“Manana.”
***
The next morning Truman didn’t want to talk at the office, so he took Hunter down to his favorite restaurant on Alameda Street. It was a low roofed adobe building that had half the mud bricks showing through cracked plaster. As they went through the screen door and Hunter looked around, Truman said, “Yeah, I know. The critics would say the interior decor is finished in Early Plastic, but the food’s good.”
They sat at a wooden table with a plastic painter’s drop cloth draped over it. The plastic looked like it had been trimmed with a dull knife, and the jagged edges flapped in the breeze created by the evaporative cooler in the corner. None of the chairs matched. Truman sat on a wooden chair and Hunter chose an aluminum one with pink plastic covers on the seat and back.
They ordered the huevos rancheros plate, and Truman was right, it was good. After they finished, Truman leaned back and said, “Okay, back to business. Your trial is coming up and I need to hear it again, how you and Julian Garcia, the famous El Lobo, wound up on the rim of Santa Elena Canyon, and the particulars of your confrontation, including what you did after he was down, okay?”
Hunter thought back…
***
She had been on El Lobo’s trail for six long months when she got the break. It was almost an accident, but not exactly, because she knew Julian Garcia liked to take delivery himself. Hunter was working in plainclothes and driving an unmarked vehicle when, on a three AM hunch, she parked down the street from his house. Lights came on a half-hour later, the garage door opened and a Ford pick-up backed out and drove away. Hunter stayed far, far back as he left Redford. She had been unable to tell who was in the truck, but saw one other person and maybe two, as the Ford moved out of town along the River Road.
They’d gone a long way and the eastern skyline had the faintest indication of morning when El Lobo turned off on a little used road that led to the overlook on Santa Elena Canyon. The canyon walls there were sheer, dropping eighteen-hundred feet straight down to the Rio Grande. Hunter was puzzled. No way anybody was going to climb down the rock face in Mexico, swim or boat across, then climb up the U S side.
Because of the dust’s visibility even in the dark, Hunter knew she couldn’t drive and follow him further, so she parked her vehicle behind a wall of mesquite and got out on foot. It was two miles to Santa Elena, and she started off at a trot, following the pale, roiling cloud of caliche dust as El Lobo made his slow way to the rim.
The last of the road crossed a flat expanse, leaving little room for Hunter to hide. There was, however, a shallow ravine that ran toward the river. It was rough, but Hunter dropped into it, and moved along the boulder and thorn-bush bottom to get closer.
She heard the noise while still in the ravine, and couldn’t make out at first what it was. It sounded like someone was flying a large model airplane nearby. She crawled out of the ravine, keeping low, crawling on her elbows and knees through the low-growing greasewood and spidery clumps of ocotillo until she came to an opening where she could see.
A lemon-yellow ultra light sat near the edge of the rim, engine idling, with a pilot tightening his safety harness as El Lobo talked to him. Hunter saw a woman arranging something in the bed of the nearby Ford pick-up. A boy of about seven or eight stood beside her. Hunter turned her head as the noise grew, and watched as the ultra light took off and flew across the canyon to Mexico. It flew over a low ridge and out of sight behind a brushy hill. From the sound, Hunter was sure the ultra light landed.
She crawled on her belly, weaving a long, slow trail through the greasewood and prickly pear to look into the back of the truck. The closest she could get was a hundred yards but even at that distance, with the new morning light she could see the hidden compartment.
It was a simple one, where a second pick-up bed rested on the first, leaving a hollow between them as wide and long as the bed, and about four inches in depth. The back of the bed was open for easy access to the hollow, and when the tailgate closed, it hid the opening and the entire bed looked natural.
The tailgate was down and Hunter could see the dark opening of the compartment, but couldn’t see any packages from this distance. She waited.
The sound of the ultra light grew louder and she saw it coming again, low in the sky. It came rapidly closer and Hunter glanced at Garcia, El Lobo. He stood watching it with his fists on his hips, relaxed, and grinning, as handsome and exotic looking as a Calvin Klein model.
The ultra light circled wide for its landing, and too late, Hunter realized she had no place to hide. She looked up into the face staring down at her as the motorized hang-glider powered up and rose abruptly. She got to her feet as the pilot flew over El Lobo’s head and pointed behind him before disappearing beyond the ridge on the Mexican side. Hunter walked toward Garcia and said, “You’re under arrest, Julian.”
Hunter caught movement out of the corner of her eye and saw the woman pull the boy to her. Julian spat on the ground and said, “What you arrestin’ me for, woman?”
Hunter walked closer as she held her badge out for him to see. Man, he was close to the edge, “Move away from the cliff, Julian. I don’t want anything to happen.” Behind him and across the gorge Hunter saw the pilot standing on the ridge, watching them through binoculars.
Garcia ran his tongue over his lower lip and said, “Happen? Nothing is gonna happen here, gringa. Unless I want it to.”
Hunter watched his open shirt flapping in the breeze, his hard, naked chest and stomach shiny with sweat. He had his hands on his hips, one foot cocked forward, looking loose and ready. She stopped thirty feet in front of him. “You’re under arrest for narcotics smuggling. Get on the ground face down and spread your hands out like an airplane.”
Julian said, “Like an airplane? You jokin’.”
Hunter stepped toward him while attempting to hang her badge on her belt - and he made his move.
Julian’s hand went behind his back and Hunter saw him come out with the pistol, swinging it quick, lining up on her.
She dropped her badge and drew and fired three fast rounds, double-tapping him in the chest and snap-firing the third to hit him in the forehead. Her badge hit the ground as El Lobo fell backwards, arm outflung, the big semi-automatic flying over the cliff’s edge. She could still see the pistol, every detail of it, arcing out and revolving one slow turn before dropping out of sight.
***
Truman stopped writing. Hunter studied her hands, folded in her lap. “What happened next?” He asked in a soft voice.
“Screaming. The woman and boy, screaming.”
“What did you do, Hunter? What did you do next?”