LITMIR.BIZ

      Breaking Cover

      Broken Shield

       To the memory of my father, Jerry Delano Rhoades, Sr. (1933-2014)

      THE JEFE affectionately called him El Poeta—the Poet. It had nothing to do with literary talent; in fact, the man driving the truck was almost completely illiterate. The nickname was in honor of the man’s ability to curse. El Poeta was a virtuoso of invective. The jefe once said El Poeta could curse for twenty minutes and not repeat himself once.

      The road he was driving gave him plenty of inspiration. The old truck bounced and rattled over the corrugated surface, abusing El Poeta’s spine mercilessly.

      “Hijo de mil putas!” He spat as the truck bottomed out on a particularly bad pothole. “Me cago en la leche de tu puta madre!” It was unclear if his rage was directed against the road, the truck, or the world in general.

      Someone banged on the wall of the truck, behind El Poeta’s head. “Parate, pinche idiota!” he shouted back. This close to the border was no place to stop for a piss break. That’s what the buckets in the cargo area were for. If they sloshed a bit because of the bad road, that wasn’t El Poeta’s problem. This was the road he knew the Border Patrol never watched. El Poeta didn’t know if they just didn’t know about it or if some palms had been greased to make them look the other way, and he didn’t give a damn. His job was to drive the big truck to a deserted area just north of the border, hand each of the pollos in the back two bottles of water, point the way north, and get the hell out. It was up to them to figure it out from there. He slowed, stuck his head out the window, and squinted at the sky. It was still full dark, the stars glittering coldly above.

      Suddenly, El Poeta saw headlights ahead. “Mierda!” he muttered. This road had always been clear before. As he drew closer, he saw two sets of lights, both belonging to large SUVs. They were side by side facing toward him, blocking the road.

      Border Patrol. It could be no one else.

      “Me cago en Dios y los trescientos sesenta y cinco santos del año!” El Poeta snarled in frustration as he pulled the truck to a stop. He briefly thought of bailing out and running for it, but he knew that would be idiotic. Even if he did manage to outrun the officers, he’d be stuck in the middle of the pinche scrubland with no pinche water and no pinche way home. No, he was fucked and he knew it. The headlights picked out a man dressed in a dark-green uniform and Smokey Bear hat striding toward the truck. El Poeta rolled down the window. He blinked as a flashlight was shined in his face.

      The officer didn’t speak for a moment. Then, “Fuera del carro. Manos en el aire.” The man’s Spanish accent was terrible.

      El Poeta obeyed and climbed out of the truck. He put his hands in the air, grinning in what he hoped was a placating manner.

      “En sus rodillas,” the voice growled.

      El Poeta was puzzled. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Still, they had the guns. Slowly, he got down on his knees. Another uniformed man walked past him, to check out the back of the truck, El Poeta assumed. He couldn’t see the faces of the men in the glare of the flashlight, but he did see a shotgun. A third man was climbing into the truck. El Poeta heard the engine fire back up. The driver dangled an arm out the window. El Poeta could see the network of tattoos covering the exposed flesh below the short sleeve. They looked like spider webs, wrapped around the man’s forearm.

      El Poeta’s forehead wrinkled. “Hey,” he said in English. “What the fuck…” it was the last thing he said before the man behind him blew off his head with the shotgun.

      THE FRONT door swung open. A harsh blast of sunlight lit up the cool dim interior of the bar. A young woman straightened up from where she had been placing bottles in the well behind the bar. She was short and broad-shouldered, her curves accentuated by her tight T-shirt and jeans. Her shoulder-length black hair was pulled back beneath a paisley scarf.

      “We ain’t open yet, hon,” the young woman said to the figure who stood in the doorway.

      That person stepped inside and closed the door. She was a slender woman in her mid-forties. Despite the desert heat outside, she was dressed in a long-sleeved white blouse and black denim jeans. She wore black gloves on her hands, one of which rested atop a gold-handled cane.

      The woman brushed a lock of her long ash-blond hair out of her eyes with her free hand. “Mind if I wait inside?” she said softly.

      The bartender looked her over. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the gloves. It made her pretty face look hard. “Kind of hot to be wearing gloves, ain’t it?” she said pointedly.

      “I’ve got some scars on my hands,” the woman said in the same mild tone. “I don’t like people staring.”

      The look of suspicion on the bartender’s face turned to embarrassment. “I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t know. It’s just that…”

      The woman in the doorway waved it off. “No problem. Someone came into my place, wearing gloves in this heat—I’d get a little suspicious, too.”

      The bartender smiled. “C’mon in and have a seat. I reckon we can open early today.” The woman took a seat on a barstool and leaned her cane against the bar. The bartender extended a hand. “I’m Jules. Short for Julianne, but nobody calls me that.”

      The other woman took the offered hand. “Angela.”

      There was a moment’s hesitation, almost imperceptible, before Jules smiled again. “What can I get you?”

      Angela scanned the beers lined up behind the bar. “Shiner Bock,” she said. “And a glass of ice water, if you’ve got it.”

      “Comin’ right up,” she said.

      Angela watched her as she fetched the beer and the water. She looked too young to be tending bar, especially in a rough-looking place like this, but she moved with perfect assurance, as if she were in her own home.

      “Thanks,” Angela said as the bartender put the beer in front of her. She handed over the money. “So, where’s Henry?” She gestured at the sign above the bar. WELCOME TO HENRY’S, the sign proclaimed in faded red letters in an old-timey typeface.

      Jules glanced at the sign. “Henry was my dad,” she said. “He died last year. Liver cancer.”

      “I’m sorry,” Angela said.

      Jules shrugged, a gesture of resignation that looked too old for her. “Ain’t nothin’ for you to be sorry about.”

      “Still.”

      Jules smiled. “Thanks.” She bent over again and went back to setting up the bar.

      After a few minutes, Angela spoke up again. “I’m looking for Jack Keller.”

      Jules froze, her hand halfway to putting a rocks glass on the shelf. She finished the movement, then stood up. Angela couldn’t read the look on her face.

      “So,” Jules said in a small voice, “you’re that

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