Scratchgravel Road (Josie Gray Mysteries #2)(24)
Josie saw the old man standing beside a burro in front of the pawn shop. Several men still rode burros through town rather than walking or driving. Josie liked the nod to the past, although some of the townspeople found the animals annoying and the occasional mess they deposited usually led to a rant in a letter to the editor in the local weekly newspaper.
Mr. Gomez was feeding slices of apple to the burro, his hands holding the animal’s reins loosely, his head turned to the store. Despair settled around the old Mexican like a wool blanket. Josie had talked with him at length about his safety, about the need to lock the boy up before he spun completely out of control, but Mr. Gomez refused to listen. It wasn’t fear that kept him from pressing charges; the fear had been worn out of him long ago. It appeared to be misguided loyalty to his grandson that kept the man silent. And Marta’s daughter thought she was in love with this kid. Josie wondered again at the wisdom of having kids of her own.
Still sitting in her jeep, she looked up the unpaved street, at the burro and the wrinkled old man beside him, at the overcast sky and ratty storefronts, and the picture appeared like a gray smudge from sky to earth with no visible horizon line. She wondered how the same characteristics that gave the desert its beauty could also tear your heart apart.
She radioed her location to dispatch, slipped the portable into her gun belt, and laid a hand on the grip of the Smith & Wesson at her side, a heavy reassurance. As she approached the San Salba, the old man turned, his suspicious eyes never changing expression, the skin around them wrinkled like cross-hatching.
“How’s it going, Mr. Gomez?”
“It’s going okay. How’s it going with you?” he asked. His words were slow and deliberate, as if the act of speaking took a great deal of effort.
“Is Enrico inside?”
He nodded yes and patted the burro on the right side of his neck to turn him toward Josie. The burro shifted, slowly lifting one foot, then the next, a perfect companion for the old man.
Josie noticed movement at the San Salba door. Enrico stepped outside wearing black jeans, a white V-neck T-shirt, and several gold chains around his neck.
“Hey, it’s Josey Wales come to visit. What’s up, man?” Enrico slurred his words and drew them out like a rapper. He was a nice-looking kid if you could get past the gangster arrogance. He wore his black hair buzzed short on the sides, longer on top. He tilted his head and gave her a heavy-lidded, intentionally bored stare.
Josie didn’t answer and chose to ignore the movie reference. With her hand resting on the butt of her gun, she squinted in Enrico’s direction. She knew he liked meth and didn’t trust his actions straight, let alone jacked up on a two-day buzz. A second man stepped out of the store behind Enrico. He had the slow, measured moves of someone attempting to impress his power upon others. Even at a distance of twenty feet, Josie could see the three tattooed teardrops falling down the left side of his cheek: a prison symbol in which each teardrop represented a murder. He looked to weigh close to three hundred pounds and wore loose-fitting black jeans and a black T-shirt. He carried his weight proudly, as though his size intimidated. His hair was long and greased straight back on his head. Josie wondered what value he added to the world.
“You looking for something?” asked Enrico. “Maybe a camera or a cell phone? I give you a good deal, cop girl.”
“I don’t disrespect you, Enrico. Ought to go both ways,” she said.
His eyes went wide at the suggestion. “Sure, man, lighten up. I ain’t disrespecting nobody.”
She started walking toward the pawn shop door.
“Hey! You got business with me?” Enrico asked.
She walked toward him and up the first step. “You said you want to cut me a deal. Let’s go inside and look around.”
“Store’s closed, man. We open at eleven o’clock.”
“Do I need a warrant?”
“What the hell? What you jumping my ass for?”
The second man took several steps toward Josie, his gait slow, his eyes hooded. “You got an issue with Enrico we need to discuss?”
Josie faced the man with the tattoos. “What’s your name?”
He hesitated. “Jeremy.”
“Last name?”
“Smith.”
She nodded once and wrote his name down in the small black notebook she kept in her breast pocket. “Hope you aren’t lying to me.” She replaced her notebook and pen inside her pocket and faced him directly. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you. I’d suggest minding your own business.”
He tilted his head and crossed his arms over his massive chest. “You wrong there. If you got a problem with Enrico you got a problem with me. Me and Enrico is partners.”
Josie was still facing the man on the porch but heard the old man behind her. “We got no problems here. We’re just getting the store open.”
Enrico laughed. “That’s it, man! We’re just getting the store open. You come back later and I’ll cut you a deal.”
Josie turned toward Enrico and stepped within a foot of him. In a voice just loud enough for Enrico to hear she said, “The next time I get a call to your house and find your old man lying on the floor? I will find you, at whatever rat hole you’re staying in, and I will drag you out and beat the life out of you. You won’t live to do it again.”