To The Lions - 02
Page 26
While her head was down, he leaned over, unclipping the phone cord from the jack.
Her head was still down.
He spirited the phone away, pushing it behind him, making sure the cord was safely under his rear end. Now he had to divert her so she didn’t mention the phone again.
De la Mancha lifted her head.
“Send me back out there,” Gage said, adjusting his body to cover the phone. “Send me out into the main bay and let’s get it over with.”
“Will you stop saying that?”
“No.”
She threw her head back.
He used the time to tuck the phone into the rear of his pants. That done, Gage decided to propose the idea that had come to him. It wasn’t perfect—it would involve his losing all his money—but, in his current situation, his life took priority over money.
“There is one other avenue we might take,” he said.
Showing her age despite her mask of makeup, she muttered, “What’s that?”
“I’ll get you the money.”
“I thought you said you wouldn’t.”
“Listen to what I am saying. I’ll get you the money.” Gage stressed the word “you”.
“You’ll get me the money?”
“Yes, I will. Minus the small amount that’s been spent, you can have it all.” He lifted his index finger. “But I won’t get it for those savages, not one single euro.”
It appeared as if switches had been thrown in Capitana de la Mancha’s mind. Dozens of minuscule markers immediately sent out external signals to a scrutinizing eye. The rise and fall of her chest quickened. Her left hand clawed the armrest of the chair. Both of her eyes twitched, bouncing a few degrees to the left and right. Her tongue barely pressed through her painted lips, pushing at her right upper canine. Her swallow was evident from the movement of her Adam’s apple. She blinked several times. Her feet shuffled. Gage suspected her body had released a rush of scarcely discernible pheromones.
No matter what she’s preparing to say, she’s intrigued.
“You’re mad,” she snapped.
Ignoring her, Gage said, “There’s about nine-hundred-fifty grand left, in euro, all for you.” He leaned forward. “I’m guessing you bring in…oh, I dunno…maybe the equivalent of a hundred grand U.S. here. Maybe a little more. Then, from your dirty money, you probably double your salary, maybe triple it. And that, of course, is tax free. But,” he said, sitting back and making his voice grave, “you’re in bed with the devil, and you know that. And sooner or later, despite all that you tell yourself about corruption in Spain and Los Leones’ wide net of protection over you, someone who matters is going to turn the microscope to Berga Prison.” He studied his fingernails, speaking matter-of-factly. “It could be a politician looking to buck the system or just some rich asshole whose relative was killed in your prison.
“You’ve put a little money back, probably in cash for fear of banking it and getting investigated over its source. And nine-fifty, also in loose, spendable cash, sounds mighty good right now. That’s well over a million dollars, U.S., and a quick run up to Zurich would allow you to set up a new life elsewhere.” He glanced around.
Gage stacked his hands in his lap and continued. “Despite the situation you tell yourself you were thrust into—one which has made you a shitload of money—and all the comforts you’ve come to know and love, you hate living this existence. Every single day you awaken and wonder, is today the day?” His voice grew quiet as he finished, saying, “The money is yours if you simply let me walk. You’ve a decision to make.”
Capitana de la Mancha’s face had clouded over. She stared through slit eyes, her lips parted, no longer making movements of any type.
Gage remained silent.
After about a minute she held a hand to her mouth and cleared her throat. “Do you realize what they would do to me if I participated in your plan?”
“They have to catch you first, Capitana. And they’ll eventually eliminate you, whether or not you do this. At the very least, this will take them by surprise and you can be long gone before they know what’s happened.”
“I really don’t think they’ll eventually kill me,” she said with no confidence whatsoever.
“Really? Go have a look at Cesar Navarro’s body at the morgue. And I’d be curious to know how they killed his father. You yourself said they’re prehistoric.”
“In the way they deal with their enemies.”
“And you know what they do to their enemies. Rape and murder. Rape steals a person’s soul and murder does away with it.”
She averted her eyes, and Gage noticed.
He leaned back, willing his intensity away, softening his voice. “Capitana de la Mancha, at some point you will serve no more purpose to them and, when that day comes, because of all you know, they will kill you.”
She sipped her water, abruptly standing and walking to the barred window, staring out. “I need some time to think.”
“You can have all the time in the world, capitana. But if you send me back out into that bay, according to you, I’m a dead man.”
She turned, briefly gnawing on one of her painted fingernails. “They won’t kill you if they think you’re cooperating.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll tell them you called several times but your contact wasn’t there.”
“And who is my contact?”
She walked to her desk, flipping open a file and tapping the sheet. “The girl who came to visit you. That’s who has your money, correct?”
“No.”
“Whether she does, or not, that’s who I will say you called.”
“Don’t do that,” Gage warned.
“Why not?”
“That girl doesn’t exist.”
“Olga Nemcova?” de la Mancha asked, reading the paper.
“That’s not her real name.”
“Well, that’s the name listed here. And it had to have been on her identification for her to get in.”
“It’s not her name,” Gage said authoritatively. “And they won’t find her, either.”
“So, that is who has the money.”
“Doesn’t matter. You won’t find her or anyone else.”
“They have plenty of money, Mister Hartline. Make things too difficult, and it will be easier for them to just kill you.”
“If that happens, you won’t see any of the money. And…” he said, drawing it out, “Los Leones will blame you. Or, as I’ve said a dozen times, you let me walk and the cash is all yours.”
“You’re sure of the amount?” she asked.
Gage nodded.
Capitana de la Mancha paced the room for a full minute. “If I’m even to consider this, I’ve got to move fast. I won’t be able to hold them off very long before they want to question you.”
The money suddenly seemed supremely unimportant. “How soon can we leave?” Gage asked.
“I haven’t agreed to anything, yet. Until I decide, I’m going to stick you in the aposento.”
“Aposento?”
“The apartment I told you about. It’s used by a few select prisoners for visitation.”
“Conjugal?” Gage asked in Spanish, curling his lip.
Ignoring him, she walked behind her desk and lifted her phone, speaking rapid Spanish that he could barely follow. Carefully replacing the receiver, Capitana de la Mancha motioned him away. “Go back out the way you came and follow the guard’s instructions.”
As Gage left, he thought he heard a stifled sob.
* * *
Ten minutes later, when she’d stopped crying, Capitana de la Mancha opened the top right door of her handcrafted desk. In the back of the drawer was a directory of Spanish Judicial System phone numbers. Tucked in the center of the directory was a stack of pictures of a boy in various stages of life.
Her son.
She studied each one, kissing the last one before hiding the pictures away and replacing the directory.
* * *
The sex was fast and animalistic. He was on top of her, holding her face down and to the side, mashing it, leaning his weight on her as he thrust, his powerful triceps showing all three distinct heads of the long upper arm muscle. When he was unable to climax, he pulled her hair, earning grunts of pain as he twisted her head, making her turn over. Again, as was his habit, he held her down by her head as he worked from behind, cursing her as she began to moan.
He had no idea she was faking.
Her sounds aroused him, bringing him to his climax. El Toro collapsed into the chair behind him and cleaned himself with her underwear.
Capitana de la Mancha didn’t move.
“You didn’t seem to like that,” he eventually grumped, crossing the room and pouring four fingers of straight whiskey.
“I did,” she replied, trying to keep her smile from being tepid as she pulled her skirt down. “It was amazing as always, the highlight of my week.” She stepped into the bathroom to use the toilet.
He dropped onto the chair again, taking a slug of his whiskey, tightening his lips over his teeth. After the flush he yelled, “So, when do I get my money?”
Capitana de la Mancha froze, staring at herself in the mirror. She watched as her lips moved but only tiny sounds escaped.
“Damn it! Are you deaf?” thundered El Toro’s voice off the tile walls.
Lie, damn you, lie!
“He called several times,” she managed, satisfied with her casual tone. “His contact wasn’t there and he’s going to try again tonight. He almost cried when I offered him the deal…that’s how happy he was.” Mopping beads of makeup-tinged sweat from her forehead, she turned and walked back into her office, making sure her feigned afterglow was evident.
“He’s got one hour,” El Toro barked. “One hour before he dies.” His sweaty face split into a wicked grin. “Then, once I get my money, he dies anyway.”
“Do you really have to kill him, Sancho? I know the situation with Cesar goes back many years, but this is just some American who was hired to—”
A raised hand silenced her. He extended his thumb, jabbing it in a pointing motion behind his head. “Just shut up and rub my neck, bitch.”
Capitana de la Mancha moved behind the gangster, massaging his rough skin with her fingers, allowing her long nails to occasionally scratch over the tattooed ectodermal tissue. She closed her eyes as she rubbed, repulsed by the sweat-tinged, sour smell that arose from her tormentor.
“Hell yes, I have to kill him,” he said. “Even if he hadn’t beaten Gio, even if he brings me a dozen roses along with the money and sucks me off three times, yes, I still have to kill him. Rub harder, bitch,” he grunted before loudly slurping his whiskey.
De la Mancha cursed the situation under her breath.
“Who is he anyway?”
“What?”
“This is twice I’ve had to repeat myself,” he warned. “Who the hell is the American? You said you were pulling information from his prints.”
“Oh, that,” Capitana de la Mancha said, again trying to sound blasé. “His real name is Hartline—just a small-time, bodyguard type.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“And you met with him in here?”
“Yes.”
“In your office?”
“Yes.”
“Just you two…no one else?”
“No one else,” she said in an audible exhalation.
“He’s a pretty big hombre.”
She kept rubbing.
“Did you ever once even think about fucking him?”
“Sancho, don’t—”
“No more calling me Sancho. And answer the question!”
“No, I didn’t.”
He tilted his head. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying to you.”
“Don’t do it!” he bellowed, lifting his clenched fist as if in warning.
“Okay, Sancho, if you insist…if you’re going to force me to go down that road, then I did fantasize about him. He’s attractive, okay? He’s attractive and I wondered, for one quick second, what it would be like to be with him. There, I admitted it. Satisfied?”
His body vibrated as he chuckled in a smug manner, muttering chauvinistic insults. “So, speaking of you and your nasty little habits, exactly how many men have you been with, capitana?”
Gritting her teeth, de la Mancha rubbed her face with her free hand. She hated when he took a turn to the perverse. It meant only one thing: degrading her as he again grew aroused, only to be followed by another symbolic rape episode, the next one almost certainly more violent.
“Sixteen.”
“Sixteen, my ass!” he snarled, laughing in a malevolent manner. “You’re so full of shit. What are you now, forty-four? Your box has got more miles on it than an old city bus. I bet you screwed sixteen guys when you were sixteen. Now tell me the damned truth.”
“That is the damned truth,” she snapped. “Three between the time I was nineteen and twenty-one. Only one, my husband, until I was thirty-three, and the rest since then, the last one being you.”
“Right there,” he groaned, hitching his thumb again. “Yeah. Dig into that knot. That’s it, right there.” When she’d rubbed the knot out, he lifted the heavy tumbler to his shoulder. “Go refill my glass, bitch. Fill it up.”
As she poured, he asked, “Who did he call?”
“What?”
“That’s three times!”
“Sorry.”
“Who,” he emphasized, “did Hartline call on the phone?”
“I was listening, but they didn’t answer. He claims he was calling a woman.”
El Toro nodded. “Yeah, that’d be the one who visited him. Your guard Consuelos said she sounded Russian, or something. Said she was gorgeous, a premium pedazo de culo.”
“Great,” de la Mancha said without enthusiasm.
“What’s her name?”
Why is he asking all these questions? “She signed in as Olga Nemcova,” de la Mancha answered mildly.
“How did she get here?”
Capitana de la Mancha stood to his side, handing him the brimming tumbler. “We don’t know. The lot was full and she came from the overflow across the road. There are no cameras there.”
“Did you get the number he called?”
“No. I don’t have that capability on my phone.”
He glared up at her, curling his lip. “You’re a completely useless twat, you know that?”
Unable to hold back, and without any venom, she politely said, “Please don’t call me that. I hate words like that.”
Whiskey sloshed as he stood. She saw it coming, letting it happen. If she didn’t, the resulting beating would be worse.
El Toro slapped her so hard across the face that she fell and slid all the way to the sitting area on her side. He moved above her, shouting Catalan curses before spitting on her. Then, just as she’d known he would, he pushed his pants down, displaying his excitement. El Toro mounted her on the floor, biting her neck as he began their forced union. Bearing the humiliation in silence, Capitana de la Mancha wondered if she’d broken her wrist in the fall.
Fortunately, as she knew from at least three previous episodes, violence inflamed Sancho “El Toro” Molina. This would be the last episode of the day and, if it played out as it had since he’d taken the top spot at Berga, probably the last time for a few weeks.
Her palms flat on the floor, accepting the violation that was occurring to her body, and despite the pain in her face and her wrist, Capitana de la Mancha closed her eyes and thought of where she might go and who she might become.
Who am I? Why am I here? What have I done with the pretty and demure girl who graduated con honores grandes, full of promise and with a resolution to affect change through dogged determination and a career in criminal justice?
From t
here to here, face down on a cold floor, taking it like an alley cat in heat.
Capitana Angelines de la Mancha, for the first time in years, despite what she was currently enduring, felt the energy of renewal.
When he was done, El Toro stood and strutted across the office. He filled another tumbler, shooting at least four shots of whiskey in one gulp.
“You gonna cry now?” he asked with a sneer.
She lay still, not looking at him.
“Where’s Hartline?”
She twitched. Then, lying there and still not facing him, she said, “In el aposento.”
“I want to see him.”
She turned her head. “No.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. After what I put up with, you can at least give me a day to get his money. And Vasco told me it’s my responsibility anyway. If you go in there alone, none of us will get a single euro because you’ll end up killing him, and Vasco will relay that to Xavier.” Doing something she rarely did, she eyed El Toro. “Vasco said that no one better foul this up.”
By his hesitation, she knew she’d trumped him. El Toro feared no one in Berga, but he knew what Xavier was capable of.
El Toro eventually smiled, his gold teeth glittering as he said, “You just want time to screw him, don’t you, bitch?”
“Give me until tomorrow.”
El Toro studied de la Mancha with narrowed eyes. “Send for me tomorrow morning at nine, and not a second later. When you do, you’d better be telling me that money is on its way here.” He pointed a finger in the direction of el aposento. “Or Señor Hartline will get what Cesar got.”
El Toro left.
Alone, Angelines de la Mancha lay on the cool hardwoods.
She didn’t move for a half-hour.
Chapter Twenty-One
The “aposento,” as Capitana de la Mancha had termed it, was nothing special but certainly a far cry from Gage’s prison cell. Painted exclusively in buff, a bland color common to government buildings the world over, it seemed to have once been a single room. Gage estimated the dimensions of the entire unit as twenty-five feet by ten. A wall with a drape-covered pass-thru had been installed in the center, cutting the large room into two. The first room had a small stove, a miniature refrigerator, and a tweed couch with disgusting flaky whitish stains all over its cushions, like sugar crust from a glazed donut. Relics from all the conjugal visits. There was a throw rug and, behind a bolted-on piece of safety glass, an old television.