least Cracker was psycho enough to back Jacob up on this job. Now, just to wait for the right moment.
    A park ranger walked into the restaurant, head held high, still covered by his flat-brimmed Stetson, badge on his chest, and large bore revolver on his hip. The soldados calmed themselves and the deputies straightened at the bar, each party trying to account for this unknown element. Jacob recognized the cut of the ranger’s chin, the steely eyes, even the thinning hair beneath the campaign hat, all so similar to his own features. The ranger glanced over at the Sinaloans and nodded as they acknowledged him, his eyes showing recognition, but no fear. For the deputies, the ranger reserved a look of disdain. Stern and athletic, he strode between the tables, all eyes on him, until he pulled up the chair opposite Jacob and sat facing him. “Mark Reed” engraved on his brass name plate.
    “What are you doing here, little brother?” The ranger asked in a harsh, unwavering whisper.
    Jacob leaned back, two chair legs leaving the floor, so that he could keep an eye on the soldados, now obscured by his thirty-four year old brother’s tan and green uniform-he couldn’t seem to get a clear view of the tableful of glares pointed his direction.
    “You’re fucking things up, big brother,” Jacob replied. “I’ve got it all covered.”
    “I’m not about to let you get yourself killed out here. You pick up the God-damned bag and walk out that door with me.” Mark turned slightly and looked over at the deputies from the corner of his eye. “We walk out now and no one knows a thing, except that we’re having a little family squabble.”
    Jacob allowed his chair to ease onto the floor and leaned forward over the table. “I know what I’m doing. I make this score and then I disappear and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” Jacob sat back. “You’re out of your jurisdiction, ranger. Go back to your park.”
    Mark stared at him with hard eyes. “Fine.”
    Jacob watched as Mark picked up the chair and moved it so that he could sit beside his little brother. Mark put his feet up on the table and leaned his chair back to balance on the two rear legs. Jacob saw Cracker raise his eyebrows in a question and the two deputies stiffen. El Tigre, however, appeared amused while the table of Tohonos shuffled nervously.
    “What are you doing?” Jacob asked, without looking over.
    “Waiting,” Mark answered.
    “You need to get out of here. You’re going to get us both killed.” Jacob leaned forward and slipped his hand into the hole in his duffel.
    “As soon as you’re ready to come with me.”
    Looking up, Jacob saw the faux native restaurant owner ushering people out of the business, as though high noon was about to happen, right here in the saloon; the family, the migrant workers, the farmers and truckers all skittering out the door like extras in a Ford western. Sweat broke out on the fat deputy’s forehead; he and his partner clearly never expected to have to actually do anything and were unsure of what to do about the interlopers, now. The skinny one took a sideways glance at El Tigre who tilted his head in a “well, go over there” gesture, his smile having slowly faded to a sneer.
    Cracker stepped over to the jukebox near the bar, dropped in a couple of coins and pressed a series of buttons. Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper” filled the new silence and Cracker met Jacob’s eyes with a “look what I did” glee. The skinny deputy drew his pistol and the fat one followed suit, the two walking in step toward the ranger.
    “Sorry, ranger,” Skinny said. “It’s just business.”
    Jacob’s waitress emerged from the kitchen with his order in her hand and froze, dropping the plate of food to the floor with a crash. The deputies’ heads turned and Jacob took the opportunity to feel for the grip of the shotgun and pull the trigger. The end of the duffel exploded, as did Skinny’s mid-section, blood and viscera spraying Fatty and the bar. Fatty cried out in shock and anger, panicking as his partner slid to the hardwood flooring in a puddle of gore. He started pulling the trigger of his pistol even before putting it on target. With the sudden realization that he may have miscalculated and was moments from death, Jacob fought with the shotgun, struggling to pull it free of the destroyed duffel. But Mark was up and advancing on the corrupt deputy, firing magnum rounds from the massive revolver that seemed almost small in his hand. The ranger hat still rode his brother’s head, making him look more like the soldiers that had heralded the role, especially as he exchanged fire with the larger, now ruptured and slumping deputy before transitioning to a firefight with the soldados as they rose from their seated positions.
    Jacob rejoined the firefight as the shotgun pulled clear, just as Cracker swept the floor with the Uzi he had stashed beneath the counter. Engaging each target as he had been taught, Jacob felt the bullets whip past. Something tugged at his jacket as he dove to the floor, digging for additional shells to throw into the pump action shotgun. Two of the Tohono drug dealers ran for the side window, attempting to leap through the double-paned glass to freedom. Only the second succeeded-the first remained half in and half out, a huge shard of glass impaling him to the frame. One of the Sinaloan soldiers retreated to the door, followed narrowly by two bullets from Mark’s pistol. Mark walked as he fired, calmly stepping across the room at an angle, then changing direction as he dropped the casings from his cylinder and loaded six new rounds, snapping the gun shut.
    The Uzi emptied and Cracker fought a new magazine into the handle, snapping the bolt closed, just before two of the soldados turned their guns on him, sending him sprawling behind the bar, a splash of blood covering the shattered mirror behind him. Mark and Jacob continued to fire and move, Jacob rolling on the ground, Mark walking calmly, as though without a care, dropping bodies as fast as he dropped his bullet casings.
    Warning signals blared in Jacob’s brain, but everything else seemed to come to a stop. “Don’t Fear the Reaper” continued to play on the jukebox, but the explosions had quieted, leaving everyone’s ears ringing; at least those which still sent signals to a working cortex.
    “Well, the ranger is not what he seems to be,” El Tigre said with a clear Spanish accent, standing from the table with his hands raised, palms open. “You have me. I give up.”
    Marked used his last speedloader to fill the revolver and scanned the building for new targets, but only dead and dying littered the floor. Jacob stood slowly and exhaled, dumping the shotgun and picking up one of the deputy’s Colt pistols.
    “Rogelio Vargas Rodriguez,” Mark said, nodding. “El Tigre, you’ve been a wanted man for a long time.”
    “Yes, but because I’m not a stupid man, just prone to bouts of ego, from time to time.” El Tigre backed away from the table. “And if I’m not mistaken, that man there,” pointing at Jacob, “appears to have been here to rob me.” El Tigre gestured toward the bar. “Well, him and his dead friend.”
    Mark nodded, keeping the pistol pointed at the table in front of the Cartel enforcer. “You have a point?”
    Jacob shuffled toward the bar, getting a little closer to the two men at the center of the room.
    “Is he a friend or relative of yours?” El Tigre asked. “I’m going to guess that you are brothers, based on your appearance. Someone important to you, no?”
    Mark nodded. “Good guess.”
    “Then it would be so sad for you to have to arrest me, and,” he glanced at Jacob. “send your brother to the gas chamber. The felony murder rule applies here, no? Look at this mess. Dead Americans, dead Indians, dead Mexicans. Your brother committed a robbery and all these people died, including two honorable police officers who just tried to intervene and stop the violence. At least, that will be my testimony.”
    Mark scowled at Jacob and Jacob finally understood the tingling at the back of his brain.
    El Tigre sidestepped toward the suitcases near his table. “I’m just going to take my product,” indicating the suitcases, “and my money,” gesturing at the satchels under the Tohono O’odham kids’ table. “And I will drive away. And then you can tell them whatever story you want to about what happened here.”
    Jacob looked at the suitcases and the duffels and shouted, “No. It’s mine. I worked too hard for it.”
    Mark looked at him in shock, “Jacob, what are you thinking...”
    But Jacob shot him in the right knee. Mark fell to the ground screaming, still holding his pistol. Reaching beneath his sport coat with both hands, El Tigre produced a pair of pearl-handled .45s but Jacob put four bullets through his chest, killing him with the deputy’s gun. Then dropped the gun to the floor.
    Jacob hurried to the duffels under the table and dragged them toward the door, bearing the weight with difficulty. He looked over at Mark. “I’m sorry, big brother. I didn’t have a choice. I can’t go to prison and I can’t leave the money behind. And I know you wouldn’t be able to let me take it if you could stop me.”
    Mark grimaced and raised his pistol, pointing it at Jacob’s chest. Jacob paused, holding his breath. He saw a tear roll down the side of Mark’s face but couldn’t know if it was from the physical pain or something else. And then Jacob took his chances and turned away, pulling the satchels out to Cracker’s pickup truck. Loading the satchels into the truck, he found the key in the ignition, just as they had planned. Driving past the entrance to the House of Spirits, Jacob saw the waitress tending to his brother, a phone in her hand. Mark was in good hands.
    With only a small current of regret niggling at the back of his mind, Jacob pulled out onto the highway and headed north toward Gila Bend, then to Vegas to launder the money. He breathed a sigh of relief, and felt a twinge of pain in his belly, like something was poking him there. He reached down and found a hole in his jacket, just below his rib. Reaching beneath the fabric, Jacob found another hole in his shirt. There didn’t seem to be any blood, but there was definitely a hole in his stomach. He continued to drive, pondering his injury. Was he actually shot, or did a ricochet just puncture the skin, giving the appearance of a hole? Did he have a bullet inside him that was stopping the bleeding? Was he indestructible? Was he already dead? After a few minutes, the twinge became a searing pain that required he pull to the side or risk crashing the pickup. But Jacob had difficulty making his legs press the brakes enough and instead of stopping, the truck coasted down the embankment, into a gully where it rolled onto its side, into the brush, hidden from the road. Blood filled his abdominal cavity-although none seemed to spill out onto his shirt. Jacob lay on his back on the passenger door, staring up at the starry sky and weighed down by bags of money.
    He watched the fireflies hover above him, some settling on the money near him. When the cash began to smolder and ignite, he realized that the fireflies were embers from a fire begun under the truck’s hood. He drifted away as the flames began to lick at his skin.

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