New Country For Old Hustlers

Contains racist language, police abuse, and corrupt law enforcement

Every other month, Sergeant Cross and Lieutenant Guy held a “mandatory diversity” meeting at Guy’s property outside El Paso, Texas. Neither man ever explained the nature of these meetings to their wives. They sat on opposite ends of a leather couch, a six-pack of Coors Light between them, rotating the same three films: Do the Right Thing, Malcolm X, and BlacKkKlansman. Guy was convinced this was better than writing Cross up, and would actually convert him from his bigotry.

Every other month, Officer Mike stayed with Abigail at a roadside motel outside Albuquerque. Per Abigail’s demand, he washed the pomade out of his hair. Per his request, she didn’t cover her freckles. Mike found her on KandyLand.com. Worldwide Steppers played in his airpods, and Mike felt like Kendrick was speaking directly to him: “I might be racist. Ancestors watchin’ me fuck was like retaliation.”

He liked the way Abigail’s hair reminded him of Princess Merida from Brave. Sometimes, on long patrols, he’d catch himself staring at Cross’s receding red hairline and chuckle to himself. What if Abigail was related to Cross?

Under her username Zed1994, Abigail’s bio on KandyLand read: “Need brute who’s not afraid to bow.” Mike told his fiancée, Rebecca, that he had to attend Cross and Guy’s diversity meetings—sessions stemming from an incident where Cross called him a “Lust Demon” and a “Fancypants Nigger” because of his hair and stare. He assured Rebecca these meetings would help his career, that they'd put him on the fast track for promotion, and that she’d finally get the silk press he always wanted her to have.

“All units, copy a call. NM-9, adjacent to Mr. Gallagher’s property. Reporting party states multiple gunshots south of the residence near a cluster of trucks. Shots fired. Time delay approximately five minutes.”

Mike responded to dispatch, “Adam Twelve en route. Stand by.” Immediately, he turned to Cross and said, “Thirty-two bogus calls last quarter and we’re still running Code Three to this? He knows exactly what to say to get a reaction. It’s honestly disgusting.”

“Careful, boy. Mr. Gallagher’s done more to please the LT than you have. He could get ya fired.”

Back in 2004, Officer Guy (now Lieutenant Guy) arrested Gallagher hauling forty kilos of methamphetamine across the border. Gallagher did eight years for drug trafficking. Halfway through his sentence, he was nearly beaten to death in a New Mexico state prison for refusing to pay tax to the Aryan Brotherhood.

To Guy, indulging Gallagher’s schizophrenic episodes became a kind of repayment—a private gesture of gratitude disguised as professional patience. To Gallagher, the fear never left. He truly believed the Brotherhood had tracked him down for going into protective custody.

This time, Gallagher was right. There really were white men in trucks with Nazi tattoos and guns parked just south of his property. What he didn’t see when he first dialed were the three other trucks—and the eight Hispanic men who’d arrived with them. All of them were dead.

When Cross arrived and spotted the leather briefcase in a truck bed, the first thing he did was rush Mike out of the car before they could activate their body cams or alert dispatch. Between the force’s disbelief in Gallagher’s calls and the fact that dead men don’t speak, no one would know this “Goldilocks zone” for corruption ever existed—until someone reported it.

Cross ran to the truck bed, peeled back a quarter of the stack, and thumbed through the wads, checking for trackers. Mike stood behind him, watching. Every time the wind fluttered the bills, a synapse in his brain lit up. If the LT had actually reprimanded Cross, they’d never get put on patrol shift together, and he could've made this discovery on his own. This could’ve been the boost that got him promoted. This could’ve been enough money to get a nicer hotel for him and Abigail. It would’ve been enough to make tolerating Cross worth it. Instead, Cross would be the one buying that Dukes of Hazzard replica he never shut up about.

Cross could feel the familiar heat of Mike’s stare burning into his neck. In his hands was the key to walking away with something. Not the Smith & Wesson in his holster—he’d already decided there was no way to stage Mike’s death as a line-of-duty shooting. Too many questions.

The key was the bills. The serial numbers were perfectly sequenced—fresh from a bank. Even the paper felt wrong: stiff, almost starched. Traceable. Bait.

Cross told Mike they should take the money, stash it somewhere safe, and split it later. He suggested Mike hold onto it—for now. Mike didn’t hesitate. Mike trusted Cross with the plan, and Cross trusted himself.

When the DEA, FBI, ICE, and New Mexico State Troopers arrived, Cross and Mike were stunned.

It turned out, a member of the Aryan Brotherhood had gained access to an evidence locker at an FBI field office in Albuquerque. He stole the money to purchase meth from the Jalisco New Generation Cartel, who were under loose DEA surveillance. The Brotherhood planned to buy from JNGC, rebrand it, and sell in the States. ICE showed up because Gallagher later reported “Mexican men” at the scene.

From the cruiser to the interrogation room, Mike swore he hadn’t seen any money. Cross didn’t even make it to his interrogation before he started talking from the back of a cruiser.

“The nigger ran off with the cash.” He said it like a conclusion, not an accusation.

Cross had planted the seed. He tailed Mike that night to a Motel 6 outside Albuquerque. When Cross entered the room, he found Mike and Abigail inside. He told investigators Abigail had been asserting dominance over Mike while holding a firearm. In the “confusion,” both were killed.

Cross was promoted to Captain following a joint investigation by the DEA, FBI, ICE, and the New Mexico Internal Affairs and Standards Bureau. The agencies corroborated Cross’s accusation: Mike had taken the money alone. All the serialized bills were recovered. The gun, pointed in Cross’s direction when he entered the room, supported his version of events. They said he’d acted on a hunch.

Now, Cross lives next to Guy. He says if he ever has a girl, she won’t be dating outside her race—not like Guy’s daughter. And every time Gallagher calls in another report, Cross makes his wife strap on his duty belt and paint on freckles before they fuck.