“There is no ‘right.’ No one cares what you think is fair. I don’t, and trust me, they don’t. We’re going to do this thing. If we say no, these fuckin’ Indians will scalp us. We all might as well go ahead and set fire to the lives we have. The expensive lives we bought with their money, like Ortiz’s goddamn house.” He could have added because if you don’t, they will, but there was no need. They understood, even if they didn’t want to. They might be wishing right now they’d never met Johnnie Macho or joined the Tejas unit—hell, they might be wishing they’d never become deputies—but they had to see the sense of what he was saying.

They’d escorted drug loads and protected murderers.

They’d stolen drugs from rival cartels.

They’d ripped off other drug crews and submitted sham dope as evidence—taped packages Ringo had made in his kitchen with cement mix—and then resold the real dope on their own.

They’d sent messages in blood.

They’d killed and buried out in the desert.

And they couldn’t just take all that back now, like they couldn’t just give back all the shit they’d bought and hoarded, either. If they even thought it, Ortiz’s ugly new house might suddenly burn down with his wife inside, taped to a dining room chair.

Chavez wanted to argue anyway.

“Let me talk to them, Juanito. I can explain things. We’re untouchable here, but outside Terrell . . .”

“Now you want to explain things, like I didn’t already?” Johnnie pulled out the special red phone from his pocket, the one they had given him. He never did this, never showed it around in public, but he was desperate and this was his last play. He put it on the table between them, and the red and blue club lights spun on it, reminding Johnnie of the police lights hidden in the grille of his Charger. “Then you go right ahead and call them. You tell them whatever the fuck you want to . . . tell ’em how we’re not doing this thing or that thing. But you be sure to tell ’em your name, so they know exactly who the fuck they’re talking to.”

The phone sat on the table like a live snake, no one eager to grab it.

Ringo only smiled and turned his attention to a dancer on a far stage.

Ortiz’s face went pale, which was almost impossible to do under the lights, but he wouldn’t look at the phone, pretending it didn’t exist.

Roman never looked away from Rae’s sweat-slicked body, just nodded.

Finally, Chavez moved his empty beer bottle aside, and for a moment, it looked like he was going to reach for the phone. But then he, too, pulled back.