West of Laredo by Tom Armbruster (epub e reader txt) 📕

old stone Catholic missions. Lee leaves the doors open to keep the car cooler. J.O. happily trots over to a tree and lifts his leg. The stone fort tells a story. It was a Catholic foothold, one of many along the Rio Bravo that didn't survive. Commanches raided it, burned it, and cut off its supply lines with San Antonio and Monterrey. But the stones remain. It strikes Lee that the West wasn't won when the Commanches were defeated, or when Texas Rangers put a few outlaws in the ground. The truth is the West is still a battleground on the border, and they could use some new rangers or sheriffs or the army or somebody to clean it up.


Desert silence. When Lee takes friends to the fort she listens as the volume of their voices gradually turns down to the almost whisper that is all that is needed in the desert. J.O. finishes his business and heads back to the Suburban, takes his place in the front seat, gets a pat on the head from Lee and settles his chin on her leg.


As Lee is about to swing back on to the main road from the fort she sees the white Consulate van with the Consulate team coming from Piedras. The van pulls into a small tienda, trying to squeeze into the tiny shade left by a short tree, and everyone piles out. Lee and J.O. wander over. The four visa adjudicators are relaxed and smiling. They have the results of their interviews in a black box in the van that will be downloaded into Consulate computers within a few hours. Jose looks the most like a cowboy in his jeans and cowboy hat. "Hey, Rubia, where you going with J.O.? I thought Junior Officers had to do office work."

Lee did name J.O. after the State Department acronym for junior officers, like herself.

"Well, I think J.O. is entitled to a little TDY every now and then, he works hard."

"We work hard too, but what do we get for it? Trips up and down the border to kicked in towns, long hours, low pay, and no 'thanks' from nobody."

"Yea, but you love it don't you, Jose?"

Jose laughed. "Yea, I love it. Keeping America safe." Jose laughed again. “OK, Rubia, be careful up there. And take plenty of Topo Chico, I know you love that stuff, it's hot today."

"Oh, good idea." Lee headed into the tienda to buy a cold, bubbly soda water that always tasted better to her then Perrier. Maybe the 110 degree heat had something to do with it.

"You guys take care too. See you back at the ranch."

The other adjudicators wave. A couple turn around to watch Lee walk away in her tight jeans and cowboy boots.

Lee and JO head north, following the contour of the Rio Bravo that rolls lazily along just on the horizon.


*3*


Darrell Marker's shirt is unbuttoned, his fly is halfway down and his hair goes in several directions at once. He sits across from Lee in the Prison Director's office that the Mexicans vacate whenever Lee comes to talk to an American prisoner. One table, one telephone, two chairs, no computer. Lee runs through the Privacy Act Waiver that would allow her to contact family on his behalf. "You know Mr. Marker, you'd be surprised how family and friends come through in times like this. I've never seen a family walk away when one of their own is in jail here. Sure, it's a little embarrassing, you had too much to drink, maybe you were with the wrong company last night, but a Mexican prison is a tough place. You could use some support."


No reaction from Marker. "We'll help you, of course. We'll bring you vitamins, the Consulate provides fresh water, and I'll get you all the copies of Sports Illustrated and The Economist you want, but your family can do a lot more, don't you think? Maybe write your Congressman, send you money? Oh, I also have a list of Mexican attorneys, but I can't recommend, you understand."
Still nothing from Marker. "With an assault charge you could be here a few weeks, easy. You should really consider the Privacy Act Waiver. Like I said, we can help you, but your family and friends can help you more. Even bring you food."

Marker gives her a long look. Considers saying something, changes his mind and says, "You people are not reliable."

"What do you mean not reliable? We're the U.S. Government! We don't even carry insurance, because we insure ourselves. We'll look out for you."

Lee sees dried blood behind his ear. "You get that in the fight in Boy's Town or here?" Lee looks at Marker hard. He turns away.

"Well?" Lee asks.

"Well what?" Marker stuffs his untucked shirt into his pants.

"Well, do you want to get yourself killed?" Lee asks.

"Yea, maybe. I want to go back in now. Say hello to El Mecanico."

"Say hello to who?"

"He's still high." The Deputy Warden says as he pulls Marker aside. Marker passes a checkpoint and is handed off to another guard. The Deputy Warden turns back to Lee. "Last night, Marker pissed on his cellmates at 2 in the morning, started howling about his 'medicine' and they shut him up. Lucky for him they didn't kill him. His hitting a Mexican lady in the face with a beer bottle also did not go down well here."


Lee considers asking that Marker be put in isolation for a while, but she knows isolation is hell and that sooner or later Marker has to make his own way. She decides to let it go. She meets with the other seven Americans. A father and son smuggling team, two counterfeiters, a murderer, and two druggies. She asks them to look out for Marker. She doesn't get much back in the way of enthusiasm. She'll have her retired guy, Sinclair, look in on Marker later in the week when he brings the magazines and vitamins.


When the border drug wars heated up, the State Department offered Sinclair a contract. Lee figures Sinclair is worth his weight in gold. Sinclair always gets a Privacy Act Waiver. Lee doesn't know how he does it. Sinclair's first assignment was Vietnam years ago, and he was good to have in a pinch. It looks like Marker is going to be a pinch. Marker has no ID, but Lee decides not to be a stickler and refuse Consular services. After all, Marker could be Canadian or something. But Marker has that down and out Texas look that Lee knows well. His tattoo with a skull in a flaming motorcycle helmet also seems more Dallas, than say, Montreal. Lee leaves 25 minutes later, after filling out the required forms for Marker. Name, address, occupation. For occupation he lists "Service Provider." Lee wishes again Sinclair were there to do his magic and get Marker to open up.


Sinclair's last case, involving a John Doe, called for his Vietnam experience. A black man, in his 50's or 60's was picked up in Nuevo Laredo as a vagrant. He claimed he had walked there from Honduras. Other than that, no one could get any information. On a hunch, Sinclair starting naming Vietnamese towns and villages. "Khe San, bad place." John Doe said. In the end, the psychiatric ward in Laredo, Texas took custody of him and the Consulate started working with Veteran's Affairs to get an ID. Then, against all assurances to Sinclair, the Texas hospital prescribed "Greyhound therapy." They put John Doe on a bus and sent him north to Cleveland, another place John Doe mentioned.


Lee pulls into her drive at midnight, let’s J.O. out and heads to bed, wondering what Marker’s real story is.


*4*


I ordered the investigation about the time the American was arrested. We had information visas were being sold out of the Consulate. We used cameras, informants, I won't go into all the sources and methods, but we had Penny pretty well tracked. All of the other officers at the Consulate too. Even Sinclair, the retired guy. At the time, Marker seemed like just another drug cowboy and we didn't link him to the narcos or the visa fraud scheme. Neither did the Consulate, but Marker was not much of a talker.
Our information was simply that narcos were getting American visas, real or forged, and my job was to find out how. I sent Ed Ballistrade, a veteran with Diplomatic Security and pretty much a DS stickler for detail. Penny wasn't a suspect. Her troubles came from a certain indiscretion that happened later. But Marker’s violent death got the ball rolling. Got Penny emotionally distraught to a certain extent leaving her vulnerable.


*5*


**


Darrell Pickert doesn't know why he chose the name Marker. Doesn't know why he does most things. He isn't an analyzer. But he is trying to figure his way out of prison. He's been in prison before, but he'd never been in when he had something better to do on the outside. And now, he has the best thing he's ever had. It's the dream job. His bosses give him a list of names. Maybe 20, 25 maximum. Next to every name is a number anywhere from 1 to 10. The number corresponds to thousands of dollars so it's a sliding scale, lowest price $1,000, highest 10,000. That's a lot of money for a little picture in a passport. He figures the high priced guys are the narcos, but nobody tells him for sure. He takes the list to Piedras Negras or Ciudad Acuna. Little Mexican border towns across from