Phoenix Noir

“He had an angle?” I guessed. “He was using your … er, your business, to bring in drugs?”

The guy stiffened a little. “If he did, I didn’t know about it,” he said, sounding defensive.

“What, you got morals about drugs?”

“What you think I am, chingadero?”

“Fine, you don’t smuggle drugs. Just people.”

“You think it’s the same?” He sounded incredulous, and I had to concede that he had a point.

“Nope. Just trying to figure out how Jaramillo got dead.” We were well out of the city by now. The rain was pelting down, and I had to slow the vehicle.

“Him,” he said in disgust. “You’re right, he got his own deal going, he don’t tell us. But not drugs. Flowers.”

What with everything, I’d temporarily forgotten about Dr. ap Gruffydd’s murder, but that word brought it back with a bang.

“What kind of flowers?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Like this.” He pushed the button on the glove box. It fell open, and I glimpsed a bundle of brown burlap, with something yellow sticking out of it. I figured it was an orchid, but couldn’t take my eyes off the road to make sure.

“Where’d it come from?”

“One of the guys we bring over. Most of them, they’re from Sonora, Sinaloa, Michoacán … This guy, he’s from Quintana Roo. In the jungle.” He nodded toward the road ahead. “I don’t know where Johnny finds him, but he puts him in touch with … with my partner.”

The orchid smuggler had joined the group of illegals and been brought to the house in Scottsdale, next door to the Pratts. Jaramillo’s plan, insofar as my companion knew, had been to work late, then sneak into the supposedly empty house and get the orchid, which he’d take to the botanist.

But the good doctor had been too anxious to wait, fearing that his precious orchid would perish before he’d got his hands on it. So he’d picked up Jaramillo from his house and gone with him to the Pratts’ at night, sneaking into the backyard under cover of the nearby party. Ap Gruffydd had waited by the pool while Jaramillo hopped over the wall and went to get the orchid.

“But the guy who had it, he wanted his money, and Johnny, he don’t got it yet, because the guy—the other guy, who wants the flower—he couldn’t get it from his bank, because it was night.” He shrugged again.

So Jaramillo had hopped back over the fence to tell ap Gruffydd; and the botanist, inflamed by the nearness of an orchid, had declared that he’d go talk to the fellow himself, at least see the flower.

Jaramillo had tried to stop him, but couldn’t, and next thing anyone knew, the Welsh botanist was face to face with sixty-three illegal Mexicans—and a couple of alarmed—and armed—coyotes. The unnamed partner had pulled his gun, and Jaramillo, seeing his deal going south, had lunged to intercept him.

“So that’s how Johnny got dead,” my companion said with a sigh. Ap Gruffydd had run, of course, and made it back over the wall, but had made the mistake of turning—whether with thoughts of going back to rescue his orchid or just to see whether anyone was coming—and been shot in the chest by the coyote, aiming from the top of the wall.

“Over a flower,” my friend repeated, shaking his head. “Get off here, okay?”

We took the exit ramp toward Eloy, but within a few minutes of leaving the highway, he directed me down a dirt road. The lightning had been following us, snaking across the sky in big white bolts. Now the storm started to catch up, and the thunder came louder and more often. It didn’t matter much; we’d run out of conversation.

The truck lurched and splashed along, the trailer bouncing from side to side. I could see Eloy off in the distance, tiny flickers of light that disappeared every few seconds in the blinding flash of the lightning.

Where the fuck were we going? I wondered. Actually, I wondered how far I was going, because I didn’t think my friend was planning to head back to Mexico with me in tow. I was still sweating, and the truck was full of the tin-can reek of fear.

“Why—” My mouth was dry, and I had to work my tongue to make words. “Why did you go back? Why not leave him—” I jerked my head backward, “leave him there?”

The coyote looked surprised.

“I couldn’t leave him there to rot. He’s married to my—” he cut off sharp, frowning. “He’s family,” he said, and repeated, “I couldn’t leave him there.”

Two miles farther and we came to a gate, where another dirt road led off toward the mountains. Far south, I could see the outline of Picacho Peak, stark in the lightning flashes.

“Turn it around here,” he said, moving the gun in a small circle. “Aim it back the way we came, then get out.”