"Death in Trickling Springs" by Joe Giordano
Originally published in Cigale Literary Magazine (June 2014)
When the Greyhound bus stopped at idyllic sounding Trickling Springs, Texas, I got off, and the driver unloaded my backpack from the bus’s undercarriage.
An Asian teenager wearing a red and black checked hunting jacket sat on his haunches watching me. He flashed a bright smile. “I’ll carry that for you, sir.” His accent was Vietnamese.
I imagined him waving goodbye with my backpack on a motorbike. “No thanks.”
As I left the terminal, he tagged along. I headed toward the smell of a grill and a chrome crown glinting in a clear blue sky atop an array of picture windows, the Roadkill Diner.
He lowered his tone. “Do you have any spare change, sir? I’m out of work.”
“I’ll treat you to a hamburger,” I said.
The smile returned.
His name was Trang. I’m Logan.
We grabbed a booth with green vinyl upholstery and a silver jukebox.
“What did you work at?” I asked.
“Construction labor. The only legal work I can get now is waving a ‘$10 off’ sign in front of an oil change garage.”
“What’s the illegal work available?”
Trang sat back and paused before answering. “Anything Chico Garza is involved in.”
The waitress arrived with laminated menus. Fiftyish, dressed in pink with a pencil stuck in her blonde beehive hair. She clicked gum and smelled of cigarettes. “You want coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
We nodded. Trang and I ordered cheeseburgers.
“I’d like to meet Chico,” I said.
Trang frowned. “I don’t know. Could be dangerous for both of us.”
I pulled a tenner from my jeans pocket. “Would this cover your trouble?”
He hesitated before he took the money. “Chico hangs out nearby.”
I dropped a quarter into the jukebox and selected, “I Wanna Be a Cowboy,” by Boys Don’t Cry.
***
The sky turned angry, and a stiff breeze announced a change in the weather. Chico sat like a sultan between two cronies around a wrought iron table outside El Secreto, a Tex-Mex joint. He was a hulking dude with a tattoo of ‘Mother’ inscribed inside a pink heart on his right deltoid and a gold chain around his neck. All three were skinheads. His homies had neck tattoos, one a black scorpion, the other the words, Aut Caesar Aut Nihil. They stared at us like dead fish on ice.
“Chico, this is Logan,” Trang said.
“Dominus vobiscum,” I said in greeting.
The deadeye stares turned hostile.
“Excuse me,” I quickly added. “Your friend has Latin on his neck, so I thought you spoke the lingo. Pleased to meet you.”
At their display of enmity, Trang’s forehead glistened, and his voice had a tremor. “Logan arrived today and wanted to meet you. I hope it’s okay?”
I placed my hand reassuringly on Trang’s shoulder. “My friend told me that if you want to make serious coin in Trickling Springs, Chico Garza is the man to see.”
Chico stripped off the foil wrap on a stick of Juicy Fruit and folded the gum into his mouth. Chewing, he asked, “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m your new employee.”
“You a cop?”
“No way.”
Chico nudged black scorpion tattoo. “Pablo, check him for a wire.”
I held out my arms and Pablo frisked me. Afterward, he shrugged his shoulders at his boss.
“What kind of work do you do?” Chico asked.
“I’ve always been good at collections.”
“You don’t look like muscle.”
“I appeal to conscience.”
Chico had a high-pitched snicker. His boys added supporting tee hees. Chico said to Trang, “Your friend is funny.”
I saw Trang’s Adams apple bob and he wiped his forehead.
“Okay funny man,” Chico said snidely, “Lester Salamanca owes me a grand, and he’s late. Trang knows him. Get the cash, and you can keep a hundred.”
Chico pointed at Trang, “You’re responsible for this vato. Get out of my face.”
Trang ran inside the restaurant to urinate before we left.
***
Gaunt with darting eyes, I pegged Lester Salamanca as a sports gambler. At my request for payment, he called me a motherfucker, then placed his hand over a pistol’s bulge in his pocket.
Trang tugged on my sleeve to go.
I said to Salamanca, “You shouldn’t say that about Chico and his mother.”
He stiffened with concern. “I didn’t say anything about Chico’s mother.”
I said to Trang, “You heard him, filthy. Chico won’t be happy.” I started to walk away.
Salamanca’s hand was out of his pocket, and he raised protesting palms. “Hey. Wait. Don’t you tell Chico I insulted his mother.”
I faced him. “Lester, you know you’ll pay Chico. Give the money to me, and we can avoid a misunderstanding.”
***
I threw the wad of cash onto the table in front of Chico. “Nine hundred. We took our commission.”
I’d given Trang fifty bucks to compensate for emotional suffering.
Chico didn’t move. “What’s your game?”
“I need more than chump change. Let me in on a bigger scam.”
“You’re a cop.”
I laughed. “No, I told you.”
“Where were you before Trickling Springs?”
“I was a parish priest in Rio de Piedras. Either give me a job, or I can hear your confession.”
The Latin tattoo rose. He had a gold cross around his neck and his voice growled. “Don’t blaspheme.”
Trang’s frightened eyes widened.
“Okay, I made a bad joke,” I said in a calm tone to Chico. “Is this dance necessary? I can make both of us some money.”
Chico placed his hand on Latin tattoo’s arm. “It’s okay, Guillermo.” The thug sat, and Chico said, “Come back tomorrow, and I’ll have something for you.”
Trang pulled me away.
When we were out of sight, Trang pushed his hand into my chest. “Are you crazy? Chico thinks you’re a cop.”
“Like I told Chico, I’m an ex-priest.”
“What do you mean? Did you get fired?”
“I walked away after praying my eyes out over the ravage of innocence and rationalizing savage violence as God’s plan. I decided to take action.”
Trang grabbed his head with both hands. “What are you talking about?”
“Sorry. I messed up with Chico. Do you know where he keeps the girls?”
Trang shrieked, walked in a small circle, then clutched my shirt. “Girls? You’re an ex-priest, Chico is ready to kill us, and you ask about women?”
“Chico entices women from Mexico on the pretext of arranged marriages and forces them into prostitution. Those who try to escape are gutted and left for the coyotes. Two bodies were discovered along the border this year.”
Trang released my shirt. “I’ve heard rumors. How do you know about this?”
“A cop told me, but he had no proof to stop Chico. When we find the girls, I’ll call my contact and have Chico arrested.”
Trang sounded incredulous. “You were thrown out of the priesthood because you’re insane.”
“We can do this. Think. Where are the girls?”
Trang shook his head. “These guys are killers.”
I reached into my backpack and pulled out a new Smith & Wesson Shield 9mm pistol.
Trang’s eyes widened in surprise. “The ex-priest carries a gun. What a day.”
“Just to scare them. Look, I assumed the gun would make you feel safer.”
Trang’s face hardened. “No, I don’t feel safe.”
I shoved the pistol into the small of my back under my belt. “The women are helpless against this predator. We must free them.”
Trang sighed with a nod. “There’s a madam in town who runs a house.”
“Let’s go.”
***
The sun lingered just above the horizon when we stopped at a tar-shingled two-story house in the seedy section of Trickling Springs. We rang the bell a few times, and Trang banged the flat of his hand against the wooden door. We heard shuffling footsteps. Mrs. Gomez, sleepy-eyed, had a face like an angry turtle. A net covered her brown hair, and a ratty gray housecoat hung down to hose bunched around blue varicose veins.
“It’s too early,” she said dismissively. “Come back after eight.”
I blocked her closing the door with my foot.
“Chico said I could look the women over,” I said. “Are the girls here?”
She glared at me with a gap-toothed sneer. “Horny, aren’t you? Maybe you’d like a turn with a mature woman?” The body odor from her opened housecoat almost knocked me over. Trang stepped back.
I guessed Mrs. Gomez loved money more than sex. I produced a twenty. “Tell us where the girls stay.”
Her face brightened. Didn’t make her look younger. She snatched the Andrew Jackson. “Chico keeps the girls at an abandoned campsite on the outskirts of town.”
***
Trang suggested we walk the back trail. A red moon rose, but light was dim. We tripped and twig-snapped our way over a path in the woods. We couldn’t have made more noise if we’d blown a hunting horn. I prayed Chico wasn’t waiting in ambush.
We spotted a clearing through the mountain cedar where the moonlight bathed a rusted railcar in a ruddy glow. We stopped to listen for danger. Trang jumped at a barred owl screech that stopped my heart. I wiped cold sweat from my forehead, and we both crept up to the corrugated car. The sliding door was padlocked. I banged, and through the steel, heard a female voice, “Por favor, ayúdanos.”
I turned to Trang, “They’re here.”
On my cell, I tapped my cop contact, Lt. Pete Lancaster, a tall redhead who always sat in the first pew. He answered on the second ring.
“Pete, this is Logan.”
“Father Logan, great to hear from you. We’ve missed you.”
“Don’t call me that. Listen…”
“Why are you whispering?”
“I found the girls.”
“I warned you not to play cop. Where are you?”
“Lock onto the GPS of my phone and hurry.”
“You got it.”
After I rang off, I heard the crunch of a boot, and a strong flashlight trained on us. Three shadowy phantoms were visible through the glare. I returned the phone to my jeans.
Chico said, “Gomez was right. She smelled cop.”
“I’m not a cop, but I called one. He’ll be here any second.”
Chico said, “I don’t hear no siren. Guillermo, Pablo, you hear a siren?” They chuckled.
Pablo pulled a pistol from under his sweatshirt.
Chico said, “Trang, you’re responsible for this wey.” Chico motioned and Pablo raised his gun.
I shoved Trang behind me. He was trembling. I felt for and clicked the safety off the Smith &Wesson in my belt, gripping the butt. My heart hammered inside my chest.
Chico said, “You want to be first. Okay…”
I quickly drew the pistol, pointed at the center of Pablo’s chest, and fired. The explosion shocked my ears, the ejected casing slapped my cheek. Gun smoke stung my nostrils. Pablo crumpled to the ground with his pistol pointing between his legs. I wrapped my left hand around the gun to steady the tremor in my right arm. Chico and Guillermo froze.
“Don’t move,” I said attempting to sound more confident than I felt.
Their eyes darted, probably calculating if they could rush me. Trang stepped forward, fists balled, ready to fight.
Thankfully, we heard a police siren approaching.
***
I rented a room in Trickling Springs and coordinated the return of the girls to their families in Mexico. My old parish footed the cost, and Trang helped tremendously. Pete Lancaster organized a group from the church to visit me. When they praised my action, I excused myself, and they left. The bishop called me daily. I removed the purple stole from my backpack, placed it around my neck, and gazed into a mirror. Afterward, I burned it and scattered the ashes where I’d killed a man. Pablo’s face, the moment of surprise and fear when the bullet plowed into his chest, was imprinted on my psyche. When I closed my eyes to try and sleep, the image became more vivid. As a priest, I’d counseled war veterans from Iraq or Afghanistan that sometimes taking human life was justified. I knew Pablo was evil and would’ve killed us. We saved the girls from a terrible fate. Still, I wished to God I’d never gotten off that bus.
Joe Giordano was born in Brooklyn. He and his wife Jane now live in Texas.
Joe’s stories have appeared in more than one hundred magazines including The Saturday Evening Post, and Shenandoah. His novels, Birds of Passage, An Italian Immigrant Coming of Age Story (2015), and Appointment with ISIL, an Anthony Provati Thriller (2017) were published by Harvard Square Editions. Rogue Phoenix Press published Drone Strike in 2019 and will publish his short story collection, Stories and Places I Remember, in 2020.
Joe was among one hundred Italian American authors honored by Barnes & Noble to march in Manhattan’s 2017 Columbus Day Parade. Read the first chapter of Joe's novels and sign up for his blog at http://joe-giordano.com/
