Bull Mountain(61)

“If now isn’t a good time, Mr. Holly,” the pastor said, backing up and giving Holly room to move. “Or if my being here is making you uncomfortable, I can go. Maybe I can come back later.”

“Officer,” Holly said.

“I’m sorry?” the elderly pastor said, clutching a leather-bound Bible to his chest.

“It’s Officer Holly.” Holly picked up the picture, sliding it out from between the pages of the notebook.

“Of course,” the pastor said.

Holly looked at the photo of his mother and him at the Mobile county fair when he was a boy. He remembered having to sleep in the woods that night, and how she’d held him to her warm chest to keep him from shivering. He couldn’t stop the fresh tears from spilling over his raw cheeks. He sat back down on the bed next to his mother.

“If you decide you need someone to talk to about Marion’s passing,” the pastor said, “I am always available. My office is only four doors down on the left. I’ll leave my card for you here on the chair.” Holly didn’t answer, nor did he turn around. When the pastor had left, he laid the photo on his mother’s pillow and slipped a bottle of her painkillers from the side table into his pocket. He did want to talk about Marion’s death, but not with this hospital-staff Bible-beater. He pulled the folded sheet of paper from his pocket and looked at the name he’d circled. He wanted to talk to someone else entirely.





CHAPTER





19




PEPé RAMIREZ

PANAMA CITY, FLORIDA

2014

Headlights punched through the polyester curtains. The sound of crunching gravel outside mixed with loud mariachi music announced that the owner of the trailer was coming home. The man in the mask took several deep breaths and sank deeper into the faux-leather recliner. He stroked the barrel of the Glock 17 in his lap and coaxed his heartbeat into a calm and relaxed rhythm.

The trailer’s owner stumbled through the door into the darkened room, a cyclone of noise and marijuana stink, a sweet, earthy smell clinging to everything it touched like melted wax. The mark was a gangster from the old school. His tattoos identified him as one of the Latin Kings. He wore khaki chinos drooped way past his ass cheeks, showing a good six inches of powder-blue boxer shorts, and a wifebeater thin enough to see every cut line of muscle underneath. He also toted a massive black pistol tucked into the front of his pants. How the weight of it didn’t drop his pants to the ground was anybody’s guess.

The old gangbanger made his way into the kitchenette and pulled the chain of the wall-mounted lamp that illuminated the entire place. The man in the mask’s eyes adjusted to the light, and he watched the O.G. pull the enormous hand cannon from his britches and lay it on the kitchen table.

A f*cking .44 Magnum.

This guy thought he was the Mexican Dirty Harry. The man in the mask allowed himself to smile. He didn’t have one of those. He let the gangster open and close the small fridge a few times, waiting for something new to appear, before deciding on a half-empty bottle of Montezuma. He poured damn near two inches of the contents down his gullet and steadied himself on the counter. When he turned to make a concerted effort to reach the bedroom he noticed the man in the mask sitting in the living room recliner. He also noticed the Glock 17 in his lap. The man in the mask smiled under his balaclava and watched the older man’s face go solemn as every possible escape scenario played out across it. Can I get to my gun on the table first before this intruder can pick his up from his lap? Is my safety on? How many steps to the front door? Can I rush the man in the chair before he has time to shoot? Are my homeboys still outside, toking down? In the end, he decided to play it cool and maybe talk his way out.

“If you are here to kill me, ese, you better just get it done. But prepare to be hunted down like a f*cking dog in the street. I’m connected, homes. I got respect up and down the coast. You ready for that kinda trouble, white boy?”

The man in the mask uncrossed his legs, picked up the gun in his lap, and held it loosely pointed at his mark. “Forgive me, Pepé, if I’m not too impressed by an old spic gangster living in an aluminum trailer in the middle of spring-break land. You gonna call up a bunch of date-raping frat boys to throw their checkbooks at me?”

Pepé heard his name. This wasn’t random. He flicked his eyes to the massive gun on the table. Only three feet, but it might as well be the span of the Grand Canyon. The man in the mask waved his gun. “You don’t want to do that, Pops. By the time you reach it, pick it up, and click the safety, Pepé Ramirez will be nothing but bad tattoos and strawberry jelly. Besides, don’t you want to know who I am? Why I’m here with my own big-ass gun?”

“Fuck you, man.”

Agent Holly sighed and took off the mask. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Fuck me. I’m sure you’ve got a laundry list of people who want to kill you. I could be anybody.”

“Why don’t you stop talking and just do it already?”

“Why don’t you have a seat?” Holly stood up, gun trained on his mark, and motioned to the breakfast nook. Pepé hesitated, but he sat.

“Here, why don’t I take that out of the equation so we can focus.” Holly picked up Pepé’s gun and tossed the heavy chunk of steel onto the recliner. The last bit of hope drained from Pepé’s eyes, leaving behind two empty dead sockets as the gun bounced on the mahogany seat. “The truth is, it doesn’t matter who I am. I’m not here for me.” Holly produced a small photograph from the pocket of his black BDUs and placed it on the table in front of Pepé. “I’m here for her.”