Border Offensive. Don Pendleton
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UPSTAIRS, FRANCO APPROACHED the door to Digger’s room with what he would have hastily denied as trepidation in different company. “Digger? You in there?” Franco said, knocking lightly on the door. The cantina had a second floor with four rooms, one of which had been taken over by the man called Digger earlier in the day.
Such as with all criminals, human traffickers like coyotes had a pecking order. There were those like Sweets, who had some organizational ability and charisma, and those like Franco, who kept their heads down and collected their money.
Then there were those like Digger.
His real name was Philo Sweets though no one ever called him that. He was just...Digger. Not even Grave Digger, which would have made sense given certain rumors. Just Digger. A coyote, like any other, except he was Django’s baby brother and sometimes his cargo didn’t make it where it was supposed to go. Then, accidents did happen and no one wanted to think about it too much. Especially not Franco. Sweets wouldn’t hear a word said against Digger, and he’d buried men who had a mind to take a run at his brother. The door creaked open at the touch of Franco’s knuckles. He hesitated, licking his lips. There was a smell, like spoiled meat, and the whisper of voices. “Digger?”
Bedsprings whined, followed by the sound of bare feet on wood. Franco stepped back. Digger pulled the door open. He was handsome, in a chunky way. Just a tad too much excess weight to be Hollywood pretty, but under the fat was muscle. A lot of it, packed into close to seven feet of height. He smiled childishly, his eyes unfocused.
“Hi, Franco,” he said. His voice was light, like a much younger, smaller man’s. There were dark stains on his cheeks.
“Digger, Sweets wants you downstairs,” Franco said quickly. Digger frowned.
“I’m busy.”
“Now,” Franco said, trying to put some steel in his voice. Digger’s lip wobbled. His fingers, where they clutched the door, were red.
“But I’m busy,” he said again. “Django said I could stay up here. And I’m busy.”
“Yeah, I know. But now he wants you downstairs,” Franco said, trying to ignore the slow trickle of red that slithered down the surface of the door. “The ragheads are here.” Digger shook his head, as if trying to clear it.
“The—” He took a breath. “Yeah, okay. I’m coming. Just need to clean up.” He closed the door in Franco’s face without waiting for a reply. Franco, feeling faintly ill, didn’t wait for him, and started back down the stairs.
As Franco retreated, Digger closed the door and turned to survey the room. It was empty, but for a bed and a bureau and a cracked and rusting sink. And the woman, of course. There was always a woman.
But no black bird.
Digger frowned and looked at his hands. There was a crust beneath his nails, his skin was crimson to the elbow, and his mind felt fuzzy. It was a familiar feeling. He dragged the back of his forearm across his face. “I’m sorry,” he said to the woman on the bed. “I just wanted to see.”
She didn’t reply. Not strange, considering that she had been dead for an hour. What was left of her was hardly recognizable as the woman she had been.
Digger looked at his handiwork, and a flush of shame squirted through him. “I didn’t mean to,” he whined, gathering up his tools and taking them to the sink. He washed them quickly, then his hands. “I just wanted to see the black bird,” he continued. “I have to see it again.”
He wrapped his tools up—his knives and his hooks—and set them gently into his satchel. He gave it a fond, almost guilty pat, and began cleaning himself.
“My mother showed it to me, the first time. The black bird,” he said. “It whispered things to me but I can’t remember them. You understand.” He glanced at the ruin on the bed. “I keep looking for it, but I can’t find it.” He paused. “Maybe I’m looking in the wrong place.”
Cleaned and dressed, he left the room, carefully shutting the door behind him.
Downstairs, Franco took a seat at the bar as Digger came down not long after, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Sweets nodded to his brother as he led his guests inside and motioned toward a table.
At another table in the corner, two other men sat. Like Franco and Digger, they had the look of rough men. A Mossberg shotgun sat on the table in front of one. The other was spinning the cylinder on a .38. They eyed the newcomers with interest, but otherwise didn’t react.
“So,” Sweets said, plopping himself down in his chair once more. Tumart sat opposite him.
“So.”
Sweets leaned forward. “I’ve talked to several of my, ah, peers. There are niblets of interest.”
“Niblets?” Tumart said, amused.
“Mostly for the money.” Sweets leaned back, fingers interlacing behind his head. He swung his boots up on the table, eliciting a grunt of disgust from Abbas.
“Well. That is good news. How many?” Tumart said, ignoring Abbas.
“Ten. Me, Franco there. Henshaw and Morris.” As Sweets said the latter, he motioned toward the two men in the corner. “My baby brother, there. And four to arrive tomorrow.”
“Ten. And ten men each.” Tumart sat back. He frowned and glanced at Abbas, who nodded. “That will work, I believe.” He looked back at Sweets. “Your men know what to do? What we need them to do?”
“You need us to get them boys across the border at different points, mixed in among the usual assortment of wetbacks. From there, we head into the Yoo-nited States proper,” the man with the .38 said. He popped the cylinder closed and scratched his unshaven cheek with the barrel. “Easy peasy.”
“Yes,” Tumart said, looking at the speaker. The man did not inspire confidence. Still, one worked with what one had. “Fine. You’ll be paid when each group reaches their destination.”
“Nope,” Franco said. “All up front, or we ain’t going nowhere.”
“You—” Abbas rose to his feet, groping for the pistol that wasn’t there. Tumart grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.
“And that’s why we didn’t let you bring weapons,” Sweets said. Tumart inclined his head.
“Wise move. No.”
“No?”
“No. After.” Tumart knocked on the table with his knuckles. Sweets frowned and swung his legs off the table.
“I heard you guys liked to haggle...”
“Us guys?” Tumart said.
“Ragheads,” Franco supplied. Tumart glanced at him. He made a pistol with his fingers and pointed at the man.
“I am starting to dislike you.”
“I’ll live,” Franco grunted.
“The day is yet young,” Tumart said. “No dickering. The agreed-upon offer was after.”
“Maybe we’d like to renegotiate,” Sweets said. Tumart nodded, as if this made sense. Then, smoothly, he was up, over and onto the table before anyone could react, a leaf-shaped blade sliding from his sleeve and dropping into his palm. The tip of the blade poked Sweets’s Adam’s apple, eliciting a thin trickle of blood. The other coyotes reacted slowly, aiming weapons in a general fashion. Tumart ignored them.
“You should have frisked me. Negotiations are closed,” Tumart said, pressing lightly.
“Maybe,” Sweets said. Tumart looked down. Sweets’s hand held an M-9 Parabellum pistol, and it was pressed to the other man’s crotch.
“Ah,” Tumart said. “Well. This is awkward.”
“Yeah, you