Book 3 (4-20-23)

El Parador and the Peoria Holiday Express shared a parking lot. When Clifford stepped out of his

Nova, he got distracted by a crowd of ballplayers leaving the restaurant, some of them loud from

beer and that day's news that the MLB owners' cabal and the players' union were bickering more

stridently than ever.

He heard footsteps, turned and noticed the Gran Torino parked just beyond the Sentra to his

left. Then he recognized one of the fellows approaching as one of the Blanco boys he had met in

their home in Apache Junction. Because the day had been long and strange and he wasn't

thinking fast, he said, "You traded in the Monte Carlo?"

The Blanco boy looked a bit sheepish and said, "Sorry, man," as he lifted his right arm

above his head. Then Clifford noticed the tire iron and stepped back.

Some years ago, he and Alvaro had earned black belts in Tae Kwon Do, but the more

complex their lives got, the less often they worked out or sparred. So, the forearm block he

attempted only directed the first blow to his shoulder after busting his left ulna. While he yelped

and tried to block the next strike with his right arm, the iron caught him near the middle of his

skull.

As he collapsed, he heard yelling and lots more footsteps and glimpsed some large men, one

of whom he thought might be Rich Holsman, grabbing hold of the first Blanco boy. And then

something hard, which he would learn was a long crowbar, smashed his lower back and then his

knee and the ribs on his right side, all before Danny Boone yelled "Drop the gun, brother!" and

threw a stone he had picked up, which either hit or spooked the crowbar boy, so the pistol he had
tried to aim, slipped out of his hand. As he dove to get it, the first Blanco boy, who had broken

free from attackers, kicked the pistol away and yelled "Vamonos, 'mano!".

But Danny had by now freed his Swiss Army knife from a pocket then squinted in the dark

trying to find the right blade. He punctured a Gran Torino tire.

Rich, after the Blanco boy had thrashed out of his grip, snatched up the boy's tire iron and

was going after the dropped pistol but a second baseman named Ellwood got to it first. He lifted

and waved it back and forth from one Blanco to the other, while his girlfriend who had run into

El Parador now hustled back out, followed by two cops.

The cops cuffed the Blanco boys. All three ballplayers knelt beside Clifford. Elwood's girl, a

nursing student, gently stroked his hair. Danny asked how he felt several times before Clifford

answered, "Ouch," and added few expletives.

Paramedics arrived. Rich helped the large, dark paramedic heave Clifford onto a gurney

onto a gurney while his petite woman partner asked Ellwood's girl some questions.

At Banner Hospital on Thunderbird Road, Clifford couldn't remember his home phone or

any other number. A doctor supposed that since he was a journalist and probably not stupid, he

must have a severe concussion.

They bedded him down in a semi-private room and made him even more stupefied by

something that came through an IV.

Danny ran to the Express front desk and learned that the only contact they could give was

for the Epitaph, whom they were billing for Clifford's room.

Back at the hospital. Rich remembered that an outfielder staying at the La Quinta played on

the Pests with the Hickey brothers. He ran across several parking lots, learned from a clerk the
room number, and interrupted the outfielder and an impudent groupie, and got a number for

Alvaro.

Mord answered.

Within fifteen minutes, Jodi, Tommy, and Feliz were packed and driving over the Coronado

Bay Bridge.

A pit stop for gas and ablutions was all that kept them from arriving in less than five hours.

Soon after 2 a.m., they found Danny and Rich talking to Clifford's hospital roommate, a young

roofer with a hearty laugh, about the MLB strike and the replacements' odds of taking over from

the millionaires. Clifford was pretending to sleep.

After brief introductions, Danny reported to the family that, besides the concussion, Clifford

had suffered two broken ribs, a cracked shoulder-blade and ulna, and a smashed kneecap that

needed replacing.

Just after dawn, Tommy ran a couple blocks and brought back breakfast burritos. One sip of

hospital coffee convinced him to give up on it.

Clifford was barely awake and sitting up.

"Well, Dad," Tommy said, "the good news is, you get to come home."

"And the bad news?" Clifford mumbled.

Tommy said, "I'll have to keep doing all your chores for a couple weeks, at least."

"You do chores?" Jodi asked.

"Sometimes he does," Tommy said, "He shops for groceries, and he cooks now and then."

Jodi peeled back Clifford's gown and kissed his shoulder. "When he's really hungry."

"C'mon guys," Feliz said. "Quit teasing. He's like an invalid."

 "Like a mess," Tommy said.

"Yeah, no picking on me." Clifford tried to sit up taller and Jodi wedged a pillow behind his

shoulders. "And, I usually do my own laundry. Anyway, I think I'm not going home right away."

"Who's going to take care of you?" Feliz asked.

He said, "I'll get by. I mean, I'm in the middle of stuff, and I'm not going to leave while the

so-called Liberty Rangers are stalking Minnie." Over his family weekends, he had entertained

them with descriptions of her disguises and lobbying strategies and told them about the rent-a-

cow legislator, the highway cone tycoon and junkyard senators, and about the school and college

takeover conspiracy.

"Where do you think she went?" Jodi asked.

"Far away, I hope. Anyway, without me, there's no Observer, and nobody to rat on whoever

employed bombers and the chumps who worked over Penelope and sent the boys who put me

here."

"Maybe you could find somebody to take over?" Jodi said.

"Nobody else is stupid enough."

"Aw," Tommy said. "There's got to be somebody somewhere as stupid as you."

"No teasing," Feliz reminded her brother.

"Besides," Clifford said, "It's a paying job."

Jodi said, "My friend still wants me to work at Home Depot, and Feliz got offered a waitress

gig at Quig's."

"Server," Feliz said.

"Hey," Clifford said, "who's the boss here?"

One at a time, the others shrugged.

 "Well, anyway, I want to stay and keep the Observer alive, since I'm pretty sure the Ranger-

Escobar cabal are way more dangerous even than your everyday corrupt politicians."

"How so?" Jodi asked.

Clifford tried to sit up even taller. Jodi wedged another pillow behind him. "Give me a while

to think about it all. I want to get it right. Besides, if I stick around, I can write satires and

lampoons and expose the legislature clowns and racketeers. And if you could do some

illustrations, maybe we'll become news moguls like Hearst, Murdoch, and Harry Chandler, rich

as the Cooks who fund these phony colleges like Hillside and the institutes and academies in the

mind of a certain state senator. I mean, my dears, I can prove to the world that Arizona is at least

as weird and sinister as Elmore Leonard and this Hiaasen guy make Florida out to be."

He pointed at the small chrome table where Danny had lain items he fetched from the

Clifford's motel room. He asked Feliz, "See the burnt-orange hardback?"

She went and picked it up.

He said, "Now please go out and find a dumpster to throw it into before Tommy sees it."

Tommy said, "Huh?" and grabbed for the book, but Feliz held on tight.

"Striptease?" she said.

Jodi caught hold of the book and Feliz let go. After studying the cover illustration, she asked

Clifford, "Are those pasties or nipples?"

"Beats me. I guess we're supposed to have to guess, so we buy the book to find out."

"Is that why you bought it?"

"Not exactly. I heard this Hiaasen was a funny critic of a Florida, which is competing with

us old west folks for the title of snowbird state."

"What's it about?" Feliz asked. "This book?"

 "Nude dancers, a bunch of perverts, and a cop whose specialty is collecting dismembered

body parts."

Feliz said, "Aw, Dad, Tommy will love it, especially the body parts stuff. How about letting

him read and write a book report on it before I throw it away."

"Isn't that like censorship or book burning?" Tommy asked.

"It's more like what happens when I send a manuscript to Simon and Shuster."

"Anyway," Jodi said, "please pardon me for interrupting the literary talk, but you all need to

know that if you're going to stay here, so am I, my love."

"Me too," Feliz said.

"But Tommy's got school," Clifford said, "and baseball, and I don't want him home alone

waiting for the Pirañas to show up."

"Hey," Tommy said, "there are things more important than school."

"Like what?"

"You," Tommy said.

Feliz stared at her brother in amazement. "Did Tommy just say something really, really

nice?"

Tommy gave her a sneer.

"And now he's blushing."

"So what? Hey, maybe I could get in some ballgames here? Maybe Rich could get me in

some."

"Anyway," Clifford said, "if I gave up and went home now, I'd go down in history as the

shame of the Hickey clan."

"Not likely," Tommy said. "How about your murderer grandma."

 "Hard to beat her," Clifford admitted. "But she was Hickey by marriage only. Nothing

genetic."

A nurse called Shorona entered and soon chased the visitors off. She fed him antibiotics and

morphine. While nodding off, Clifford thought about shame and about how he learned both from

his dad and from life how wide the gulf between losing and quitting can be. Suppose he spent all

his efforts trying to bring down the Ranger mob. If he failed, that was no shame, surely not any

more than if a small payroll MLB team got beat by the Yankees or Dodgers with ten times the

player budget. Shame would be if they gave up and quit mid-game or midseason.

He dozed off while thinking he didn't approve of the mercy rule, which he had encountered

in softball and amateur baseball. To stick it out and lose by fifty runs showed more character

than to bail when you were down by twenty. The only ones who benefitted from the Mercy Rule

were spectators.

He only dozed a few minutes then woke with thoughts about winners like the Feezers,

Escobars, Hearsts, Cooks, and to some degree the Hickeys; and about losers like the Blancos,

most of Alvaro's immigration clients and those he represented as public defender or pro bono;

and the "illegals" to whom, according to Minnie, Sheriff Joe Arpaio issued pink underwear.

Clifford didn't define the word loser like others seemed to. For him, most losers were the

ones who might've won hadn't everything been stacked against them. Whereas winners were

commonly raised by the kind and generous, losers were far too often raised by the lost and left

by fate or providence without anyone to rescue them like God or fate had delivered Alvaro to

Tom and Wendy Hickey.

He thought of a book by Leonard Cohen called Beautiful Losers and wished he had used that

title before Mr. Cohen did.

 When nurse Sharona returned, he asked for the steno pad and pen from the chrome table

and, as well as he could with a throbbing elbow, jotted a few notes for the Observer, which was

due in the racks two days from now.

Alvaro was surely no more a quitter than was his brother, but the world had a surplus of lawyers.

In the harbor-view office of his firm's senior partner Dennis field, he said, "Eduardo is way more

competent than I am."

The boss was in no mood to argue that point. He said, "Clifford's a big boy."

"They came at my brother with a tire iron."

"Who were they?"

"Probably Pirañas."

"Yeah," Field said. "And you're going to take on the whole mob? Let me call Roscoe the

wise and report your suicide."

"Yeah, I'll listen, see if he takes credit for driving me to it."

"So, did you tell Mister Osteen he gets to keep on being our crooked D.A.?"

"Who said I was dropping out of the race?"

"Yeah, and with you occupied elsewhere, you might get what, about twenty votes?"

Alvaro shrugged. "So I get to choose between politics and people I love?"

The boss said, "Yeah. So you disagree with the famous remark by Jean Paul Sartre?"

"Probably. What'd he say?"

"Hell is other people. Now get lost. And when you come begging for employment, we might

take you on, but with a substantial cut in base pay, shares, and seniority."

Alvaro thanked him for the offer.

 An hour later, after he bade adios to his secretary and paralegal and booked a room adjacent

to Clifford and family's at the Peoria Holiday Express, he and Mord were climbing the

mountains east of the Lakeside Hotel, her latest hideout.

"So," he asked, "are you as happy as you look?"

Mord leaned and kissed his cheek. Unable to suppress her grin, she said, "I know I'm a louse

to be smiling when Clifford got all smashed up."

Still, she confessed feeling like a captive freed.

They arrived at Banner Hospital in time to visit. And while the whole family crowded

around the bed and Clifford attempted to field their questions and also tell them about the latest

revelations concerning the reprehensible condition of Arizona government, Alvaro felt more

blessed that any person should be allowed to feel. Even Phoenix, a great blob of asphalt in the

midst of a desert, he thought could be like heaven if you found yourself in the right company.

No matter the truth of Sartre's wise crack that hell was other people, to Alvaro, at least,

heaven was family.

In the morning, after an hour of bliss, Alvaro and Mord walked with Jodi and the kids to the

I-Hop. He didn't sit down but told them that to save time he would skip breakfast and go out

hunting for a place they could book three adjoining rooms for a solid month.

A bus boy overheard and mumbled "Good luck with that."

"Try for four rooms," Jodi said, then explained that Mystery and Eric were on their way

from Fresno.

After a half dozen stops during which he got told a half dozen times that such a request was

laughable in Phoenix during Spring Training season, he not only discovered the Glendale
Hampton Inn but succeeded in booking four nearly adjacent rooms, all on the third floor, all

available starting tomorrow.

By noon, he was back at the hospital and, while Feliz, Tommy, and Mord went to watch

exhibition ball games, the Hickey brothers and Jodi got to work on the Observer.

Alvaro asked questions, Clifford talked, and Jodi -- who had taken the shorthand and typing

classes her high school in those primitive days required of girls -- transcribed Clifford's story. He

decided to, for now, omit names and some other telling details while he portrayed a certain

caucus of the Arizona legislature as hyper ambitious capitalists frantically collecting and

promoting enterprises from gun shops to fireworks wholesalers to junkyards and trucking

companies as well as schools from kindergarten to vocational institutes and so-called academies

of liberal arts and sciences.

Then while he phoned Stanley the fast printer and arranged for a rush job, Jodi typed the

story on Clifford's Compaq and saved it on a disc. She ran a block to Kinko's, printed the story

out and ran back to the hospital with the copy for Clifford to edit.

Turning over the Observer pickup and delivery to Jodi and his brother allowed Clifford lots of

time to think about how to explain, to himself at least, why he believed so deeply in what he had

begun to consider war for control of the wasteland.

His thoughts kept drifting back to the PRI and to Tlateloco, where in 1968, a month before

the Mexico City Olympic Games, government ops called the Olympic Brigade murdered Nacha,

his first love. His thoughts also drifted to the murder of Alvaro's crusader mom by cops

employed by the PRI.

 And he thought about the Mexican way of keeping the losers in line by assuring they had

just enough to keep from starving, and by killing just enough of those who complained too

loudly and thereby convincing others their fate could get worse.

And he imagined such a government coming to power north of the border like A.J. Peale

prophesied.

Mr. Peale, a wise philanthropist who convinced Alvaro to dive into politics, had assured the

Hickey brothers that to see the likely future of the world people should look at the present in

Mexico, where you couldn't tell the gangsters from the politicians.

Not, Clifford realized, that the U.S. was a utopia run by the honest and noble. Still,

somewhere in history the Yanqui robber barons had chosen a more expedient method to pacify

the serfs: by offering ever more distracting toys and games and creating the means to take

advantage of all that, largely through credit. With that system in place, folks could indenture

themselves into what they saw as the pursuit of happiness, which had come to mean the ability to

amuse away their various sorrows and fears. And, most importantly to Clifford, they allowed the

"American Way" to include some freedom to complain with less risk of getting murdered than

the PRI granted.

Clifford viewed the arrival of Jodi's daughter Mystery and the family's friend Eric as a miracle.

Eric was a warrior.

Mystery blessed her stepdad with a kiss. Eric asked how the jailers were treating him.

Clifford said, "I wonder if they shoot people who attempt to break out."

"Getting restless?" Eric asked.

 "They're torturing me. After the second time they warned Jodi not to sneak in tacos and

such, she decided to obey. If they don't cut me loose before dinnertime, would you cover me

while I make a run for it?"

"According to Mom," Mystery said, "you can't even walk without your knee caving it. How

are you going to run?"

"Maybe you can help me along," Clifford said, then asked Eric if he'd brought a gun.

Eric said, "No sir. I haven't so much as touched a weapon since I left the Seals."

Several years back, while Alvaro was defending the killer of a Murieta and common sense

dictated they keep perpetually on guard, Eric had moonlighted as an overnight sentry, gotten shot

doing so, and during that summer become a dear friend of them all.

"Okay," Clifford said, "here's the deal. There's a gun shop on Bell Road that's owned by a

woman named Prudence who isn't a Liberty Ranger. I checked. So, you hustle over there and buy

a Glock or something scary looking."

"Um," Eric said, "who do you want me to shoot?"

"Nobody, probably. Just look scary."

"He can do that," Mystery said.

Eric rolled his eyes and said, "So can she."

"Then between the two of you, maybe you can get them to let me out of here."

Mystery said, "Us and X. Doctors are terrified of lawyers."

She ducked out of the room and made a phone call. Then they spent a half hour with

Mystery and Eric questioning Clifford and him filling them in on the wretched, comical, and

dangerous Arizona political sphere, especially about who were these Liberty Rangers and what

were they up to.

 Upon his discharge, Clifford pleaded for a meal at El Parador. Jodi, Clifford's kids, and

Mord met them. And while they feasted, Alvaro designated the arrangements for rooms 313

through 316 of the Hampton Inn. Clifford and Jodi; Alvaro and Mord; Tommy and Eric; Mystery

and Feliz. Jodi cajoled the girls into making a solemn promise that they would be kind to each

other.

Since Jodi had left with the Epitaph both their room and the Hampton front desk phone numbers,

Clifford got an early morning message to call Patrick.

A Tucson friend of Patrick's wife had phoned and reported an article in yesterday's Tucson

Citizen about a cross border attack on a ranchito off old highway 80 between Bisbee and

Douglas. "You don't suppose that could be the Pirañas?" Patrick asked.

Clifford wasn't so interested in who attacked but who were they attacking. He feared it just

might be aka Minnie.

He used the room phone to call the Citizen. When he explained why he needed the reporter's

number, she said she'd pass along Clifford's message.

The Citizen reporter called back shortly and gave him a number for the story's source, the

Cochise County sheriff. Clifford asked the sheriff's name.

The reporter said, "Garcia, Martinez, Mendosa, something like that."

"Not Escobar, right?"

The reporter laughed. "Hey, you're that Observer Hickey?"

"That's me," Clifford said.

"Good for you."

"Thanks. You want a job?"

 "I've got a family," he said.

"So do I."

Clifford said adios and made a mental note to call back and pester this reporter for

dangerous ideas. But not today.

Instead, he called the Cochise County sheriff's number. After a transfer and eavesdropping

while someone who sounded like a wife berated someone about Sunday phone calls, he got

greeted by Sheriff Montoya. He identified himself and asked for the name of the folks who got

attacked by a Mexican gang on Friday.

"Sure thing," Montoya said. "That'd be Mike and Lucille Gilbert."

Clifford asked for some info on Lucille but didn't say why. For all he knew, even if this

sheriff wasn't an Escobar, he might have some Escobar kinfolk or be the grand poohbah of the

Liberty Rangers.

"Let's see," the sheriff said. "About five-eight, around forty years, hair sort of hay colored.

Pretty enough, used to teach at Doble Adobe Elementary, second grade, then went to work for

the Tombstone Unified District doing public relations and some mysterious stuff up in Phoenix.

Rumor has her being a gun control nut. That enough?"

"Plenty."

"Damn Mexicans," Montoya said. "Pardon my French, but them bastards, far as we know

they didn't kill any humans but you'd be hard pressed to find a tree or a structure that ain't full of

bullet holes. And get this -- the bastards killed so many poor critters, we brought in three vets

just to see could we save a few."

"Any word from Mike or Lucille?"

"Not a peep."
Mord loathed the crime cartels -- including her brother's -- as much as she loathed the PRI and all

the crooked politicians and their flunkies. She had spent three years assisting her lover Vicente

by pursuing sources willing to talk and sometimes persuading them to do so. Though she didn't

quite understand her charm, the way she often seemed to captivate men, she accepted that power

and occasionally used it to help Vicente. But after he disappeared, almost ten years ago, she

blamed herself for urging him to write stories that boosted his reputation as a crusading

soothsayer and so might have gotten him killed.

The day after the Observer explion, when Clifford agreed to investigate corruption in

Arizona, she promised herself not to do or say anything that might endanger any of the Hickey's,

all of whom she loved and admired.

But now, with both Alvaro and Clifford in grave risk, she felt the need to relent on her

promise. So, she told Alvaro she wanted to meet with Benny.

He didn't despise Benny. He had learned from Tom Hickey to be careful about despising

anyone. He wasn't even convinced, like Mord was, that Benny had her Vicente killed.

But despising was one thing and trusting was another, and he didn't begin to trust Benny

Luz. He hadn't trusted him since their first acquaintance, because even at sixteen, he sensed

Benny was a proficient and willing user.

Still, he let Mord convince him that, given the fact that he might know more than anyone

except Oscar Infante about the Pirañas, she should call Dr. Burton and at least get his opinion.

And when Dr. Burton -- who was not only a priest who, as Mord's confessor, knew her quite

well, but also was perhaps the wisest person she knew -- assured her and Alvaro that, given the

circumstances, initiating contact with her brother was probably worth the risk, Alvaro approved.
 That very afternoon, while on a counseling visit to the Tijuana Missionaries of Charity

Seminary, Dr. Burton discovered that a lay sister was in touch with a certain Murieta. He gave

her a phone number and asked that she pass it along, destination Benny Luz.

Brother and sister hadn't spoken in forever or even seen one another since she testified in

Alvaro's defense of the killer of a valuable Murietas gunman.

So when Alvaro woke her, held out the phone and said "Benny," several minutes including a

trip to the bathroom passed before Mord composed herself well enough to relieve Alvaro of the

phone. Then she said, "I guess you're not used to people making you hold."

Her brother didn't answer but finally said, "This is awkward, huh?"

"Sure is."

He said, "Last I heard from you, you were telling a room full of strangers that I was a

servant of the devil."

She says, "You killed Vicente."

Again, no answer, which Mord knew could mean he had no confession to offer, no rebuttal

to her accusation, and no rationale. Or his silence could mean he was too damned proud to

answer to anyone. From what she remembered of him, the pride explanation rang truest.

"And maybe," she said, "you sent guys to Guadalajara to kill Guzmán. Anyway, that's a kind

of stuff you do, right?"

Still no response until he said, "Are we done talking about me yet?'

"Okay."

"And you wanted to talk because ...?"

"You know those Pirañas very well?"

 "Some. I must've told you way back that Oscar's like a third cousin and we worked for Don

Neto around the same time. They giving you trouble?"

"Well, here's how we figure what's going on." She told him about the Observer, the bombing

and Clifford taking over, and how he tied the bombing to a family named Blanco, and after

Clifford tracked them down and had a talk with them, one of the brothers got shot dead. And

within a couple weeks, the Observer reporter whose story implicating the Liberty Rangers in

some shady politics got brutalized. And then Clifford kept writing and publishing about the

Escobars and the Liberty Rangers for which two Blanco boys severely worked him over. And

now the little rancho where Clifford's best source and her husband lived, down near Bisbee, got

raided by a whole platoon of sicarios.

She asked, "You've heard of the Liberty Rangers and Escobars?"

"I hear plenty."

"The way we figure, the setup is like: some Ranger or Escobar wants somebody to run an

errand, they talk to a Blanco or a Gomez or Castro or Martinez or ..."

"I get it," Benny said. "The Rangers or Escobars make friends who do them favors, or else."

"Exactly, and or else is where Los Pirañas come in. At least that's how we figure. And

Clifford isn't about to back off until the Escobars and Rangers are moving to some place like

Idaho or Saskatchewan, and you know how Alvaro feels about his brother, so he's all in. Ergo, so

am I."

Benny didn't quite laugh but sounded as if he might soon do so. "And you, mi hermanita,

would be pleased if I convinced the Pirañas to take their business somewhere besides Arizona."

Trying to sound other than snide, she said, "You guessed I didn't want a call from you just to

say happy birthday?"

 "What day is my birthday?"

"Day after tomorrow."

She waited through another long silent spell. Then he said, "So you are going to ask for a

favor even though you know the danger in asking a favor of the devil. You know the devil

doesn't do anything for nothing."

She says, "In truth Benny, I don't know what you are. At the trial, I spoke my heart, from

passion and anger, not from anything like belief or knowledge."

Benny said, "Hey, that's almost like saying you're sorry. Or close enough."

"Almost," she said. "And we would be pleased if you could give us any of what I think

people in the trade call intel that could help us rid Arizona of the Escobar and Ranger political

machine."

"Maybe I know a little something," he said.

"Benny, what's between you and the Pirañas?"

"Business. Look, here's what reliable observers would tell you. Oscar's a little guy compared

to the Sinaloa operation. He's way too smart to take on Guzman and Zambada and the army of

cops and politicos they own. And TJ is out of the question, because TJ isn't about to let anybody

set foot in Baja, which isn't only a gateway to California, but whoever owns it owns the Pacific,

meaning about half of the world."

"Which is why the raid on Fidel Orca that got Lupe Ornelas to kill her son and why Alvaro

got shot up for helping her?"

No answer came, but the longest silence yet. At last, Benny said, "Between the mighty

Sinaloa gang's territory and the TJ plaza is the Sonora desert."

"Clifford calls it the wasteland. Both sides of the line."

 "That's appropriate. And not everybody recognizes the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. Maybe

cousin Oscar doesn't. Are you following me?"

"So far."

"Bookish lady like yourself must have read Sun Tsu's Art of War."

"One of my favorites."

"I'm going to consider that sarcasm. Anyway, if you had you would know that those who

aren't advancing are retreating, which to a little dictator stuck between two big ones ..."

"You and the Sinaloa's."

"... means you are as good as dead. So ..."

"I get it," Mord said, "You're saying the path of least resistance is north."

"Correct. What I believe Oscar wants is Sonora, both sides, Yuma to Douglas, San Luis to

Agua Prieta. And, especially since NAFTA, with a few thousand trucks over and back every day,

Zambada, and El Chapo when he gets loose, or whoever runs Sinaloa, is going to corner the

market on trucks they can modify and fill up with product.

"So, to Oscar, the tighter the border, the more valuable will be all the tunnels he's digging,

which is why, when he goes looking for help, he doesn't advertise for fighters, but for engineers,

mechanics, carpenters, welders. Moles and shooters are plentiful as cactus in Sonora. So, is that

enough for now?"

"Benny," she said softly, "our mama and papa pray for you."

This time his silence was shorter. "And you?" he asked.

"Sometimes," she said.

 After the phone call, she gave Alvaro a look that meant she needed time alone. She dressed

in jeans and a sun hat and went for a walk much farther than a person stalked by hoodlums

should.

Later she told Alvaro that her brother just might be less demonic than she had presumed.

"Do you think it's possible he didn't kill Vicente?"

Alvaro gave her a long, warm embrace. "Maybe, a hug from me is almost as good as one

from your brother," he said.

"Better, mi vida."

The next day three Murietas showed up at the Hampton, asking for Alvaro. He met them

downstairs at the front desk.

Their spokesman appeared to be a smiley fellow who called himself Kino. He introduced the

others as Pajaro, inches taller than either of his partners. The one who looked oldest, probably

mid-twenties, was Fausto. They had come to protect la señorita Mord.

Alvaro, knowing far too much about Murietas, was suspicious. For one thing, he wondered,

how did Benny know his sister was in Arizona, and at the Hampton, and that her room number

was 317. He felt certain Dr. Burton wouldn't have passed any such details along.

Still, if they were going to beat the Rangers and Pirañas, he needed to be more trusting than

wisdom recommended. And when he helped them with their luggage, which included four suit

large suitcases, one awfully heavy and four long canvas carry bags, he accepted that Benny Luz

might have a clearer view of the dangers than he did. So, after getting Mord's okay, and showing

them to his and her room, he left the four of them to get acquainted and ran downstairs.
 He didn't ask for a long-term arrangement for the additional room but did insist it be on the

third floor.

Then he introduced the Murietas to El Parador.

Patrick got a UPS delivery from aka Minnie with a letter Mike sent her, which he copied and

faxed to Clifford c/o the Hampton front desk.

After some endearments and a few lines bawling her out for the company she keeps, by

which Clifford guessed he meant Rangers, Escobars, and perhaps politicians in general, Mike

wrote: "So I get a call from this sweet soft voice, sounds like a little girl talking to a kitten, tells

me to get outta town quick on account of the Pirañas are on their way, and I say what the hell for

but she's already hung up. So I make a couple phone calls, down to Halloran's first, no answer

and Joe's, and he's out drilling wells, but what's her name, Angie, she says four or five stupid

looking vehicles are heading our way, but since they only just passed her place, I figure I've got

time to post myself with a couple rifles up the on the hill, but then I no sooner get outside and I

hear stuff sounds like a gang of bikers only louder so I jump on Virginia and gallop up the rise to

the old windmill.

"I swear, darling, I would've fought 'em off except I seen these five looked like homemade

Humvees and a dozen hombres with M-16s or something pointing up high like they do, and

before I can calculate just how to handle them, they're already in the yard and cutting loose on

everything that moves or doesn't. So, I remember that advice about discretion being the better

part of something. So, with that in mind, I and Virginia make tracks.

"And we keep going a while and then we hear a siren way off in the distance and I turn us

around and start to go back only I knew was in a fit thinking about all our critters and not
thinking worth a damn so I decided I better take some time to, you know, collect my thoughts.

So by the time I got back home, must've been close to a half hour, well, you know the guy name

of Hopkins, lives about a half mile down toward Doble Adobe, that skinny louse was standing by

while some vet helper ladies were tossing dead chickens into the bed of somebody's rusty

pickup, and this Hopkins, you could tell he was wondering if Mildred would make USDA prime

beef, or what. I could've shot him. But, discretion, remember, so I give him ten minutes to get

that poor heifer out of my sight or else.

"But you want to know most about Ted and Chicago. Well, they're probably going to make

it. Little Chicago, that vet Callaway from Douglas took her to his office and was gone already.

But Ted -- that shaggy little mutt must've got loose and, says Deputy Dick, came back as soon as

the lowlifes took off. And when Dick arrived, ol' Ted was lying snuggled up to little Chicago,

who got her ear shot off. And, here's the best part, in my evil estimate. Not all the dead were our

critters. One of the degenerates was lying beside our pups. The way I and the deputy figure, the

now-deceased goon cut loose on Chicago and then another shooter, this one with a heart, got

mighty pissed at his partner blasting a dog and took him out."

The letter went on for a couple pages listing all their critters: two of the four cats dead; one

dead burro, a dead pig, a crippled bull, two dead and one very gloomy cow.

"But, last I heard, Chicago's okay, only she won't hear so much, at least from her left side. I

guess you need to be a real marksman to hit a squirmy Chihuahua even with a damned

automatic."

The Observer team had already put together a continuation of Clifford's exposé about the

suspicious purchases of colleges and the text book publisher when Mike's letter arrived. With all

that to report, this week's issue required six full pages including a summary account of the
ranchito attack drawn from both the deputy's account and Mike's letter. The piece included no

names or speculations about the attackers, only facts and a headline asked, "Who are these

guys?"

Jodi and Alvaro set alarm clocks for dawn Saturday, since by now the drop sites were

probably known by every Ranger and Escobar and their friends and family.

Though Alvaro would've preferred to turn in early, since Mord had only been sleeping

fitfully, after she fell asleep, he poured Pajaro -- who by now he supposed earned the name on

account of his rather tweety voice -- and Kino each a drink and they sat on the balcony. Fausto

was in their room three doors down.

Plenty of experience had convinced Alvaro that to get honest answers, it's best to let the

other guy lead off. Alvaro sat a while sipping Dewars, then Pajaro tweeted, in Spanish with

which they were all most comfortable, "El Señor tells us a little about you. Is that okay?"

"Sure. I'm no big secret."

Kino said, "He says you jumped the border when you were only a little guy and all alone."

"Not exactly alone," Alvaro said, "I lived with J.P. Ornelas and his mama. You remember

J.P.?"

"Fausto does."

Pajaro said, "Pretty brave you are, to cross all alone."

"Another kid was going to kill me."

"Rey? Fausto tells us about that redhead pendejo."

"Yeah, and it was easier crossing back then. All you needed to do back when I was little was

go to the beach and swim like crazy. Now the migra and politicos made it so hard, you need to

pay some coyote a fortune."

 "Lots of Pirañas are coyotes," Kino said. "El Señor says you sure got lucky to get to be one

of these Hickeys."

Alvaro gave a solid nod. "It's why I believe in God. So, you like working for Benny?"

"He's pretty good. Makes us feel like we are part of a company."

"Or part of a family."

"Or maybe part of an army," Pajaro said.

Both their expressions darkened as if they might be concerned lest he ask for details about

what sort of battles they fought.

So he tossed them a few simple questions: what they thought of Phoenix, how would the

rank food at El Parador to food in Baja, and which of their mothers was the best cook, which got

them into a lighthearted argument.

Kino said, "Fausto tells us you helped J.P.'s mama get cut loose after she killed her own

son."

Pajaro wagged his head. "How could a mama do that?"

"Didn't matter who she killed, I would try to get her off," Alvaro said. "If not for her, I

wouldn't have lived to be five years old."

Kino said, "Fausto tells us some guys thought el Señor should have killed you."

"Yeah," Alvaro said, "that's what I think sometimes."

"Maybe," Kino said, "his sister told him not to."

In the morning, after he and Jodi returned from the Observer drop-offs, Alvaro rounded up the

Hickeys and brought them to room 317 to hang out with Mord, Fausto, Pajaro, and Mystery

while he and Eric walked Denny's. On the way, he asked Eric if he was carrying.
 Eric said, "Why else would I wear this jacket. It's already summer here in the wasteland."

"Who told you to call it the wasteland."

"I read it in one of Mister Clifford's stories."

They both ordered Grand Slams. Eric added a large orange juice. "I'm paying," he said.

"Not a chance. So, would you mind my getting a little personal."

"No sir. Is it about Mystery?"

"Her and Feliz."

"Okay. Well, you remember how you used to gawk at Feliz and how Mystery got fiery

jealous."

"Sure, I gawked a lot, and Mystery and I have talked a lot about her getting jealous. Mystery

likes to talk."

Alvaro gave him a knowing smile. "Does she correct your grammar?"

"Yep."

"Good for her. Us men can get careless. So, is there any chance of you falling for Feliz

again?"

Eric spent a couple minutes looking as if he were determined to give the very best answer.

"Okay, sir," he said. "I've mostly worked through all that and ... well, as you know, Feliz

might well be the best girl in the world. But she's not for me. She's way too good, I mean not like

pretty or smart, which of course she is all that. She's too good, you know. She's -- I'm trying to

think of how to explain, the right word, but all I can think of is like angelic. Like when she

brought Mr. Clifford back to life, you know. Who besides Feliz could do that?"

Alvaro said, "I have an opinion about how that worked. Care to hear?"

"You bet I do."

 "I'm guessing how she brought him back to life was she believed that God or who or

whatever decides those things would finally realize that she just wasn't going to leave until he

came back to us."

Alvaro rubbed his eyes.

"See what I mean," Eric said. "How good is that? In the Seals they tried to teach us that kind

of determination, but I'd bet none of us could be like Feliz."

Alvaro laughed. "Maybe she should join up and be a D.I. or whatever you guys call them.

Anyway, what about Mystery? Where's she fit into your life?"

"Hey," Eric said, "I'm fine with getting a shot at the second best girl in the world. See,

Mystery, well she's more down to earth and all. Like me."

Alvaro said, "I wouldn't mention that first and second best rating."

"Oh God no, Mister Alvaro," Eric said. "If Mystery didn't kill me, her mom would."

Alvaro said, "Haven't I told you at least a few times to call me X?"

"Well, yes sir, but wouldn't that mean I'm like family?"

Alvaro said, "Yes sir, it surely would."

On his way to Florence Penitentiary to interview Fred the ex-legislator, Alvaro dropped Jodi,

Eric, Tommy, Feliz and Mystery at the Sports Complex.

Tommy rushed off to find Rich and Danny to thank them for saving his dad. Eric tagged

along.

They found both pitchers in the locker room. After he introduced them to Eric and explained

who he was, he added, "Dad thinks we need a bodyguard."

 Then Rich, who had helped coach at Coronado High, bragged up Tommy's batting and

catching skills.

"Say," he said to Danny, "I wonder if the kid could hold onto your knuckleball." He turned

to Tommy. "Maybe he just looks like an old plumber, but give him the ball, the guy's a real

monster."

"Can we watch?" Tommy asked.

A half hour later, the girls and Eric had settled in to watching a scrimmage and Danny and

Rich were side by side in a double-width bull pen.

Danny had thrown about fifty pitches including ten knuckleballs when Rich pointed at an

equipment rack and dared Tommy to slip into gear and try catching. Tommy, whom no one

could remember having turned down a dare, ran across the pen, slipped into the gear, and

replaced a catcher named Buddy who looked delighted to relieve himself of the shin guards and

massage his left knee.

The first few knuckleballs so perplexed Tommy he wondered if they were spitballs. But

after seven or eight of them, he found himself loosening and developing what felt like a hyper-

speed connection between his eyesight and his hands.

Before long, Rich stopped a passing fellow so old he might've played in the negro leagues.

"Coach, got a minute to look at this kid?"

Coach Quincy James said, "Time's all I got these days."

He watched about twenty pitches, half of them knuckleballs and told Danny to stop so he

could meet this kid.

After some introductions, the coach asked Tommy if he had come to try out as a

replacement.
 Tommy said, "For real?"

"I look to be joking.?"

"No coach, but I'm only seventeen."

"Don't matter if you only twelve, way you catch? Can you hit?"

"Pretty well, but if I was a Padre, even for a couple games, wouldn't that make me a pro? I

mean, then I couldn't play college next year or even finish this year with my high school team.

Right."

The coach said, "Maybe if you play for nothing, you not a pro. I got to research, see can I

find in the rules or what they call precedent, since this is an emergency. Thing is you don't be

finding many guys turn down money."

All Tommy could say was, "Wow."

The coach leaned close and spoke softly. "Why it's an emergency is, none of these other

bums can catch Danny, and he's our secret weapon."

From the parking lot, the state Penitentiary in Florence looked more like a movie set for the

Alamo, only ten times the size. Two guards who manned the front gate might have been chosen

to complement the giant sentry-like saguaro. The gate looked so old and rusted it could

disintegrate any moment, and it featured three locks. The largest had a keyhole big enough for a

small person to reach through. The key was likewise ancient and so rusted it required the guard

to use both hands. Alvaro had presented a document called pro hac vice, meaning "for this

occasion," which got him admitted as an assistant to Arizona attorney Timothy Wills, an

acquaintance of Alvaro's San Diego employer. Wills had agreed to consider appealing either

Fred's conviction or sentencing, dependent largely upon what Alvaro learned.

 Inside the gate, in a yard surrounded with high walls atop which armed fellows paced or

leaned on the railings, the guard turned him over to Calvin, an ancient and kindly trustee who

had apparently gotten prepped, though incorrectly. He reached out a dark gnarled hand and said,

"I been told you are that Hickey writer what don't think highly of our state government."

Alvaro said, "That's my brother. I'm the Hickey that's a lawyer who doesn't think highly of

your state government."

"You don't much look like a Hickey."

"Adopted," Alvaro said as they began walking toward the next gate. Though Alvaro had

visited quite a number of lockups, none of the others had made him feel so much like a convict

as this one did.

"Well," Calvin said, "here's something you can tell your writer brother." During a dramatic

pause, he waved his arm to indicate all the wandering cons. "Every one of these boys is here on

account of some woman."

Alvaro promised to tell his brother and in return passed along a line Clifford enjoyed

quoting to college literature classes, "From Steven Crane. You heard of him, an old timer?"

Calvin admitted he hadn't.

"Well, Crane claimed, 'There are usually between a dozen and forty women involved in

every murder.'"

"That many, you say," Calvin said.

The guard who met them at the next gate appeared as surly as Calvin was congenial. This

new one didn't give a name or wear a tag, only a badge. He led Alvaro down a hallway and into

what looked like a conference room lacking any table.

 Fred Miyahara rose out of a folding chair and politely introduced himself then asked, "Can

you get me out of here?"

Alvaro shrugged.

Fred had gotten sentenced for ten to fifteen years for statuary rape involving one Lourdes

Madruga, in the country illegally and working for a temp agency at the time of the offense.

During the month she spent as a receptionist for a tax accounting and investment firm whose

principal CPA was Roger Escobar, Fred had allegedly persuaded her to stay late on several

occasions to greet afterhours clients who failed to appear. Often, he had persuaded her with gifts

to perform other services.

Fred explained it was a frame. After he mistakenly let on to a new and innocent CPA named

Wendy some of what he had noticed over his years at the firm, a pair of detectives showed up

and so on.

A judge declined to allow bail as he was a frequent vacationer in Oaxaca and a partner in a

company that imported indigenous art. And during the weeks while he awaited trial, Lourdes got

deported and disappeared. The only evidence was her lengthy and lurid deposition, dramatic as

any telenovela. And his attorney, recommended by a fellow CPA, promised that if he pleaded

guilty, he could be released on probation and the conviction exonerated after only a year.

However ...

"Well, you are a lawyer, so you know what their promises amount to."

Alvaro said, "Yeah, so I won't bother to promise anything except I'll do my best to bring

Roger Escobar and family to their knees."

"And?"

"And I can promise to lean on attorney Wills to prioritize your appeal."

 "And?"

"How about you tell me what else?"

"Bankroll me with enough so I can disappear before the Pirañas kill me."

"How much is enough?"

"Say twenty grand."

"Let's see what you've got for me."

"So, where do I start?"

"Since we're talking money, how about with that."

Fred took a minute to organize his thoughts. "Okay, let's say a private party named Infante

wants to help out Julio Escobar's campaign for County Sheriff, he sends a hundred grand to each

of twenty cousins to pay their ASU tuition, and those cousins, Arizona residents, donate a big

chunk of it to Julio. No problem -- well maybe a little number crunching, but that's all. Sort of an

upside down Ponzi scheme. And another good one, say Feezer Education LLC wants to buy

another charter school. The draft or series of drafts, whichever some bean counter like me

decides works best comes from Infante Brothers Education Corp, from Panama or Cayman

Islands.

"Now, should the feds start snooping, they're messing with private enterprise, get it? In the

state Barry Goldwater invented. And that's the point where the lawyers of Escobar, Feezer et al,

step in."

Most evenings after he delivered dinner to Mord and the three Murietas, usually from El Parador,

which they all favored, Alvaro would stop to catch up with Clifford on Observer business, then

return to his and Mord's room, dismiss the Murietas, and do his best to cure her loneliness.
 Though she was awfully fond of all the Hickeys she didn't spend many of her long daytime

hours with them. Mostly -- while trying to ignore the televised pop and ranchero concerts Kino

and Pajaro used to kill time -- she brooded with a fear that any day now these blessed months of

being Alvaro's lover would suddenly conclude in some horrid way.

But when Kino and Pajaro paused from their viewing and Fausto from his reading, she

found herself coming as close to befriending them as she could allow herself to befriend

professional killers.

Once they had gone from icy reserve to slightly comfortable, she began asking simple

questions, mostly about her brother, whom they only referred to as el Señor.

When she asked how they had come to be Murietas, timid Pajaro said, "Family. I got two

Murieta brothers."

She didn't ask details about their roles in what they called the company.

Kino, the most effusive, told a story about when he was fourteen and got busted for

shoplifting and had no connections or money for mordida, a desk cop gave him two options, get

locked up for a month or until some friend or family raised what he called bail, or go to a certain

cafe at a certain time and ask to talk to el Señor Luz and if he comes to the table, ask if he might

know some way he, Kino, could be of service.

Fausto, as usual, chose not to talk.

After she inquired if they grew up in Tijuana like she and her brother did, she asked what

neighborhood and learned they were from Zona Rio and Colonia Sanchez Taboada, and told

them about her home in Las Lomas where her mama and papa worked for a family so prosperous

they sent her and el Señor -- which she called Benny because otherwise the young men appeared

slightly unnerved -- to a private Catholic school in Chula Vista, otro lado.

 Kino asked if she could tell him about how she and her brother met Señor Alvaro. She

started the story with Alvaro lying near death in an alley.

Little Juan Pedro, who grew up and became Murieta J.P. Ornelas, had found him there and

brought his mama, and she gave him a home for two years, until that boy named Rey got told a

lie, that Alvaro was a snitch, and would have killed him except he broke into the trunk of a

gringo's car. Señor Clifford's dad's car."

Pajaro asked what the Hickey dad was doing in Tijuana.

Mord said, "He liked Mexico."

Fausto, who had known Rey, finally had a few words. "El Señor Alvaro finally came back

and killed that pendejo."

"Not Alvaro," Mord said. "What happened was, Rey was working for somebody who

kidnapped a dear friend of Clifford's, so he and Rey were shooting at each other in a cantina ..."

"Chi Chi Club," Fausto said.

"I don't remember the name. But Rey shot Clifford then Rey's partner shot him dead."

"Good riddance," Fausto said.

Kino asked, "Why was Señor Clifford in Tijuana?"

"Helping somebody who was in big trouble."

"Does he like Mexico, like his Padre did?"

Mord collected a legion of thoughts and sought to arrange them before she said, "All the

Hickeys love Mexico. And they also hate Mexico. And so do I. Both, I mean."

He gave her a bewildered look. "How does that work?"

"We love the good people. And we hate the people who treat the good ones like slaves or

animals."
 She smiled at them and studied each in turn to assure herself they got her meaning. "Except

my dear friend who is also my confessor tells me I can't hate anybody and if I even say that

word, I need to confess to him or some other priest."

"How about us?" Pajaro tweeted. "Are we the good or the bad ones."

She stood and touched each of the three on an arm or shoulder. "Good, I think."

Puerto Peñasco, on the sea of Cortez, was the closest beach town to both Tucson and Phoenix,

not much over a three hour drive from either city, meaning it was a busy winter resort, both for

college kids to frolic or get wild and for older folks to unwind or gather and conspire.

The Piraña vehicles that arrived around noon were two beefed up Broncos, two armored

Blazers, and an International Harvester pickup. All of them featured double rear wheels and

cowcatcher front bumpers.

The cartel soldiers paid the college kids little mind except to hoot, whistle, and shout

invitations at frolicking chicas. They were on a mission, which took them directly to the police

bungalow beside a Quonset that could serve as a temporary jail or a lady's dressing room,

depending upon the size and behavior of the crowd. All the assault vehicles stopped. A big,

bearded fellow wearing a Castro army cap and baggy camouflage trousers, climbed down from a

Blazer shotgun seat. Carrying a thick envelope, he strode into the bungalow, stayed inside for a

polite interval, then strode out and jumped into his Blazer.

About two hundred yards farther along the beach road, the strange vehicles double parked in

front of the wide lobby entrance deck of the Playa del Sol Hotel and Conference Center.

The soldiers marched in something like formation past a few geriatrics in rocking chairs and

porch swings, into and through the lobby, tipping their real or imaginary caps to the attractive
greeter-receptionists, and held their rifles at their sides so as not to break the piñata motif

chandeliers of the grand ballroom. They nodded to the woman at a check-in table and began

scouting.

Doctors weren't hard to spot. Not only did they wear ID tags in plastic holders but even

their casual outfits looked ironed.

These doctors, all men, at least a dozen dentists and plastic surgeons from both sides of the

line, represented a corporation whose goal was to create a border town like Algodones west of

Yuma that catered to patients, mostly gringos, looking for bargains. This new corporation had

gained assurances that after some friends in the Arizona legislature finished bartering for the

construction of a wide two-lane highway running southwest from Ajo -- Phoenix and Tucson

citizens could better afford cosmetic health care.

Some of the doctors were tipsy, some terrified. A few slipped out a rear entrance while

shedding their name tags, and ran for the crowded beach. Not one played hero.

The captives fit nicely into the Blazers and the bed of the pickup.

Over Burbank's KAWB, Globe's KBUC and a dozen or so other affiliates nationwide, Brother

Roscoe assured all with ears to hear that "Los Murietas, no doubt on the command of el

despicable Hickey, who only days ago bid adios to his disreputable law firm and went into battle

directly against all that's good and worthy by teaming with his prolific and mendacious brother,

"publisher" of what they have the nerve to call the Observer, which apparently observes nothing

of the real world but which traffics in tall tales and baseless inuendo...." Roscoe cut off the rant

long enough for a swig of some handy liquid. "Whoa, that was quite a mouthful for such a

measured speaker as myself.

 "One would hope that the Hickeys' latest scandal sheet, in which they imply that the state of

Arizona's most honest and public spirited legislators, whom they have previously slandered by

alleging financial ties to Mexican smugglers and insidiously implied that these legislators, who

in truth are upright pillars of their communities, are attempting to capitalize on the schools,

colleges, and prisons by putting them into the hands of businesspeople who could run them to the

benefit of all but the overpaid government employees who now, emboldened by socialist union

organizers, are threatening to strike for what they call better conditions but which in fact means

more cash in their own grubby pockets. Next week, perhaps los despicable Hickeys will accuse

the righteous state government of seeking a takeover of libraries, hospitals, public utilities, and

the girl scout cookie monopoly.

"My dear Roscovites, by now you are surely wondering what clandestine conspiracy is in

league with the Hickey-Luz cartel's attempt to upend the very fabric of the way of life our

forefathers bequeathed to us in perpetuity; to demean and accuse the honorable, honest, and

devoted government of Arizona and thereby imperil the state's growing all-American majority."

A commercial intrupted to announce an upcoming Harvest Crusade that would feature

Dennis Agajanian, who concluded the spot with around ten seconds of flat picking the "Star

Spangled Banner."

Then Roscoe returned and expressed that he wished he could play guitar like that ol' boy.

"Say there, I s'pect you are all aware that while this so called Observer continues dishing out its

lies, the honest Arizona legislature are valiantly holding the line at the ballot box against their

ever more treacherous opponents, the socialists who call themselves liberal, such as el despicable

Hickey who remains, by the way, a candidate for San Diego District Attorney though he appears

to have traded California residence for that of a our neighbor state. I am sure you good people
are aware that this Manchurian candidate would open our national borders to anyone seeking a

quick buck, like the gang that just yesterday besieged Puerto Peñasco, a sleepy Gulf of Mexico

resort, and kidnapped eleven medical professionals including three United States citizens.

"Little doubt, in the next Observer, the Hickey propaganda machine will attempt to convince

us the Peñasco marauders were hired and directed by someone named Escobar or Feezer for

some outlandish reason. After all, the Hickeys, who consider truth a dirty joke, are fairly

competent creators of tall tales."

Tent City was a couple years old and, along with random stop and frisk policing of brown-

skinned people, had become a symbol of the political career and ambitions of Maricopa County

sheriff Joe Arpaio. Located on a single parcel in a zone of small factories and warehouses

midway between Glendale where the Hickey team lodged and the capitol in downtown Phoenix,

the minimum security facility was one of five jails on the property. Rather than bothering with an

outside wall, it featured some chain fence and plenty of barbed wire. In place of interior walls

and roofing, it used tents, most of which were holey and moth eaten, having been stored since the

Korean War.

Phoenix attorney Timothy Wills had agreed to Alvaro's request that he defend the Blanco

brothers on the charge of attacking Clifford outside the Peoria Holiday Express. So, Alvaro

presented another ad hac vice document to a marshal at the chain link front gate.

The marshal reluctantly turned Alvaro over to a passing trustee who walked him down a row

of inmates sitting on cots or benches shaded by their tents. When Alvaro remarked to the marshal

that those fellows didn't seem to appreciate the fine spring weather, the trustee said, "These boys

don't even want to see the sun."

 Alvaro said, "Whew," and nodded in sympathy, having heard from his brother that Sheriff

Joe chose to provide little help with enduring the summer heat, which often, at least on or around

asphalt, exceeded 120 Fahrenheit.

When they reached Enrique and Francisco Blanco, who introduced themselves as Henry and

Pancho, and the trustee went on his way, Henry borrowed a small bench from an adjoining tent

and placed it in the shade facing his own.

Alvaro thanked him, sat, and asked, "You hombres enjoying Sheriff Joe's hospitality?"

Pancho replied with a half dozen vile descriptions of the sheriff. Henry told him to hush

while holding up a hand, palm out, maybe hoping to block such remarks from reaching the ears

of their neighbors, any of whom could be snitches.

Pancho stood and pulled down the side of his striped trousers. "Pink panties," he said.

"How'd you like to wear these?"

Henry smiled. "And just so we won't see stuff to remind us we're men, he don't let us have

any Playboys or Hustlers, nothing with skin except sports magazines."

Pancho added, "What's even worse is, they feed us slop they call porridge, and beans only

about half cooked, no chili."

Henry said, "Most lockups, guys smuggle in dope and smokes. Here, you beg your mama or

compadres to sneak in salsa."

"And mealtimes in the caf, they got the tv onto these pinche cooking shows. Lots of these

guys would kill for some bacon."

"So," Henry asked, "This marshal tells us you're one of those Hickeys. And since you're not

the one we went after, means you are the one Brother Roscoe calls despicable, no?"

Alvaro nodded. "Yeah, I'm despicable Hickey."

 "So what you want from us?"

"Mostly to help, arrange for bail maybe, get you off with probation."

"Why you care about that?"

"Clifford likes you guys. Says he met the family and figures you wouldn't do him wrong

except for a reason you couldn't very well refuse. So ..."

Henry raised his hand then stood, pointed down the aisle, and led the way. He didn't speak

until they reached a corner of the enclosure beyond the last tents.

They stood overlooking a drainage canal. Henry said, "So you want to know who we

working for?"

"Pirañas, no?" Alvaro said.

Pancho grabbed his brother's arm and wagged his head then turned to Alvaro. "You a

Murietta, like Brother Roscoe saying?"

"What's that?"

"Huh?"

"What he's saying."

"He be saying you the real capo."

Alvaro rolled his eyes. "Well, since I have yet to hear the fellow tell the truth, I don't buy it.

But, since Benny may well be the capo, and since his sister is my fiancé, and since some

Murietas are keeping watch to make sure you hombres, or the ones that robbed the California

casino, or the boys that shot up a little ranch down by Douglas on this side of the line, or the

chumps that kidnapped a bunch of dentists in Rocky Point -- these Murietas are watching to see

none of those rats get close enough to bite any of us. And and by us I mean us Hickeys and
anybody who's trying to help us send the Pirañas back to whatever hole they crawled out of.

Anyway, that's as close as I've gotten to los Murietas. You can believe me or Roscoe."

Henry leaned closer and talked softly. "Okay, so you saying we either be on your team or

the other one."

"Yep," Alvaro said. "Take your pick."

Pancho said, "See, here's the deal. The other guys, they're taking care of us, us and our

cousins, and our cousin's cousins, and compadres of ours and their families, and some of those

families are big ones."

"Too many chicos," Henry said. "See, it ain't like they making us rich, but even little crappy

jobs are something, you know."

"Crappy jobs like tossing grenades?"

"Got to do what you got to do," Pancho said.

"Or else?" Alvaro asked.

"Ask your brother," Pancho said.

Alvaro took Pancho's advice and went straight to his brother. Over takeout enchiladas, Clifford

told him plenty about the Blanco's, about grandma, mom and seven brothers and sisters in the

same little house and so terrified of the Pirañas they allowed the sacrifice of one of their own

rather than suffer what otherwise might happen to them all.

"Which one took the hit?" Alvaro asked.

"Name of Tony. Seventeen years old."

"You think he saw it coming?"

"Beats me," Clifford said.

 "Could be," Alvaro said. "Most good Mexicans don't count on living very long."

"Fatalists, no?"

"Call it whatever. So, judging from their tactics, I'm guessing Los Pirañas have paid close

attention to the PRI and taken the lessons to heart."

The Hickey brothers both knew quite a lot about how the PRI won and had kept its power

for more than sixty years. In the beginning, as the Revolution splintered into the reigns of one

despot after another until along came Lazaro Cardenas. In 1934, Cardenas won the first

somewhat honest election, and right away set out to give much of the vast tracts of land once

held by foreigners to peasants individually and to communes they called ejidos. But soon, as in

the wake of most socialist inspired revolutions, those hungry for power snatched everything

valuable their creeds promised the poor. And, giving themselves a name that meant Institutional

Revolutionary Party and posing as honest reformers, they became patrons of those who would do

their will and brutal enemies to those who wouldn't.

Their will was to keep the poor so deep in poverty they could hardly imagine supporting

themselves and their commonly numerous families without tokens of government concern such

as price controls on food staples. By allowing the campesinos frijoles, the working class a little

meat, professional folks modest investments, and so on up the ladder, they generally kept an

uneasy peace, a sort of Pax Romana. But no government, no matter how shrewd, can pacify

everybody. So, whomever dared to object their strategy, they eliminated by breaking every strike

and local uprising, and ensuring newspapers and magazines, radio, and television looked for safe

news to report, they won every election, if not honestly, then however the election called for.

And over the years, legions of those who proved unappreciative of the rulers' largess, like

Alvaro's mama and Clifford's first love, got corrected or killed.

 Neither Clifford nor Alvaro pretended to be authorities on the details of PRI rule, but they

knew well enough that during the summer of the Mexico City Olympics, PRI goons had

murdered at least a thousand college and high school students, including Clifford's Nacha, during

what the students had meant to be a peaceful protest.

Even forty years after the murder of Alvaro's mom and almost thirty years since Tlateloco,

both brothers often felt sickened by remembering that the same gang still ruled.

And now the Liberty Rangers were inviting a gang mentored by the PRI into a country that

was measurably less deadly and corrupt.

Clifford said, "Remember that song that goes "Con los pobres de la tierra quiero yo mi

suerte echar."

Alvaro nodded.

"You know Nacha taught me that song, right?"

"Yep."

Clifford said, "I've got a weird feeling that we're going to win this game. You know, like

when the other team makes one little error and now you're so sure it's all over you can see the

winning run cross the plate.

"Look, the Escobars and Rangers, it's like they're buying a PRI rookie league team so they

can rid themselves of troublemakers and let Mexicans take the blame. Murietas, Pirañas, who

cares?"

Alvaro said, "Only now we need to figure what, besides jillions of pesos and Oscar Infante's

ego, the Pirañas are getting out of the deal."

Once again Clifford quoted, "Con los pobres ... You think it could be that's why we were put

here on earth? To throw in with los pobres?"

 A sort of tremor stopped Alvaro from answering, and in its aftershock he simply couldn't

speak. Instead, he sat gazing at a vision of his beautiful mother. He saw her more clearly than he

ever had. And for the first time he recognized that she, at least in his mind and memory, was a

ringer for Mord.

Later that evening, when he told Mord about the Blancos and all the conversation with

Clifford, he mentioned the tremors and the vision of his mother. But he left out the uncanny

resemblance of the two beloved women. He didn't want Mord getting any wrong ideas about

why he adored her.

Still, his expression when he had mentioned seeing his mother started her thinking

obsessively about her own mama and papa.

She thought about and how they didn't even worry about themselves though they know they

were being staked out by local thugs who would make a bundle should Benny show up and get

killed, and probably earn a bonus for sending his mama and papa off to eternity with him.

All her mama and papa deeply worried about, she believed, was whether it just might be

possible for Benny to join them in Heaven, should they arrive there themselves after raising a

son to be a murderer.

Clifford used an El Parador pay phone to call Gene, his FBI friend. They hadn't talked in several

weeks and all Gene knew about the events in Arizona was through Roscoe's broadcasted

tantrums or updates that reached his office following the raids on Minnie's ranchito and the

Puerto Peñasco kidnapping. Those crimes meant FBI jurisdiction because the perps had crossed

the border to the ranchito and in Peñasco, two kidnapped dentists and plastic surgeon were

gringos.
 When Clifford said he supposed the G-men had already gotten to work on the case, Gene

said "First thing tomorrow I'm going to call Tucson, make sure they haven't misfiled it or

something."

The next afternoon, Gene reported that the kidnappers returned the gringos unharmed,

Clifford said, "Pirañas, right?"

"How should they know? The doc-nappers didn't wear company t-shirts. But the gringo docs

got home free."

"Swell," Clifford said.

"Yeah, swell for the gringo docs. They got an all-expense paid excursion to Benjamin Hill,

plenty of tequila, a round of apologies from somebody claiming to be the CEO of Misteco

Construction out of Oaxaca, soft beds with mints on the pillows, and a limo ride back to Rocky

Point."

"And your people learned?"

"Zip. Business dispute with some HMO, they said. The Mexican doc never made it to

Benjamin Hill. Hell of a name for a Mexican pueblo."

"Right," Clifford said. "Us gringos would never think of giving a town a Spanish name."

"We wouldn't except Spanish is more mellifluous. But the good news is -- if you'll pardon

my sarcasm -- Tucson got hold of Washington and our Washington geniuses are going to round

up a task force."

"Which is not so good news because?"

"You've probably been in games where a pitcher brushes somebody back and the team on

the bench is losing so they charge the mound, yelling and kicking, trying to get at the pitcher
then at whoever. That's how a task force works. If the big shots invite me, I'll see if I can bring

you in on it. More fun than Disneyland."

"I'm disabled," Clifford said. "Ask X."

That week's Observer was short, only three pages of text, one of which told of some nameless,

misguided fellows assaulting a certain reporter for a local weekly in the parking lot of a

restaurant the reporter preferred not to name and risk a lawsuit. The account praised the bravery

of several ballplayers who preferred to remain, and keep the identity of their team, anonymous.

The other story was a shortish but picturesque account of what appeared to be an armed militia in

vehicles fit for a destruction derby defiling tranquil Puerto Peñasco and snatching seven dentists

and four plastic surgeons. The piece concluded by questioning if these were the same rascals

who apparently crossed the border to attack a ranchito and massacre chickens, a pig, two cows

and a donkey, and if so, did their antipathy toward barnyard creatures and dentists indicate a

clinically recognized pathology.

The issue's cover featured a charcoal sketch, by Jodi, of the siege of Puerto Peñasco. With

the intruder's weapons held high and the doctors exhibiting barefaced terror, the sketch might've

been a mock collaboration between Diego Rivera and Pablo Picasso

Midday on Monday, reps from U.S. law enforcement met at the Courtyard Marriot in Yuma,

Arizona. Washington FBI had probably chosen the location because the man they chose to send,

special agent Larry, was so blonde and stiff, Gene expected him to at any minute start handing

out Angel Moroni pamphlets. No doubt, said Gene -- who habitually ridiculed the penury of Mr.
Hoover and his admirers -- the task force landed in Yuma because Larry shopped around and

then bargained for the deepest discount.

Gene, who was there because he had long worked the border, told Alvaro that from a chat

Larry called a briefing, he suspected the closest the blond had ever come to Mexico was

watching a Speedy Gonzalez cartoon. Larry had let on to Gene that this task force idea was both

silly and extravagant, since their tactic should be working in concert with their Mexican legats,

what G-men called legal attaches whose job was to move paperwork such as extradition requests

through the Mexican courts but who in truth earned their keep by snooping out which cops or

politicos are on the side of which cartel.

By halfway through happy hour, which Larry declined to attend and instead asked Gene to

follow him poolside. Given the blustery weather, the request meant he wanted privacy. Once

alone out there, he had clarified his reasons for not trusting a single Mexican, in which category

he included Alvaro about whom the Washington office was fully apprised. After claiming he was

surely no bigot, he noted that Alvaro was born in Mexico, was what Washington saw as a

dangerous advocate of liberalizing immigration laws, and was romancing the sister of the

kingpin of the Los Murietas, about whom Larry sounded more interested than in Los Pirañas.

"Quite a file you've got on him. Get it from Roscoe?"

Larry ignored the snipe. "What else can you tell us about him?"

Gene looked all around in case Larry had meant us literally.

"He's a wicked shortstop," Gene said. "You wired?"

Larry only shook his head.

The Border Patrol got included in the task force for obvious reasons. The agent in charge

was a plump, swarthy woman who, in a less polite era, might have been labelled matronly. She
paid most of her attention to Alvaro and appeared alternately either attracted or repulsed by him.

Both she and her partner maintained expressions so bored they implied prior knowledge about

everything and assurance that the INS needed this task force like fish needed bicycles.

The CIA's mission, Gene told Alvaro during the next morning's walk to Arby's for their

exquisitely greasy potato cakes, was to snoop on everybody in the world except American

citizens. Collecting intel or gossip on gringos was not their mission but was their hobby. Most of

them, Gene suspected, spent their evenings watching James Bond and their days dreaming of

covert action, of which in the real world they got hardly any because Langley insisted they stick

to their collecting and analyzing the goodies, true and fictious, they got from their legion of

assets. Their deft analyses belonged Langley who alone knew whether to pass them off to NSA

or to mercenaries hired by a mysterious cabal to take care of the bloody business.

ATF agents, Gene explained, were what the others usually referred to as revenuers. Tax

collectors. They considered themselves the protectors of the U.S. populace from gangs, illegal

firearms, explosives, and terrorists. After some eavesdropping, Alvaro suspected they were most

interested in a rumor that the Pirañas were getting material from stateside to build battery

powered remote controlled tanks.

Gene and Alvaro spent a long evening watching sports news and a topless underwater mermaid

ballet and discussing the DEA, whom Gene said believed they were the bottom line. Upon them,

according to them, the power and glory lay. They were, after all, the masters in apprehending or

obliterating anyone involved in the growing, manufacture, or distribution of controlled

substances in the U.S. or anywhere else in the universe. As long as some drug was part of the

equation, everywhere was their jurisdiction.

 To Alvaro, the DEA appeared pretty much all in for whatever was most likely to work. But,

like FBI special agent Larry, they refused to trust any Mexicans or any intel gained by any

Mexican including Alvaro, his girlfriend, or most especially the infamous Benny Luz.

For two days and some, the task force spent more time telling war stories than strategizing.

Special agent Larry often reminded them that the FBI was the only U.S. agency that could

legally chase bad guys in Mexico in cooperation with Mexican authorities, and since the FBI had

arranged the task force meeting, all the intel any of them or their agencies collected needed to get

sent to a certain Washington analysis unit from where decisions could be made and orders

issued. Both DEA agents objected to Larry's directions and his attitude, but he stood firm and

assumed the expression and posture of a teacher intending to call a student's mother about

misbehavior.

As much to break the tension as to needle his annoying partner, Gene told a story about

when he had gotten "promoted" to the El Centro office -- much like being upgraded from First

Class to the baggage compartment -- and Washington had ordered them into Mexicali, just

across the line, to cooperate with the local cops in raiding a counterfeit passport operation.

"We brought some guys over the mountain from San Diego and were ready to go when the

Mexicali cops asked to borrow five unmarked cars. They didn't have enough plain cars, and if

they used marked ones, they wouldn't get within a mile of the operation. So, generous fellows

we special agents are, we rented a half dozen Fords from Hertz."

"Get to the punchline," an ATF agent griped. "I need to pee, bad."

"Yeah, let's call a break," a DEA fellow said.

Gene stood up, said "Forget it," and left the room.
 A half hour later, when they had re-grouped and the same DEA agent insisted he finish the

story, Gene said. "The Mexicali cops made off with every one of the rentals."

He got a few laughs and the DEA fellow asked. "You ever get the cars back?"

"Nope."

"Must've been after Hoover bit the dust," the ATF fellow said. "He would've tracked them to

the end of the earth. What about the counterfeiters?"

"We raided the wrong building," Gene said. "So much for Washington intel."

Most of the crowd turned and awaited Larry's response. He only blushed briefly.

Between griping about Mexicans and snowbirds whose universal speed limit of 25 mph

congested the roads and whose common shopping method involved paying with coupons,

nickels, and pennies, the task force got serious, which usually meant arguing about whether to go

after the Pirañas, the Murietas, the Sinaloa or Jalisco cartel and how to approach a coordinated

effort, which stalled every time it came up because each agency had its own agenda, and none of

them except the FBI would agree to coordinate with any particular Mexican authority. The best

laugh of the Wednesday afternoon session regarded a DEA comment that they should leave

everything up the FBI and make sure they rent plenty of Hertz cars.

Gene and Alvaro agreed that the task force was as dysfunctional as if they were deciding

whether to play ball on grass or synthetic turf or whether to allow the designated hitter.

When special agent Larry announced on Thursday that they should return to their home

offices tomorrow and deliver their conclusions to the bosses before reconvening, the Border

Patrol woman said, "What conclusions did we reach?"

"Mine is we're just wasting time," an ATF man said.

 "Mine is," Gene said, "if we reconvene, we should pitch tents in the desert, save money, and

make J. Edgar's ghost proud."

Larry said, "I don't believe those Mister Hoover being a tightwad stories."

"Sorry," Gene said, "but I worked for him almost two years. He made our office managers

accountable for auditing paperclips. Rationed them out. Use too many, the rest of the fiscal year

you staple everything."

They disbanded at various times on Friday, all of them early enough so that their flights out

of the Yuma Air Force base would deliver them to their headquarters in time to beat rush hour

traffic to their homes. On the runway, a DEA fellow asked Gene if he thought Larry would audit

their room service tabs.

By phone, Alvaro had given his brother plenty enough anecdotes to enliven a brief Observer

issue about the various law enforcement agencies meeting in Yuma and their respective roles in

assuring that Mexican crime cartels didn't ever again get away with crossing the border and

shooting livestock or kidnapping gringo doctors. Jodi spent Friday typing, editing, and running

the issue to and from Stanley the Fast Printer. While she was out on her errands, accompanied by

Mystery and Eric, Clifford got a note from Patrick asking him to call a number with a 502 prefix

meaning in state but not Phoenix. He supposed it would be from Alvaro to update him about the

task force's latest argument, so the soft, young, woman's voice that answered startled him. After

some moments hoping to God, for Mord's sake, that his brother hadn't returned to his rather

libertine ways, he was about to question her when she said, "Hello, hello."

Clifford apologized, told her his name and asked what could he do for her.
 "Yes, yes," she said, "I am a friend of the Observer and I have news to report, the source of

which I cannot reveal, but I believe it is accurate. You may have heard that los Pirañas employ

an Israeli firm that specializes in the construction of tunnels."

"No, I didn't know that."

"Well, it is so. And now, el Señor has contracted with a most advanced multinational,

though primarily Vietnamese, engineering company."

Clifford had gone to his desk and picked up a pen but when he asked for details, she

declined to give any. Details, she told him, could surely put her and her source in grave danger.

"But you should know," she said, "that I have given you reason to trust me. With that, goodbye

for now."

As he considered whether to use her claims in the next Observer, and wondered if her use of

the name el Señor signified she was a Piraña, he decided that she must be the same anonymous

friend who had warned Grant Jordan to leave the Observer office and later alerted Mike Gilbert

that the Pirañas were on their way.

Which meant Clifford would not publish anything that could send a horde of tunnel hunters

out to risk getting killed.

The Hickey team had plenty to discuss over the weekend, and by

Monday, when Alvaro reported that the task force needed at least

a few more days before finalizing a plan, the Hickey's were still

at a loss about what, if anything, they could possibly accomplish

in the meantime. By late afternoon when they needed to leave or

miss the scrimmage in which Tommy would be catching Danny Boone's

wicked knuckleball, the closest they had come to a plan was

Eric's suggestion that just maybe they ask Benny Luz for advice.

As they arrived at sports complex, they heard the good news:

by a vote of 27–3, MLB team owners supported the use of replacement players.

The Hickey's had most often left the Clifford's Nova parked at the Hampton. Since Clifford was

consigned to a wheelchair for another couple weeks, they had rented a Chevy Astro van. Mystery

drove him and Eric to meet with aka Minnie at Pinnacle Peak, an Old West themed Tucson

steakhouse.

Eric, wearing his windbreaker to cover the little Clock 19, helped Clifford out of the van

and got greeted by Lucille Gilbert, his source who today had failed to employ even the slightest

disguise. Her hair was ash brown and shaggy her eyes blue green, her height at least a foot below

the man at her side.

"My bodyguard, aka Mike," she said. He was inches taller than sizable Eric or Clifford, and

lanky as a prototype for Hollywood cowboys. A thick handlebar mustache drooped on both sides

beneath his chin. He wore a Colt .38 in a bandolier holster.

After all the introductions, she said, "As you can tell by my bodyguard's outfit, we're done

playing games."

"Don't nobody mess with our critters," Mike said.

"Filthy banditos shot our little chihuahua," aka Minnie added.

"By the way," Clifford said, "Now that you're coming clean . . ."

"Out of the closet, Mike calls it," she said.

"So can I call you Lucille?"

 "If you do, I'll tell my bodyguard to shoot you. Why do you think I have all the aliases? So,

how you like Mike's Zapata suit?"

"Stunning," Clifford said.

"Ought to be, at the price. Between that, two Winchesters, shotgun and rifle, I'm going to

need to go lobby for some scuzzy corporation or put my man to work roping and tying steers. Or

does your buddy Patrick pay generously?"

"Looking for a job?"

"Well, the way I figure, the Observer needs me." She pulled a notebook out of her purse and

delivered it to Clifford. While he skimmed over a few dozen pages of notes on corrupt and

comical antics along with every name, office and legislative district, she said, "Only thing I need

is somebody to teach me how to write." She pointed to Clifford. "That means you, partner."

Eric said, "I'm kind of hungry."

Mystery said, "I'll bet this place has awfully good steaks."

"It sure better," Minnie grumbled, "Or else I'll tell my bodyguard to start shooting."

They ordered and ate, and Minnie told them about Mike's efforts to gather up a righteous

militia -- not the Joe Arpaio sort -- fellows that might just nod at honest immigrants but hogtie

the coyotes and dope mules.

"Only time I ever wished I had done time in the army," Mike said. "Might've taught me how

to make battle plans and give orders."

Which gave Clifford an idea, which in turn led to, the very next day, Eric and Mystery

moving to the ranchito, and Eric working with Mike to strategize and recruit the borderline

tunnel brigade.
That week's Observer came out full tabloid size and featuring part one of a scathing exposé on

the Liberty Rangers, byline L.M. Gilbert and Clifford Hickey, and a Jodi McGee four color

cover depicting a gang of dapper good ol' boys puffing cigars. After delivering the issue, Jodi

packed for a move to the Gilbert borderland ranchito where she would spend some days or weeks

pretending to chaperone her 22-year-old girl and helping care for the animals who lived through

the massacre but now suffered from ptsd. Clifford tagged along for the trip. After he spent a few

hours better acquainting himself with Mike and the remaining critters, Minnie chauffeured him

back to Phoenix, where she had work to do at the Capitol.

After hearing all about Tommy's two doubles and superb catching at that afternoon's scrimmage,

Clifford spent the evening with his brother and Mord. She fed the five of them her best motel

kitchen version of l'orange coq au vin. When Tommy and Feliz adjourned to 319 for some

television, reading, and cello practice, Alvaro confessed that he was awfully concerned about

Mord.

She admitted he had good reason. "I have become preoccupied," she said. "I worry about

everyone. All you wonderful Hickeys, Tommy and Feliz especially, because they are so young

and precious. Not so much Clifford as he is in no real danger as long as Feliz is around to revive

him." She tried for a playful laugh but only managed a shy smile. "Of course I worry about my

darling Equis, but I even worry about the boys."

"She means our resident Murietas," Alvaro said.

The past few days, she had called her bodyguards the boys. "About them, I worry that they

have no futures.
 "And my mama and papa, every day. And even Benny, though I know he is a wicked killer.

Still, can I tell you something terribly silly?"

Alvaro reached for her hand and kissed it.

"Silly's a favorite of mine," Clifford said.

A blush gave her brownish cheeks a rosy tint. "I worry that just maybe I have been put on

this earth to save my wicked brother from hell."

Clifford nodded with warm understanding. "So, what's the silly part?"

She shook her head and smiled. "Okay, here's what is most silly. I worry that I am supposed

to do something to help Benny, but I have no idea what I could possibly do."

Clifford said, "Maybe, just maybe, since what those feds call a task force is stumped or

whatever, remember Eric's suggestion?"

"That we should meet up with Benny," Alvaro said. "To what? Ask for advice?"

Clifford said, "You think he would be okay with that? I mean like would he trust us?"

"Just me," Mord said.

Clifford left them to talk or whatever. Early morning, Alvaro came to his brother's room and

announced that Mord had arranged a meeting with Dr. Burton, who agreed to, if Benny was

willing, meet with the two of them. Just maybe, she believed, the priest could become a sort of

counselor to Benny, like he was to the Missionaries of Charity, or even a friend and confessor

like he had become to her.

The same day Danny Boone pitched four scoreless innings to Tommy the catcher, Mord and

the Murietas left Glendale in their Lincoln Towne Car on their way to meet Dr. Burton at the

Tijuana seminary established by Mother Teresa.

 Only an hour after the scrimmage concluded, New York District Court Judge Sonia

Sotomayor issued a preliminary injunction against the MLB owners.

So, about two weeks after the baseball season's originally planned opening day, the strike

came to an end.

Tommy overheard some Denver fans who were lodged on the second floor cheering.

He said, "Oh crap."