Thin Gray Lines Page 14

  “Chin-chin.”

  They drank in silence, casting wary looks at one another.

  “If you won’t tell me who you are, I need to know what you plan to do,” Randall said.

  Corus release a big slow breath and spoke as if reading from a list. “I was sent here against my will. I know what this place is. If I can figure it out, the cops damn sure can. I’m to report back, but I haven’t yet.”

  “Report back to who?”

  “A competitor.”

  “You’re a spy?” Randall asked in alarm.

  Corus got a text from Chu informing him that Pineda had used a sick day to leave work. He took a sip of the cheap alcohol, trying to absorb the information.

  “Randall, I’m just a man trying to get from one day to the next.” Corus gave him a sincere look. “Trying to protect the people I love.”

  “I don’t know if the boss is gonna care about that. You’ll need to bugger off. And quick.”

  “They can’t let me go now, Randall. Not with what I know.”

  “You want them to silence you? They have a man who’ll do that, you know.”

  “Arlo Falcone?”

  Randall set his cup down. “How…”

  “I’m a good spy,” Corus said. “But an unwilling one. I want to inform your bosses of what’s coming.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  Randall blinked a while then whispered curses into his cup as he tipped it to his mouth.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Pineda had come to Walla Walla to tail Corus without orders from Ruiz to do so. Then, by all appearances, he’d used a dead man’s car to run him down in an alley, almost killing Oswaldo. Once Corus accepted those two items as truth, other details came into focus. Pineda had been involved in the Ferdinand case. In fact, he’d been the first representative of the King County Sheriff’s Department to question Corus about the events on Whidbey Island.

  If the people who wanted to hurt Corus needed someone on the inside, Pineda was a likely tool.

  Pineda was his enemy, and he needed to pay a price, but, more importantly, he might lead to the person pulling the strings. The real enemy.

  Corus pondered all this as he waited on the couch in the tractor barn for Randall’s bosses to arrive. Randall had called them and offered to bring Corus to the big house but had been ordered to stay put. From there, Randall grew more nervous than Corus, pacing around and peppering him with increasingly demanding questions.

  “Are you DEA? FBI?” Randall asked.

  Corus sighed. “No. Settle down.”

  “Who do you work for. The Mexican cartel?”

  “Are you sure you’re not working for them?”

  That shut Randall up for a while.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man in a leather jacket and cowboy hat stormed into the tractor barn.

  “Randall? Randall!”

  “In here, boss.”

  The man did a double take toward the office forty-feet-away.

  Corus presumed this was Rodger Tanner, one of the farm’s owners.

  His cowboy boots clunked on the finished concrete, echoing off the cavernous interior of the barn as he approached, eyes hungrily searching the situation in the office, taking in information. He held a phone to his ear the entire way. “I found him. In this little office in the tractor barn.” Then he hung up. “I heard there was a disturbance down at the Cantina. Our boys were causing trouble?”

  “No, sir. I mean, yes sir, in part.”

  “What’s this about a car running over Oswaldo?”

  “I can explain. Just let me.”

  Rodger turned his heated gaze onto Corus, questions swirling behind his eyes, but he held his tongue and gestured for Randall to speak.

  “Our boys were out back in the alley having a disagreement. Seems Jorge picked up on the fact that Diego here isn’t Mexican. He got suspicious — just looking out for themselves and the farm. But then out of nowhere this car tries to run us over. Diego pushed me out of the way and took the hit. Jorge twisted his leg, but Oswaldo got thrown onto a piece of metal and practically bled out before our eyes.”

  “Jesus.”

  Randall angled toward Corus. “Diego knew what to do, though. He clearly knows medicine, or he was a combat medic or something. He saved Oswaldo’s life.”

  “Not Mexican and knows first aid. So what?” Rodger looked at Corus again, unimpressed. “Who are you?”

  “I’ve been asking. Trust me,” Randall said. “He says people are after him.”

  Iris appeared behind Rodger with Arlo Falcone in tow. It was Corus’ first time seeing her scowl in person. She was petite but looked even smaller right next to Rodger and Arlo who now blocked the exit.

  If this conversation didn’t go well, he was trapped.

  Rodger caught Iris and Arlo up on the details. As he did so, Corus noticed the way Arlo and Rodger deferred to her, orbiting her presence like large planets around a dense star.

  “Let me at him,” Arlo said. “Give me the room.”

  But Iris pushed her way through the door first.

  “Who are you? Jorge smelled a rat. I want to know why.”

  Corus didn’t budge from his seat on the couch. “Because I’m a rat.”

  He reveled in the way that put them all off balance and leaned into his role, casually laying an arm along the back of the couch.

  “I incurred some debts back home. The man who owned my debt sold it to someone I never met, but I heard whispers that the new holder is a big player in the games people play between the West Coast and East Asia.”

  Iris exchanged a glance over her shoulder with her husband.

  “I was sent to spy on you,” Corus said. “To figure out what you are moving and how. I don’t know if these people aim to emulate you, or sell you out, or if this is due diligence before some kind of merger between your supplier and them.”

  “Merger?” Rodger asked Iris. “You didn’t say anything—”

  Iris shushed him.

  “We don’t know the first thing you’re talking about,” Iris said. “We’re an onion farm. There’s nothing here to spy on.”

  “Oh, okay.” Corus chuckled. “Well, then I must have the wrong place. I’ll just collect my things and go.”

  He stood, hiding his discomfort.

  None of them budged to get out of his way.

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

  “What do you think you know?” Rodger asked.

  “So, I’ll just lay it out?” Corus asked. “Fine. You repackage and transport drugs to Canada and Asia. The drugs are delivered here by plane, but the plane never lands. It drops the payload out by that row of poplars.”

  Rodger’s mouth hung open, and muscles flared in Iris’ clenched jaw.

  “Along with the drugs come stacks of cash, money you don’t entirely know what to do with. You buy every farm that becomes available, but you haven’t figured out how to launder all of it, so you overpay for labor and spread enough around so that any neighbors know what side their bread is buttered on. Now, before you get too alarmed. Here’s how much I’ve told them.” Corus held up his fingers making the shape of a zero. “Bupkiss. I earned my debts honestly and I’ll pay them off honestly. The people strong-arming me assume me being a debtor makes me a degenerate, but my personal honor is of utmost importance to me.” He gave Rodger and Iris sincere looks in turn. “You people have a good thing going here, and I don’t aim to mess it up. You treat your people well. You don’t have to, but you do. Why would I wanna help some shadowy drug lord if it hurts little people like you.”

  “Little people?” Iris coughed.

  “Everyone stands in someone else’s shadow,” Corus said. “Me especially. I didn’t tell them shit, and I think that’s what got me this.” He raised his shirt to show them the already purpling bruises on his back. “I fell in love with the idea of staying on here, rebuilding myself, working my ass off to pay down my debts. I guess I knew it was a fantasy, but…”


  “He’s a good man,” Randall said. “He saved me at risk to himself. He saved Oswaldo.”

  “These people know you’re here?” Every wrinkle on Iris’ face deepened.

  “Yes.”

  “They forced you to come? How?”

  “There’s an overseer. I expect he reported back about my failure to communicate and got the go-ahead to kill me. When he finds out I’m not dead, he’ll come for me again.”

  “You know who this man is?” she asked with the soft-footed posture of a predator sensing prey nearby.

  “He goes by Carlos. Ugly bastard. Dresses like a used car salesman, but trust me, he’s mean.”

  Rodger puffed up and ran his thumbs along the inside of his waistband. “You know where to find him?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll go handle it myself, now that I’m cleaned up.”

  Iris nodded over her shoulder at Arlo. “Go. Find out if he’s telling the truth.”

  Corus buttoned up his shirt, preparing for travel, and threw his hat back on.

  “I can handle it,” Rodger said, full of bluster.

  “I need you here,” Iris said. “This is Arlo’s job.” With that, she walked out. Rodger gave Corus a hurt look before stalking out after his wife. Arlo cracked his knuckles and adjusted his canvas jacket.

  Corus gave Randall a nod. “Thanks for what you said.”

  “You better be telling the truth, friend.” Randall’s eyes were ringed in red. “I don’t like to think what happens if you’re lying.”

  He pushed Corus out the door.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Arlo parked his nondescript work van at the edge of the parking lot of the Budget Suites hotel. He and Randall peered up at the two-story structure from the front seats.

  “What’s his room number?” Arlo asked.

  “Let’s get him to come out,” Corus said. “Hand me a phone.”

  Randall passed his over, and Corus dialed Pineda’s number.

  “Hello?” Pineda said.

  Corus put on a female voice. “This is the front desk calling to let you know your dome light is on in your vehicle. Don’t want your battery to die.”

  “Oh, for real? Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Corus handed the phone back and looked about the van for a weapon. They hustled out and stacked up by the side exit, Corus clutching a thick black bungee cord with big metal hooks at each end.

  The heavy latch opened the side door, and Pineda trundled through it.

  In a crouch, Corus stalked behind him and lashed the bungee cord across the back of his thighs, stunning Pineda in place, shaking like he’d been electrocuted. Corus backstroked across his wide ass sending a wicked jolt through him. Pineda arched his back and hopped on his tip toes like a dog dancing for a treat.

  Pineda finally collapsed, and Corus slung the bungee under his chin and ears. He was playing a role, but he didn’t have to act as he dragged Pineda across the dirty asphalt toward the dumpsters.

  Pineda latched onto the cord to keep it from choking him out, but that only made him easier to drag. Arlo and Randall each grabbed an appendage and helped ferry him into the hidden space between the dumpsters and a high rise of grass and exposed rocks that separated the Budget Suites from the Jiffy Lube next door.

  In that hidden space, Corus beat Pineda.

  He hammered his fists into face and body, and when that grew tiresome, he swung his boot tip into Pineda’s guts a few times.

  He didn’t have to tell Pineda to keep his voice down, as the man was curled up like a salted slug, choking on his own blood.

  “That’s enough,” Randall said.

  “We gotta talk to him before you finish it,” Arlo said.

  Corus stepped aside, shaking out his right hand. Arlo fished Pineda’s wallet out and took a look. He raised an eyebrow and held it for Randall to see.

  “He’s a cop? Where’s King County?”

  “It’s Seattle,” Arlo said. “These people got cops doing their dirty work. Jesus.”

  Corus leaned close to Pineda’s ear. “If you wanna live, you tell the truth.”

  Pineda spat blood and whimpered.

  “Tell me you understand why this is happening,” Corus said. “Tell me you understand, Carlos.”

  “Yeah. I understand.” Pineda rolled to his back and let out a moan.

  “Who do you work for?” Corus asked.

  “I don’t know. Some guy.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “In person? Twice.”

  “What did he look like?”

  Pineda scrunched his eyes in pain and rolled back and forth.

  Corus shook him by the collar, letting the back of Pineda’s head bounce on the concrete. “What did he look like?”

  “Sandy hair,” Pineda yelped. “Mouth stretches real wide when he’s mad. Neck like a tree trunk. Real strong.”

  Corus nodded, saying the name in his mind.

  Joller.

  Corus had everyone in the palm of his hand. Now he had to close the show.

  “We can’t kill this guy,” Arlo said. “I won’t kill a cop.”

  “You’re right, I’m a cop.” Pineda whined, eyes still closed. “I called this in. They’re coming for me. They know I’m—”

  Corus smacked him in the mouth like he was hitting a snooze button.

  “Okay,” Corus said. “We don’t kill him.”

  “He’s coming…” Pineda gasped.

  “Who is?”

  “He’s coming…” Pineda gave a gap-toothed smile. “He got real fed up with me. Said I wasn’t doing a good enough job of making you suffer.” He winced from laughing, but his mirth couldn’t be contained. “He’s coming for you now, boy. He’s gonna get you.” Pineda’s laugh turned into a snarl, and he opened his eyes. “You’re gonna piss your britches when he gets you. I wish I could be there to see it.”

  Pineda spat at Corus. “He was right about you. You fucking snake in the grass. You try to act nice, but there’s a demon inside you. Yeah, a demon.”

  Corus didn’t respond.

  Pineda laid his head back, eyes closed, voice growing faint. “Who gets to meet the pope and isn’t even catholic?” He drifted out of consciousness.

  Corus reached in Pineda’s pockets, pulling out the keys to his own vehicle and Pineda’s room key.

  “Carlos here is checking out. Take this.” He handed Randall the room key and told him to clear out all of Pineda’s stuff. Corus got in his Nissan and pulled it nearer the dumpsters, and, with Arlo’s help, got Pineda in the driver’s seat.

  Corus put the seatbelt on Pineda and in intimate closeness whispered, “The only reason I’m not turning you in is so I can deal with this the way I need to.”

  “You gonna kill him?” Pineda asked softly.

  “How does that sound to you?”

  “Guy freaks me the fuck out. Do what you gotta do.”

  “You need to get the fuck outta town.” Arlo approached the driver’s door. “Tell your people things are handled here in Walla Walla.”

  “Shit, I will.” Pineda sniffled blood. “I’m going right now.”

  Randall exited the side door of the hotel with Pineda’s gear and Corus’ duffel and threw it in the back. Corus closed the rear hatch, then put the keys in the ignition. “Can you stay conscious to drive?”

  “You really gonna let me go?” Pineda whispered. “You’re not gonna tell nobody?”

  “This never happened.”

  Pineda looked Corus in the eyes as he stood away, seeing the truth of it.

  He started the engine and put the vehicle in gear and drove off.

  “Can he drive like that?” Arlo asked.

  Corus put Pineda’s phone to his ear as it dialed.

  “What do you want?” Joller barked on the other end. “I already told you, you fucked this up too many times. You aren’t getting paid.”

  “Joller,” Corus said.

  Silence.

  “Carlos can’t c
ome to the phone,” Corus said. “But I heard you wanted to pay me a visit.”

  A longer silence stretched out. Then Joller growled, “You motherfucker. I’m gonna kill you.”

  “I’m in Walla Walla, Washington. I’ll be waiting.”

  He hung up.

  Corus fumed to himself until Arlo got his attention.

  “Yo.” He and Randall stared at Corus with brows raised.

  Corus relaxed his face, unsure exactly how grim he’d been looking. “Well, that’s done.”

  Arlo thumbed his nose, seeming lost for words. He shook his head, muttering to himself as he led them back to the van.

  THIRTY

  Corus rode in the back of the gutted work van with his elbows balanced on his knees, metal strips digging into his back, but the pain felt far away. Nothing in his close proximity felt at all real. Diego wasn’t his real name. His “real” name was arguably not even his real name. He asked himself who he was. For a disoriented moment, he really didn’t know.

  He searched for something basic and grounding.

  Where was he from?

  People kept asking him that question, but he didn’t know that either. He knew where he’d been born, where he’d gone to school, where he’d gotten drunk for the first time, where he’d learned to drive. But every one of those places was different from the others. Most weren’t even in the same country.

  When fear hit him hardest in Afghanistan, and he imagined his own demise, the one comfort was the thought of lying for eternity in Arlington National Cemetery, an honored and hallowed space where, in death, he’d have something he never had in life.

  Not only had he failed to find that oneness with his surroundings, his brief grasp at making a home of Covington had led him to his present circumstances. The thought redirected his mind into the swirl of his untethered youth. He smelled a hint of panic in the disorientation, and wondered why it would happen there, in Walla Walla, and not overseas.

  Was this the combat disease finally rearing its head?

  But he wasn’t thinking about combat. He wasn’t experiencing hyper-vigilance and losing control of his temper. He was calm. But he was lost.