The Milagro Beanfield War (74 page)

The agent climbed three-quarters of the way up the ridge and stopped again. The wind was blowing steadily; clouds obscured the sun. Perhaps two hundred yards across the small valley, Antelope Peak and Cabresto Mountain were still brightly lit and summery. Setting down his gun, the agent braced himself against a rock and began to scan the area with his binoculars. All nine Little Baldy Bear Lakes were visible now, and at the uppermost lake a pair of campers in a bright yellow rubber boat were fishing. The other lakes were quiet, unpeopled. Slowly, occasionally stopping at an area that his instincts told him was a likely exit from or entrance into the trees, he probed with the glasses along the pines bordering each lake. Once he paused for almost a minute at what appeared to be thin wisps of smoke rising from a recent campfire near the fifth lake's shore—but he surmised, after lengthy inspection, that it was some curious configuration of mist rising, perhaps from a warm spring in the muddy ground.

It was while panning his field glasses on the horizontal along the tree line at the upper reaches of Deerhair Canyon that he came upon a man standing about two hundred yards directly opposite his position, and this man was aiming a rifle at Kyril Montana. At almost the exact instant the glasses touched on the man and the agent registered his enormous bulk, he also registered a slight white puff of smoke from the gun, and at that he automatically collapsed himself sideways as a small piece of the rock he'd been leaning against exploded with a pop that was followed by a ricochet whine. Hitting the rocky earth hard, he kept rolling three or four times, down over jagged terrain, and while he rolled he heard the report of the shot that could have killed him, and then, after he'd stopped, tucked up tight behind a small boulder, he heard two more gunshots from bullets that must have been fired at him while he was rolling.

*   *   *

Milagro's old men liked to hang out on Rael's porch. The men who most often, and for the longest times, frequented the porch were Amarante Córdova and the doomsayer Juan F. Mondragón, Onofre Martínez and the church custodian Panky Mondragón, Sparky Pacheco, and also Tranquilino Jeantete when he wasn't catering to the local drunks inside the Frontier. These members of the Senile Brigade, who endlessly discussed the latest rumors, political skullduggery, adulteries, and other carnal shenanigans on Rael's porch, were, of course, only the most constant nucleus that hung out there. For there was nobody in town, men and women alike, who did not spend some time on that porch during any given day, knocking off a soda and a peanut butter Nab or some piñon nuts or Slim Jims while the news got passed around and fondled affectionately, embellished when necessary, exaggerated where possible, and twisted if the occasion called for twisting.

People on the porch were also very adept at listening to each other with one ear, while the other ear stayed cocked on the radio Nick always had going inside the store, always tuned to KKCV in Chamisaville. And when, say, the “Barton Gas Birthday Club” came on the air, everybody shut up to see who was growing a little older today. Likewise, when the “Pet Parade” came on, some people hushed up so as to hear if there were any bargains on free puppies at the Chamisaville Animal Shelter, or whether or not any frustrated hippies were giving away their nubian milk goats. Just about nobody—unless Marvin LaBlue happened to be slouching around—listened to the country and western music on the “Platter Hoedown” show. Many people, however, perked up again for the shape of Edward Morgan's opinion, and for the “Swap Shop”; and then a real lull occurred on the porch as literally everybody clammed up for the “Hello, America” man, Paul Harvey. After that the afternoons faded away into syrupy mariachi and taco pop music, which the people tolerated with friendly bemusement. The Mexican songs were constantly punctuated by irrelevant spotshots nobody listened to, such as the “German Press Review” and a show featuring a well-known beauty queen talking to teen-agers about their diets and their pimples.

People also stationed themselves on Rael's porch because that was where the mail came in, and it was also where the various government checks that arrived by mail were cashed. The post office, an official-looking cage in back of the store, had about twenty-five combination boxes to one side of the grille. Nick was the postmaster. In the old days, Nick had had a nasty habit of shaking people down for their government checks, refusing to advance more credit until entire checks were signed over to him to settle up outstanding debts. But about three years before, Onofre Martínez, with some help from Charley Bloom, had put a stop to this by threatening to take Nick, not only into court, but also to the cleaners.

So for one reason or another, Rael's porch was Milagro's social center; and it almost always supported a large and animated crowd.

Yet by one o'clock on the day after Joe Mondragón planted a single .30–06 bullet in Seferino Pacheco's chest, not a single person was loafing on that porch. In fact, the heart of town was so deserted, and the air was so quiet, you could almost hear Mercedes Rael's heart pumping as she waited behind a lilac bush (with her hands full of pebbles) for somebody she didn't like to enter the plaza area.

Nick Rael was seated behind his counter trying to read an old issue of
Field & Stream,
and across the plaza area Harlan Betchel was seated at a back table in his empty Pilar Café trying to do the crossword puzzle in the day's Capital City
Reporter.
Catty-corner to the Pilar, in Forest Service headquarters, Carl Abeyta was trying to review the most recent multiple use plan for his chunk of forest.

Suddenly a grasshopper crackling across the deserted plaza area made all three men
and
Nick's mom jump as high as if they had just been bitten by a rattlesnake.

*   *   *

A knock on the door.

When Charley Bloom answered, two men in state police uniforms, both men wearing sunglasses, were standing on the front stoop.

“You Charley Bloom?” Granny Smith asked.

“Yes,” Bloom said, and, before he could catch himself, he had added a “sir.”

“Where's José Mondragón?” Bruno Martínez asked.

“I'm supposed to know that?”

Granny Smith lifted a warning finger. “
Please.
Don't get smart with
us,
Mr. Bloom. We asked you a simple question.”

“Could you repeat the question please?”

“Sure, gladly. Where the fuck is Joe Mondragón?”

“I don't know.”

“Mind if we come in for a minute?” Granny asked.

“Yes, very much,” Bloom said, as Linda appeared at his elbow.

“Huh. Are you absolutely
sure
we can't come in?” Granny insisted.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Bloom told them. His heart was beating, almost fluttering, his legs were weak, his palms close to spurting sweat.

“You mean you're just gonna keep a couple of state policemen standing on your doorstep?” Bruno Martínez asked disbelievingly.

“Yes.”

They looked at each other, shrugged; both faintly smiled. Bruno took out a pad and a pencil. “Okay, Mr. Bloom, when was the last time you saw José Mondragón?”

“I don't know. Maybe yesterday, maybe a couple days ago. I don't remember. You know, I might have seen him in Rael's, or waved when he drove by in his pickup, I don't know.”

“How about you, Linda?”

“Mrs. Bloom to you,” the lawyer said angrily.

“How about you,
Mrs.
Bloom?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“I see. Uh … Mr. Bloom, you've been writing about Milagro, I read one of your articles, I didn't like it too much, know what I mean? I mean, you know, it gets a little heavy sometimes when an outsider comes in and writes about my people, because I grew up here,” Bruno said. “But you been writing about things up here, about José and his stupid field over there on the west side, so you must know a lot about this town.”

Bloom shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe I know a little … maybe not so much after all.”

“Oh come on, please, don't be humble now. I mean, I saw you over at that meeting the other day, remember? When you took all those maps into the church to incite those people to riot; let's not have no false modesty here, okay? I saw you then, and we've been thinking that maybe you're one of the ringleaders of this thing, know what I mean?”

“No, I can't say that I do.”

“Where's Joe Mondragón?” Granny Smith suddenly snapped.

“I told you, I don't know.”

“He was here last night. One of our men saw him.”

“Bullshit.”

Granny Smith cocked his head. “What did you say? What did you say to a police officer?”

“You heard what I said. I'm not going to repeat it. It's not illegal, you know, according to the Supreme Court—”

Bruno Martínez interrupted: “Did anybody ever tell you, Mr. Bloom, that maybe you're not too smart?”

Bloom flared. “Did anybody ever tell you—”

“Hush!” Linda gripped his arm.

“Go ahead, Mr. Bloom. Did anybody ever tell me what?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled. “Nothing.”

Granny Smith said, “After Joe shot the poor old man, he ran by here, told you to hide the gun, borrowed a pack, a flashlight, and some food from you two, and headed for the hills.”

“What in hell are you talking about?”

“Listen, Mr. Bloom, watch that language, okay? You're talking to police officers, understand?”

“Yes. I certainly do understand.”

“He always pop this easy, Linda?” Granny Smith asked.

“Mrs. Bloom to you,” the lawyer said tightly.

“Of course, ma'am, Mrs. Bloom. Excuse me. Now,
Mr.
Bloom. You better think real careful about when you saw Joe last and where, see, because like I said, we've been watching you, and, you know … you're in the legal profession, you understand these things, it wouldn't be too smart to lie. All we're asking for is a little cooperation. Because we're afraid somebody else's gonna get hurt bad, like with a bullet in the brain, and, well, you know, that just fucks up our jobs. That fucks up everybody, know what I mean?”

“Look,” Bloom said, reaching back for the door, “we don't know anything, we have noth—”

“You shut that door in my face, Mr. Bloom,” Bruno Martínez snapped, “and I don't
care
if you are a lawyer, I'll kick it down, understand? Now you listen to me, we don't have all day to mess around with a stuck-up eastern college person with a legal degree playing hide-and-seek games, right? Now you're in this thing and you're in it deep, and let's quit beating around the bush before there's some serious trouble here, okay? We want some facts.”

As he said this a mottled-green, 1953 Chevy pickup with a three-legged German shepherd riding atop the cab rattled down the road, coasting to a stop behind the police car. Three members of the Senile Brigade wearing beat-up old cowboy hats sat in the front seat, and another younger man neither Bloom nor Linda recognized squatted in the back, smoking a cigarette. They did nothing, opened no doors, just stayed in the truck staring over at the Bloom front door.

“Who's that?” Granny asked.

“I don't know,” Bloom said. “I guess just somebody.”

“That ain't just somebody, that's my father's dog and that's his truck, too, and what the hell are they doing behind our car?” Bruno muttered darkly.

“I'll go see,” Granny said.

“Hell you will—” Bruno grabbed at his arm. “I don't like the looks of that truck. Stay here.”

Bloom said, “We have nothing more to say,” pulled Linda back, shut the door and locked it, and leaned against it, shaking, unable to believe the way in which he had stood up to them.

Granny Smith and Bruno Martínez waited there for a moment, facing Onofre Martínez's battered green pickup. Granny said, “You think they got guns?”

Bruno scoffed, “Do rabbits have ears?”

“You figure each
one
has a gun?”

“That's probably a safe assumption.”

“Would your own father shoot you?” Granny asked incredulously.

“You bet your sweet ass. He hates chotas.”

“Ho-ly shit.”

“Time to go home,” Bruno said bitterly. “Time to get our fannies out of here.”

“This town is going crazy,” Granny moped, unbuttoning the strap that kept his revolver in the holster. “I'm gonna put in for a transfer. Better free your gun.”

“This town has always been crazy,” Bruno said. “Don't worry, it's free.”

“Christ Almighty, man, would you shoot your own father?”

“I dunno. It never came up like this before. I guess so, though.”

“You think that asshole or his wife knows anything about Joe Mondragón?”

“Probably not. I dunno. Who am I? Superman with X-ray vision?”

The two cops walked slowly along the muddy walk and through a gate to their car. Granny Smith called Onofre's license plate number into headquarters, reaffirmed their prior location call, and explained they were going to move out before trouble started. The men in the cab had their hats pulled down low, and between that and clouds of cigarette smoke and the cracked windshield, Bruno couldn't tell who the others were, except they all looked old enough to be Egyptian mummies. Their guns were probably rifles, he surmised, and they were probably held barrel up, between their knees. The three-legged German shepherd, which had been staring at him through opaque but threatening eyes, suddenly growled.

“Jesus,” Bruno muttered, shooting his father and the rest of those old geezers a finger. “Jesus H. Christ.” And he swung into the passenger seat.

“We need reinforcements,” Granny said. “Do you think we should call down south for reinforcements?”