Greasing the Piñata

by Tim Maleeny

  Dobbins just shook his head and rocked in his chair, his artificial leg rapping the floor in a dull rhythm. Cape squeezed Rebecca’s hand.

  “I think you liked the press too much for Cordon’s taste, Dobbins. You always liked the press, until about nine months ago. Maybe your old friend Luis talked to you about it—and you blew him off. He probably doesn’t like it when his minions talk back. Or didn’t you notice the giant without a tongue when you checked into Castillo Cordon?”

  “I wasn’t his fucking minion.” Dobbins stopped rocking. “We’re business partners.”

  “Maybe that’s not how Cordon sees it.”

  “Those government deals?” Dobbins wheeled to face Cordon as he answered Cape. “Luis couldn’t cut those fat deals without me—where did he get off telling me what to do? I was a fucking Senator.”

  “You weren’t the only politician on the payroll.” Cape waited until Dobbins looked in his direction. “But you’re right, you were important. Really important.”

  The flattery seemed to calm Dobbins, almost a visceral reaction for someone used to sparring with the press. Maybe his old political instincts for grace under pressure were kicking in.

  “So maybe while he lined up his next Senator, your friend Luis conjured up the boogey man to scare you back into line. A character like Salinas might do the trick. He certainly scared the hell out of me.”

  Dobbins shifted his gaze from Cape to Cordon as if something he’d suspected all along had finally been proven in a laboratory. The earth was flat, after all.

  Cape knew he’d struck a nerve. “Too bad you can’t ask Salinas yourself, Senator.”

  “Oh, but you can.”

  Cordon’s voice boomed off the rafters as he stood. He stepped to the center of the room and shook his lion’s mane of perfect hair back and forth, his handsome face etched with disappointment. “I was hoping for un pequeño teatro—some magic for my guests. But you have given away my best secrets, Cape.”

  “I thought I’d save you the trouble of lying through those perfect teeth.”

  “Now I have only one last trick before the show must come to an end.”

  The speech sounded rehearsed. Cordon was a theatrical guy, but this bordered on the surreal. Cape looked around and realized Enrique and Julio were no longer in the room. He’d been so focused on breaking Dobbins that he didn’t notice them leaving.

  He didn’t have to wait very long for their return.

  Cordon clapped his hands and Julio backed into the room pulling something heavy on a wheeled cart. Enrique pushed from the other side and a third man was hidden behind whatever was resting on the platform. A burgundy cloth draped over a rectangular object taller than a man.

  “We all know Houdini, the great gringo escape artist.” Cordon stepped over to the platform and clapped his hands together. “His most famous trick was the underwater escape. He would be submerged upside-down in a strait jacket and miraculously he would escape. Increíble! No other magician ever attempted such a dangerous feat of skill and daring—until now.”

  Cordon made a gesture and the three men began turning the box in a slow clockwise rotation as he continued his narrative.

  “Tonight’s trick will be more peligriso than anything Houdini attempted. Do you know why?”

  Cordon looked at each of his guests in turn but didn’t wait for a response.

  “Because…in my tank there is a monster. Sí, senora y cabelleros—un monstruo. One of the most venomous creatures in the sea, a box jellyfish.” Cordon looked over their heads with his golden eyes, as if they were sitting in the front row of a theater only he could see.

  “Our magician must not only escape the tank, he must escape the jelly.” Cordon clapped in time to his own counting. It sent a chill down Cape’s spine.

  “Uno…dos…tres…”

  With an exaggerated flourish Cordon grabbed the red cloth and yanked it free of the tank. Rebecca started screaming. Cape felt bile surge in his throat.

  The tank was an exact replica of the famous trick, a metal frame holding heavy glass in a rectangle big enough to suspend a man upside-down underwater, which is exactly what they saw. Antonio Salinas stared blindly at them through a death mask of agony, his inverted features distorted by the pulsing, waving mass of tentacles that had latched onto his face.

  Cordon looked at the tank and feigned surprise. “I am terribly sorry, señora y cabelleros.” He shook his head sadly. “It would appear that our magician was not as talented as the late Houdini.”

  Cape glanced toward the door in the vain hope that someone who wasn’t bat-shit crazy would suddenly appear. No one did. It wasn’t a good night for magic acts.

  Cordon brought his hands together and smiled.

  “But I think we have time for one more trick. May I have a volunteer, or should I pick someone from the audience?”

  Cape took a deep breath and raised his hand.

  Chapter Eighty-two

  Magic tricks work by misdirection. Wave your right hand in the air to get the audience focused in that direction, then palm the little red ball with your left hand while no one’s looking.

  “Pick me.”

  Cape waved his right hand like a first-grader as he slipped his left down his pants like a teenager.

  “Pick me…pick me!”

  He thrust his hand past the two balls that were permanently attached and tore the sonic disruptor off his thigh. His hand still in his jeans, Cape found the button and pressed down on it once. He palmed the metal and plastic ball and slid his left hand out of his pants, then dropped his right arm as if he’d suddenly lost interest.

  He rested his left thumb on the activation switch and waited for Cordon to make the next move, but it came from a direction nobody expected.

  “Don’t I get a turn?”

  All eyes turned toward Dobbins, but it wasn’t his voice that begged the question. Dobbins was on his feet, another man’s arm curled tightly around his neck, a knife at his throat.

  Priest tightened his grip and dragged Dobbins a few feet closer to the door behind the desk.

  Rebecca tried to stand but Cape put his right hand on her thigh and forced her down. He kept his left hand wrapped around the sonic grenade.

  Julio drew his hunting knife.

  Enrique pulled a slim pistol from under his jacket. The man standing behind Salinas’ little tank of horror stepped away from the rolling platform and drew a semi-automatic handgun. It was the first clear view of the man since he’d entered the room, and it was a gun Cape had seen before.

  “Cyrano.”

  André scowled at Cape. Apparently he’d been called that before, maybe when he was growing up. Kids can be so cruel.

  “How many paychecks are you collecting,” asked Cape, “two or three?”

  “More than you, dickhead.” André raised his gun slowly as if he couldn’t decide whom to shoot.

  “Ah, my traitorous friend.” Priest ran his gaze over Salinas floating dead in the tank before turning his attention to André. “It would appear that we have—”

  “—a Mexican standoff?” A new voice entered the room. “How fitting.”

  Oscar Garcia stood in the main doorway holding a .45 caliber handgun, which he pointed at Cordon’s head.

  “Hello Luis.”

  “Chingalo! Who let you into my house?”

  “Someone left your door open.” Garcia glanced at Priest.

  “Zurramato.” Cordon shook his head in disgust.

  Cape looked from the drug lord to the cop. “You two know each other?”

  “We went to high school together.” Garcia kept his gun at eye level. “Luis was a pendejo even then.”

  Cordon looked hurt. “We used to get stoned together under the bleachers after soccer practice.”

  “Luis always knew where to get the best pot.”

  Because he entered through the main door, Garcia was standing behind Enrique and Julio, with André and the windows on his right. Cordon stood directly in
front of him, an easy shot. Cape and Rebecca were directly to his left, maybe twenty feet away. Priest was across the room at the ten o’clock position, near the desk and the other door.

  The great room suddenly felt very small.

  Enrique tried to pivot counter-clockwise so he could see Garcia without twisting his head. Julio began to turn in the opposite direction. They moved tentatively, unable to see Garcia’s eyes and knowing they could be shot at any time.

  “Hey…hey…hey.” Garcia pulled the hammer back on the forty-five. He kept it pointed at Cordon but the click filled the room. Enrique froze in place. Julio shuffled to the left, coming closer to Rebecca and Cape. “Hey!”

  “Julio is deaf, Oscar.” Cordon sounded bored with his high school reunion.

  Julio had turned sufficiently to see Garcia, who jabbed his gun in the air toward Cordon. Julio opened his mouth and made a phlegmy sound that might have been a roar, but he stopped moving. He understood the downside of having his boss shot.

  Enrique looked around the room and realized he couldn’t get an angle on Garcia. He pointed his gun at Priest. “Who are you?”

  Garcia nodded in approval at the question. “Sí, why are you here?”

  “I came to collect a debt.” Priest shifted his weight. Dobbins started gagging.

  “Daddy!” Rebecca’s voice was a hoarse whisper. Cape held her arm with his right hand. She was getting colder, going into shock.

  Garcia waved his free hand at the corpse of Antonio Salinas. “I do not think your employer cares, padre.”

  “I work for a higher power.” Priest sucked on his front teeth. “And all my contracts are binding.” He pressed his cheek lovingly against Dobbins’ hair. “Especially this one.”

  “Shoot him first,” said Cordon. “He’s crazy.”

  “You have no idea.” André leveled his gun at Priest and thumbed the hammer into firing position.

  “Maybe we should all discuss this over a glass of tequila.” Enrique gestured encouragingly at the silver tray, the perfect host to the end. Julio gargled in response. Everyone else ignored him.

  Cape looked at the bottle inlaid with gold, half-empty on the silver tray. He thought about Garcia’s taste in tequila, their long talks—conversational journeys that had led inexorably here to this castle. Inside his head, Cape could hear Cordon counting in time to his own clapping—uno…dos…tres—just as he could visualize the timer at the pig farm in Monterrey.

  Oscar Garcia had been there, too.

  Cape felt paranoid and wondered if the feeling ever stopped once it started. He increased the pressure of his thumb on the button.

  “Oscar, who do you work for?”

  Garcia spared him a glance, saw the expression on his face. “Do not think too much, amigo.” He kept his gun on target.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “I don’t remember.” Garcia pulled the trigger.

  A perfectly round hole appeared in the center of Cordon’s forehead at the precise moment a red mist of blood and brains sprayed from the back of his head.

  It was almost like a magic trick.

  The sound wave caught up with the bullet and filled the room with a deafening roar. Cape twitched involuntarily and jammed his thumb against the button just as he shoved Rebecca onto the floor. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Garcia pivot left to line up another shot.

  Enrique started firing before he rounded on Garcia. Cape could see the muzzle flashes before he heard the bang…bang. The shots ricocheted off the wall as Priest ducked behind Dobbins and dragged him beneath the desk.

  In the background Cape heard an urgent whining, a rising pitch building to a shriek of sonic agony. He looked for his disruptor and saw it had rolled to the center of the room, then wondered why no one had noticed. He remembered too late what the inventor had said.

  It takes five seconds.

  He should have pushed the button sooner. Cape started counting in his head.

  Uno…

  Cape could feel the sound waves spreading across the room. They felt like butterflies in his stomach.

  …dos…

  André failed to track Priest behind the desk and made a split-second decision to shoot someone else. Anyone, he didn’t care. He just knew he wanted to be the one shooting, not the one getting shot. He looked left and saw a target that made him smile.

  …tres…

  Cape dropped to the floor, trying to put his body mass between Rebecca and the room. The nearest table was too far away. His only cover was Julio’s bulk, but the giant was turning in their direction, his hunting knife already drawn.

  …cuatro…

  André saw he had a clear shot. The asshole detective was a sitting duck.

  …cinco…

  André squeezed the trigger just as the window directly behind him exploded and a hurricane roared into the room.

  Chapter Eighty-three

  Sally somersaulted into the room.

  Glass and wood flew behind her like shrapnel, propelled by hundred-mile an hour winds. She stayed tucked in a ball until she had rolled past André. He swung his gun at her back and finished squeezing the trigger.

  When the bullet left the barrel of the gun, Sally wasn’t there.

  The shot hit the floor under the desk and ricocheted upward. Dobbins screamed as it tore through his left ear. Priest dragged him closer to the side door.

  Sally had gone into a flat spin, her stomach pressed out as she scissored her legs violently. Her right foot caught André behind his left leg and he went down on his kneecaps. The gun kicked as he involuntarily clenched his hands. Sparks flew from the floor where Sally’s head had been an instant before.

  André’s face bulged and it looked like he was going to be sick. Sally could feel the sound waves deep in her chest but didn’t hear the whine over the roar of the hurricane. She spun to a halt two feet away from André and jammed her thumbs into her ears to make sure the filters were still in place.

  André was still holding the gun.

  Sally shielded her eyes from the rain pouring sideways through the window, and she realized the wind might be interfering with the disruptor. It had to be. She reached for the one hidden in her clothes just as André swallowed hard, his Adam’s Apple jumping. He was still on his knees. He blinked and looked at Sally, then summoned all his strength and pointed the gun directly at her chest.

  ***

  Cape staggered to his feet. It felt like the whole room was vibrating, disintegrating in an earthquake, but his eyes told him everything remained solid. Rebecca was curled into the fetal position next to the suit of armor, hands tearing at her hair, eyes wide with fear.

  Rain lashed his face like a whip and Cape tasted blood. He held his hands in front of his face, trying to see the room through his fingers. The rain was turning to hail, its velocity undiminished. The lights flickered overhead as the wind tried to tear the chandeliers off the ceiling.

  Sudden darkness, then a hint of movement and light. The wind seemed to have subsided. Cape lowered his hands and saw Julio standing directly in front of him, knife held low, the tip pointing directly at Cape’s stomach.

  Julio is deaf.

  Cape lunged to the right and knocked the suit of armor between them. Julio swatted it aside with his knife hand as it fell, the halberd clattering onto the floor. With his free hand he punched Cape in the stomach.

  Cape felt a rib snap and blacked out, but only for an instant. He landed on the couch and opened his eyes in time to see Julio make an overhand lunge with the hunting knife.

  Julio staggered sideways as Rebecca rolled against his legs, her arms wrapping around his left thigh. He reversed the knife and slashed at her hands but swung wide. Rebecca jammed her thumbs beneath his knee cap. Julio snarled as he brought the knife around for another swing.

  Cape vaulted off the couch and kicked Julio in the face. The knife sank into the couch, the indentation of Cape’s body still visible where the blade had torn through the leather.

&n
bsp; Julio kicked free of Rebecca, whose face twisted in agony as the shrill whine that Cape could barely hear tore through her brain like an angry hornet. She crawled a few feet away and collapsed facedown, legs kicking as if she were having a seizure.

  Julio set his eyes on Cape and took a giant step forward.

  Julio’s boss had been murdered right in front of him. It might not be Cape’s fault, but Julio wanted to kill someone and Cape was willing to put up a fight. The math was simple.

  Julio gave a guttural cry and slashed sideways, catching Cape across his right arm. Blood flew into his eyes as Cape yelled, clutching his torn bicep with his left hand. He fell to the floor, his knees landing on the shaft of the medieval spear.

  ***

  Sally rolled and kicked André in the stomach just as he squeezed the trigger. The shot was wide but she felt something rip across her cheek below her right eye. She heard a crack somewhere behind her, loud enough to cut through the rushing of the wind and the incessant whine that was working its way into her head.

  André doubled over, hands on the floor, his right still clutching the gun. Sally thought for sure he was going to throw up but she was wrong. He lurched forward, dragging the gun across the floor and twisting his hand so the barrel pointed at her legs.

  Sally grabbed him by his shirt and used his body weight for leverage, launching herself over his shoulder. By the time her ass hit the floor behind him, Sally had her legs wrapped around his neck. André pulled the trigger one last time, aiming at nothing, before Sally twisted her legs like a corkscrew and broke his neck.

  Cape heard a crack overhead but couldn’t risk taking his eyes off Julio, who had flipped the knife and was holding it underhand, stepping in for a slash at the throat. Cape pawed at the ground and wrapped his left hand around the shaft of the halberd, then forced his bad arm against the couch and pushed against it as hard as he could. He lurched sideways as the knife cleaved the air.

  Another crack and a wet sudden explosion. Cape felt a stabbing pain in his back and thought Julio had found his mark.

  That’s when he saw the piranha.