The town of Law and Order was situated in the Pecos Valley, on a little crook in the river, amid the sage and bitter brush. Since Pedro Blasón’s falling out with Matt Dillon, it was now, by mutual agreement, two towns. Law on the north bank of the Pecos, and Order on the south side. As far as Pedro was concerned, the twain need never meet.
Pedro wiped his brow. The hot sun hung at its median in the northern sky, and he thought about stopping at Donna’s Truck Stop for a coke and burger. Rare and juicy, with onions and mushrooms and lots of cheese. That’s how he liked it. He stopped for a moment in the shade of a willow, and gazed across the river, wondering for just a moment about life on the other side. Law was wild. A wide-open sort of place, and Dillon had seen no reason to change it, as long as everyone obeyed the rules. It was the sort of environment Pedro couldn’t abide. The lack of control made him nervous. That was the source of his falling out with his old amigo, Matt. That, and Matt’s insistence on playing by the rules, when any fool could see that the only applicable rule was that the guy at the top of the food chain got to eat the best meal. Fuck that rules shit.
Law and Order had been established to ensure that the gold miners coming down from the mountains with their payloads tithed their share of taxes to the New America Corporation. Pedro insisted that it was only fair that he and Matt take a little extra for their trouble. But Matt didn’t look at it that way. As a consequence, the miners on the riverboats now purchased their goods on Matt’s side of the river. It had forced Pedro to set up his own taxing station further up river at the narrows. Matt didn’t like that, but Matt didn’t have the balls to challenge him. And Pedro had the highway on his side. The bauxite triple-trailers had no choice but to stop and pay taxes to the city of Order.
A brief thunderstorm the previous evening left the air filled with the sweet smell of wet sage and ozone. After five years, Pedro still couldn’t believe how much this place felt and looked like the chaparral country of south Texas, where he grew up. Only the northern sun was wrong, and you couldn’t really convince yourself it was south, because then it would be going in the wrong direction. It was unnerving when he thought about it, so he tried to not think about it when he could.
What he did think about today was the arrival of Her Majesty, along with some special guest. Landing with her whole god damned entourage this evening. It was all a big pain in the ass, but he couldn’t complain, really. It was his job.
“The young man will be a guest of the good Sisters,” her messenger had said. “He will have an around-the-clock guard, and his presence must be kept secret at all cost.”
“Tell Ms. Cheng, ‘No problem.’” he said to the messenger.
Jolene Cheng rewarded him well for his little favors. One of those favors was to keep her doings and goings out of sight of Dick Miglia, and by extension, that meant Matt Dillon. Pedro had no idea what it was all about. Some corporate power struggle that didn’t concern him. He could take care of himself. Jolene Cheng may or may not be Queen of the Fucking Universe, but Pedro Blasón was the King of Order.
Pedro didn’t like the Sisters of the Temple. He didn’t understand them, and their secret hierarchies and hidden agendas didn’t mesh with his need for control. But they were Jolene’s bambino. As long as she protected them, their was nothing he could do. Just keep his eyes and ears open, try to make some sense of it all.
* * *
On the Law side of the river, Matt Dillon was singing the blues. He had been practicing all morning for the gig tonight with his band, Indigo River, and now the hot sun was burning in through his north window, turning the room into a furnace. He wiped the sweat from his dark forehead with the back of his hand, and turned off his karaoke machine. The new material was difficult, but it would have to be good enough. Matt sang an occasional lead, but mostly he performed backup for Carmella Johnson, a gorgeous ebony-skinned beauty who fronted the band. Matt loved to sing, and if it weren’t for his other commitments, he might consider doing it full time. For now, it was all in fun.
Matt thought maybe he was in love with Carmella Johnson, but he wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly. Carmella was a hard woman to know, and even though he had been sleeping with her for two years, he still couldn’t figure out where he stood with her. He wondered if maybe the price of power was never understanding what anyone really thought of you beneath that deferential veneer they all wore.
He sighed, grabbed a beer, and headed for the front door. From the shade of the porch, he gazed across the broad expanse of desert, the ramshackle houses and dusty dirt roads, the willows along the river, and on the other side of the river, the tidy little town of Order. Something was happening over in Order. Matt could feel it in his bones. The Monitors had been alight with signals all week, encrypted messages. Jolene Cheng, no doubt. What the hell was Cheng up to?
Matt and Pedro had once been Jolene’s soldiers, but now they worked for Dick Miglia. Matt was nothing if not loyal to his employers. Cheng was going rogue, and Pedro, the opportunistic little bastard, was trying to position himself for the biggest crumbs when it all settled down. It was pathetic, but no kind of reason could sway him.
Matt trigged his com and requested Sharma Xerxes, his Monitor supervisor.
“Yes, Sir?” Sharma’s voice sounded hollow and distant. He wondered if the New America techs were working on the com grid again.
“Sharma, are our ears still online across the river?”
“No change in status, Chief. Something new come up?”
“No. Just a feeling. Whatever’s going on in Order, it’s happening soon. Just keep up the vigilance.”
“As usual, Sir.”
“Thanks, Sharma. I know you’re on top of it.” Dillon cut the com. Sharma was a good girl. Competent. And he trusted her. He just couldn’t stop worrying. Jolene Cheng made him nervous.
* * *
Later that night, Matt Dillon lay in bed, looking into Carmella Johnson’s deep, brown eyes. He lingered there for a long time, searching until all that remained was his own reflection on flecks of green and gold and sienna and the darkest black he had ever seen.
“There was a theory floating around,” he said at last. “When I was in school back in the teens. Some physicists believed that the visible universe was like a hologram. That we are pixels or something, moving around on a two dimensional surface, and that everything we see is only a projection. Do you think that could be true?”
“Hmmm,” said Carmella.
“Do you know who the pointillists were?”
“Uh-uh.”
“They were a school of art, founded by the French painter, Seurat. They only used the primary colors, which they painted as little dots, creating an illusion of a whole spectrum of color.”
“Like pixels,” said Carmella.
“Yeah, just like pixels. The first pixelated art. Unless of course you accept that everything is pixels.”
“Dillon, where the hell do you come up with these ideas, anyway?”
“I don’t know.” Dillon drew back into himself, trying to remember something. Some piece of himself forgotten long ago. “I used to be interested in physics and art and all sorts of things before I joined the F.B.I. back in ‘22. I got all this shit in my head, and it just bubbles around up there, like a pot of boiling stew.”
“That stuff will drive you crazy, Sugar.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
* * *
The boy’s face, as dark as the moonless night, stared out the limo window at the chaparral landscape rushing by. The vehicle hummed quietly, and its interior lights reflected off his somber profile, outlining his features in sharp relief. He would be a handsome young man in a few years.
Jolene Cheng looked at him for a time in silence. “You know that this must be done,” she said at last. “The Sisters will treat you well. They will continue your education, and it won’t be long until you see your mother again.”
The boy was silent, but she could see the slight change in his face, a hardening.
“It’s all for the best, Joey. My daughter has allowed you to grow soft. You will not survive this world if you are weak. Do you understand that?”
The armored car ahead of them braked as a jackrabbit bounded across the road. She could see the lights of Law and Order on the horizon. The boy’s face showed no sign she could read.
“Why?” he said at last. “Why can’t you just let us live in peace? Don’t you have enough, already?”
Jolene let the fog of silence engulf them again. It was the same argument every time. What could she say that would change it? He needed to learn that the bad guys don’t give you a break. If it’s not the barbarian natives, it will be Miglia’s minions. You have to be as ruthless as they are.
The first time she had told him this, he protested. “The natives aren’t what you think they are. Aunt Bridge lives among them. She thinks they are people, too, but they’re not.”
“Then what are they?”
“I don’t know,” said Joey.
“There, you see. It doesn’t matter what we call them, they are still savages who ambush the miners and kill our settlers.”
Joey pouted. “The forest only wants to protect itself.” His words trailed off.
The boy was obviously confused, and he possessed too much imagination for his own good. What he needed was a disciplined, down-to-earth education. The Sisters would set him straight.
Pedro Blasón met them at the edge of town, his small coterie of police vehicles merging with flawless choreography into Jolene’s substantial entourage. Pedro roared up alongside the limo on his City of Order Police Department Harley and gave Jolene a thumbs up. He flashed an enormous grin, his long hair whipping wildly beneath his dew rag, before speeding off toward the front of the procession.
Pedro was too cocky with this outlaw act. Jolene hoped she wouldn’t have to deal with him before the Joey business was behind her. She needed a loyal lieutenant, not some fucking Pancho Villa. Over-taxing the truckers was one thing, but shaking down the ore barges had to stop. If she didn’t stop it, Miglia would move in, and nothing good would come of that.
The boy was sleeping now. In sleep, he had a look about him that reminded her of his grandfather. The association with Joe wasn’t negative, and that surprised her. It stirred up a fleeting sadness that she didn’t recall having ever felt before, and it disturbed her in some way she didn’t understand.
©2009, Duane Poncy, all rights reserved.
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