Authors: Charlie Price
Angel tried to look behind his eyes.
He means it. He
is
nuts.
She could drop right now and have the gun. “How would I know you’ve changed?” What could she say to relax him one more notch?
“Aw, Ainge, you know people don’t never really change. Sad but fact. That’s why you’re dicking with me.”
He was off the stool, diving over the counter before she could more than straighten. He had her shoulder but missed her arm because she twisted it at the last second. When she dropped, he wound up holding half a T-shirt.
She grabbed the gun and tried to roll for some distance but he was too close, had her by the ankle. She kicked at his eyes with her free foot. He scrunched them shut, ducked his head, and pulled at her. His hand on her skin, his touch was electrocuting. What could she hit him with? Kicking and writhing, she caught a glimpse of something in the corner angle at the wall. Took a microsecond to look. A broom and, beside it, a dustpan. He made a hard tug and his face was at her waist. She lunged to reach the dustpan and threw it at his head. It caught the corner of his eye or just below it. He yelled with pain and rage and she was up, onto the counter and past him while he thrashed. The fat man was still on the ground, holding his face, moaning like a baby, when she slid down, stepped on him, and sprinted through the back door to the rear of Scotty’s truck. There she rested the pistol on the corner of the tailgate, aimed at the door, and waited while she tried to regain some air in her lungs. She remembered what had been bothering her earlier.
The panther. Don’t go to his place.
She was a fool but she was still breathing.
The back door opened and the fat man came out. Saw her pointing the gun. Started to raise his hands but keeled over instead, out of sight in front of the Caddy. Yelled, “Scotty!”
The back door opened again and she fired the gun, holding it to the truck rail so it wouldn’t fly out of her hand. Stucco flew off the wall as she watched Scotty duck back inside.
The fat man might have been jabbering. He might have been screaming but Angel was deaf … or deafened. The gun’s discharge was like a bomb going off. She kept the pistol balanced on the top of the tailgate, sighting at the door. Time passed while she continued to struggle for breath. Was the fat man crawling around the vehicle? In a moment she thought she heard the car door opening, thought she heard it start, glanced to see smoke puffing out the exhaust, and then the Caddy was hurtling backward into the alley and away out of sight until there was a horrible banging crunch, a horn honking, and finally silence again.
Angel didn’t have time for that. She was focused on the door. Where was he? Was he getting a machine gun? Okay. She was ready to die. She’d get off at least one more shot.
“Drop it, sweetie.” From behind her. He’d gone out the front door and circled. She should have thought he might. She was no good at this. “Let it go, Ainge. Don’t turn around.”
But she did. And fired. And missed him. And fired again. She could see how wide his eyes were. See the huge hole in the barrel of the gun he pointed at her. But he didn’t fire. And she knew once again. Right here, this was too big a mess to explain away. Murder. Cops would wise up and he’d be on their radar big-time.
He wheeled and ran as she fired again, ran full speed, ran for all he was worth toward the corner, and hit Rita like a freight train just as she came barreling around the side of the building. He never had a chance to react. Knocked her ass over teakettle, end over end across the sidewalk into the street, and in the process tripped himself. Ramón, who was a second behind Rita, hit him so hard with the shotgun that the stock splintered, and Scotty tumbled and skidded on his face till he slid unconscious off the curb into the gutter.
But Ramón wasn’t done. He took in the scene. Twenty feet down the alley Angel was standing motionless, stunned, looking back at him. Swiveling the other way, he surveyed Rita for signs of injury and scanned both directions to see whether she was in danger from traffic. Deciding the two were temporarily safe, he moved quickly to the man he now knew as Scotty and turned him over. On the pavement nearby he located Scotty’s pistol, pressed it into the man’s limp hand, and used Scotty’s finger to fire the gun into the air till it was empty. He let Scotty fall back and ran to Angel, who remained frozen at the spectacle. He yelled something at her that she didn’t catch and began prying his gun from her hand. He thumbed the safety, stuck the pistol in his belt, and hurried to help Rita. All in a few seconds. A flurry of action and a story to tell the authorities that mostly left Angel out.
* * *
T
HE SILENCE VIBRATED FOLLOWING THE SHOTS.
Angel had remained still as the echoes faded, but the sight of Ramón kneeling beside Rita moved her into a dreamlike walk up the alley.
Angel stopped as she reached Scotty. Practically deaf at the moment, she was still aware of a roaring fury that boiled inside her. This man had killed her mother. Angel stifled an impulse to kick him and thought of the gun. What had Ramón done with it? Was it empty?
Scotty stirred, opened one eye, then the other, and rolled himself partway over as he gradually came back to consciousness. He jerked when he saw Angel standing directly above him.
Angel saw his eyebrows rise as he realized she was looking at the gun he held. Saw his hand tighten on the grip as he considered shooting her. She thought he’d been unconscious when Ramón fired all the bullets.
All
the bullets? Was the pistol empty? Angel stood her ground.
Scotty braced himself to pull the trigger, kill her right now … remembered. Stopped. He’d been seen. He’d smashed into someone. There were other people around. He’d have to shoot everybody. No way he could kill her and get away clean. He relaxed and looked up to meet Angel’s eyes. Saw the blaze. Could feel it. The little bitch would murder him.
But Angel walked away. Walked away to kneel beside some woman. Walked away like he was nothing.
* * *
I
T TOOK WEEKS
to sort out the whole thing and get charges clarified and start the placement proceedings. The most important difference this time, as far as Angel was concerned? Scotty was locked up without bail and not likely to get any. TJ, first with the help of the tire prints, and then with the help of a Cahuilla Indian tracker, found a thirty-four-year-old woman, Lila Lee Dailey, buried on a mountain ridge east of Thousand Palms bordering Joshua Tree National Park. Authorities were able to link evidence found at the scene to the more recent murder of Nicholas Jared Patterson of Brawley, California. TJ was given to understand by state officials that the prosecuting D.A.s had ironclad cases.
Angel cut out and kept a part of the local news article.
Currently a ward of the state, Angela Ann Dailey was released to the temporary custody of Vincente and Rita Casanueva of Salt Shores, pending possible long-term placement with same.
But before all that got settled, there was a celebration, a picnic, and a lesson. The celebration? Ramón’s wife, Carmen, had phoned Rita’s Tuesday night, a day after the pawnshop shooting, more than two weeks after Angel’s mother had been murdered.
Rita handed the phone to Ramón, who listened for two or three seconds and gradually sank to his knees. Rita, alarmed, pointed at Vincente, who took the phone and listened. When he hung up, he looked shaken.
“Carmen said a doctor called her last night. From Mexico, from Clinica Poblana in Mexicali,” Vincente reported. “Said Matteo’s hurt pretty bad but healing. Said he’s been deported. Told her he was incredibly lucky to be alive and had a hell of a story. Said Matteo’d probably be able to call her himself in a few days.”
The room was silent, everyone speechless. Angel herself had given up hoping when they found the car, had been carrying his death like a stone in her heart. But he wasn’t dead! Abuela started the pandemonium with
“¡Bendito Dios!”
and everyone erupted with cheering and crying and prayers of thanks.
* * *
T
HE FOLLOWING
S
UNDAY
, mid-morning, the group walked north along the barren Salton shoreline a quarter-mile past the club to a dry wash that occasionally emptied runoff into the sea. Vincente spread the blankets, put rocks on the edges so they wouldn’t blow away. While Rita and Abuela set out food from the baskets, Ramón opened the cooler and handed sodas around. Norma had brought a leather string and was gathering barnacle shells for a necklace.
“Why don’t I show you this before we eat,” Ramón said, motioning for Angel to come with him. Rita looked up when Ramón tapped her on the shoulder. “You gonna join us?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she said, standing and picking up her daypack.
“Can I come?” Norma asked, already wet to her waist getting the shiniest-looking shells from the water.
“In a few years,” Vincente told her. “You want to make some bracelets, too?” he asked the girl, reaching in his jeans pocket. “I brought some neat stuff back from Santa Fe.”
* * *
“Y
OU’RE PLENTY SMART
, plenty tough,” Ramón told Angel as the three of them walked up the wash to a deeper cut with a high bank, “but I’m hoping you never need nothing like this again. Have no reason.” He looked at her to see if she was paying attention. Glanced at Rita.
“You know why, right? You were real lucky,” he said.
Angel knew that was true.
“Could have killed Rita. Right?”
Angel knew she had this coming. It made her sick to think about it. If her last shot at Scotty had hit Rita instead.
“We been talking. Vincente, too. Got to teach you and pray you never use it.”
Rita set the daypack down, reached inside it, and withdrew a glossy magazine. The target. She walked over and propped it in the dirt about halfway up the bank of the gully. Came back and lifted Ramón’s pistol out of the pack, then two clips of ammunition. Handed it all to Ramón.
“You ever pick up a gun again,” Ramón said, “you keep your finger off the trigger till you see if it’s loaded.” He showed her the empty butt of the grip. “If there’s a clip in there, eject it.”
Angel nodded.
“You check the chamber…” He racked the pistol, demonstrating.
That sound, hard metal,
cha-chick.
Memories flashed. Angel hugged herself, suppressing a shiver.
* * *
L
ATER
,
FOOD HAD NEVER TASTED BETTER.
Early that morning Rita had shown Angel how to prepare the cornmeal masa for tamales and Vincente had taught her his special rolled taco recipe with chorizo, eggs, white cheese, and a pinch of chili-cinnamon mix. Angel had been moved because she didn’t remember anyone teaching her how to do home things except for a foster mom who had strict rules about making the bed. Angel’s mom’s idea of a picnic had been a bucket of chicken.
Angel sat on the blanket nearest the water, between Norma and a napping Abuela. The meal and the sun had made her sleepy too. She faded in and out, listening to gulls squawk or picking up on Rita’s laughter as Vincente and Ramón teased and told stories.
Vincente tossed a pebble to get Angel’s attention. Said, “Looks like you got an amigo.”
“More than a friend,” Angel said, giving Norma a squeeze, “she’s like my little sister.”
“I meant that dog,” Vincente said, pointing. “He’s been watching you all afternoon.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have many to thank for the creation and sustenance of
Desert Angel
. I appreciate my agent Tracey Adams, her husband Josh, and publisher Simon Boughton for making this project possible. I am honored to work with Wesley Adams, my editor, and I am grateful for the many, many ways he has enriched the quality of this manuscript.
The idea for this story arrived spontaneously on a business trip while I was cruising down a desert two-lane at dusk, looking east into the craggy ridges that border Joshua Tree National Park. The area was beautiful, desolate, and in its own way fearsome. Somehow Angel sprang to mind.
My psychotherapist wife has been involved with this book from its inception and I could not have written it without her keen eye. I also shared its weekly progress with the best writing group in the world: Kathryn Gessner, Carla Jackson, Melinda Kashuba, and Robb Lightfoot. Their perceptions and support were invaluable.
Special
thanks go to Lindsay Reed for her most excellent translation consultation. I admire her outreach work with the Mexican American immigrants in the Paso Robles area. Further thanks to the Imperial County Sheriff Deputy, Salton City substation.
Dr. Paul Swinderman gave me ongoing medical consultations pertaining to the storyline. Manuel J. Garcia, attorney at law, provided similar advice and perspective in legal areas. My daughter, Jessica Rose, gave unfailing encouragement, and, as always, I benefited from the consistent inspiration of my writing community. An alphabetical THANKS to Steve and Kelly Brewer, Chris Crutcher, Jim Dowling, Tony D’Souza, and my man who lives his writing, the author of
Scratched Up
, Bill Siemer.
BY CHARLIE PRICE
Desert Angel
The Interrogation of Gabriel James
Lizard People
Dead Connection
To Kit Anderton—friend and brother