“I’m sorry, but you can’t go in there,” the physician replied, but the Bus was already halfway down the hall.
“Hey!” the man shouted.
Three doors led away from the reception area. The Bus stuck his head into the first room. It was empty.
“Hey, you can’t—” The doctor tried to block his path, but the Bus easily pushed him aside.
“Don’t try me, asshole.”
In the second room, an elderly nurse was watching television. She nearly had a heart attack when the bodyguard burst in.
The third and final room was empty. The Bus swung around, furious, and saw the nurse who’d admitted Treviño filling out forms on the computer.
“Where is he?” he demanded.
The nurse looked at him, wide-eyed.
“He was right there, in that room. They took care of him and he said he was going to leave.” When the nurse saw there was no one there, he lifted his palms apologetically. “I swear.” But the Bus didn’t stick around to listen to his excuses, because someone was screaming out in the street. He drew his gun and ran down the hall until he found a door.
He had no choice but to take cover from the explosion. He waited a moment, then ran around the building to the front entrance.
Except for the nurses and doctors beginning to mill around, there were no suspicious persons or vehicles in the parking lot. The Bus holstered his gun when he realized that he, in fact, was the suspect. He watched silently as the flames grew higher.
“Enough!” the nurse yelled. “Can’t you see we’re sick and tired of all of you?”
The few vehicles passing by at that hour of the night slowed a bit for a better look at the fire blazing in the parking lot, then sped up again. Not a single squad car or fire truck ever appeared. In the middle of the blaze were the skeletal remains of the Maverick and something that had been sitting on the passenger side.
19
After walking for nearly an hour from the scene of the crime to his room on the second floor of the hotel, the Bus closed the door behind him and collapsed on the bed. He was disheveled and exhausted, with his tie undone, his blazer in his hand, and his clothing soaked in a sea of perspiration.
Fucking Treviño, you thought you were so smart. But sometimes things don’t turn out how you’d expect. The doctors and nurses had fought the blaze tirelessly, afraid it might spread to the clinic. Not one had offered him a kind word, though. They were clearly convinced that he and Treviño were mixed up with the criminals somehow.
The fire department never did arrive, but when the medical staff finally managed to put out the blaze, he saw with his own eyes that there were no human remains in the Maverick. The car’s interior—if you could say a car that’s been blown up has an interior—and its chassis were burned to a crisp, but there was no corpse.
The Bus had stood frozen in the first row of the crowd, staring at the blaze. While the same nurse who’d reluctantly let them in finished spraying the remains of the car with yet another fire extinguisher, the bodyguard concluded that whoever did it had used grenades. He imagined several, though of course one would have been enough to destroy a car that old. A useless unarmored car with no air-conditioning. He didn’t even want to think about how angry Mr. De León was going to be when he found out.
Typical, Treviño. You’ve got balls. I’ll give you that, but you were way off this time. And look where it got me. He was good, sure, but not even all that good: it had been two days and they still hadn’t found the girl. Besides, he should have seen this attack coming a mile away. The problem, he thought to himself, is that this mess with the girl is on me now. The thought annoyed him, especially because his first assignment was probably going to be to find the detective’s body. It wasn’t that his colleague’s absence particularly upset him; he’d only just started to warm up to him. But he should have split a long time ago. Fucking reckless Treviño, you should have gotten out while you still could. After grumbling about the unpleasant work cut out for him, he wondered where the hell they might have taken the detective. All I need is for them to send me into those two warring organizations, looking for him like I was the fucking detective. For a long time—at least, for as long as he could keep his neurons focused—the Bus wondered what was happening to Treviño at that very moment. He imagined him lying by the side of the highway with a bullet in his back; in a safe house with his hands and feet tied, about to be asphyxiated with a plastic bag. He imagined a chainsaw slowly approaching his body. Whatever, he was asking for it. Who does he think he is, anyway?
Mr. De León hadn’t picked up when he called right after the incident, so he called the consul to let him know what had happened. The gringo couldn’t believe it.
“Stay right where you are. Wait for our instructions.”
There was no way he was just going to stand around in the street, though, especially not since those guys could figure out Treviño wasn’t alone and come back for him. He thought long and hard about his options and decided to go back to the hotel.
“Would you call me a cab?” he asked the nurse, who rolled his eyes.
“Do you really think a taxi is going to pick you up here, after what just happened?”
The Bus reflected on the implications of the question while the young man pressed the lever on the fire extinguisher one, two, three more times.
“You could walk. Or you could wait for the sun to come up and take the bus.”
“What about the checkpoints?”
“I doubt they stuck around after the blast. They know the army or the marines will send a patrol. At daybreak, obviously, so they don’t have to catch the guys who did it.” Then, tucking the fire extinguisher under his arm, he said, “If you’ll excuse me,” and went back inside the clinic.
It took him over an hour and a half to walk back, hauling his 275-pound frame along the best-lit streets in town. Every now and then a pickup with tinted windows would slow down as it passed him, but no one got out to question him. Whenever this happened, the Bus was sure he was fucked: the mere fact that he carried his gun in a holster marked him to both criminal organizations. If anyone stopped to search him, he knew he’d have trouble getting out of there alive. So he kept walking, and when he finally saw the lights of the hotel, he told himself that at least that part of the ordeal was almost over.
The front desk attendant’s jaw dropped when the Bus stepped into the lobby, sweaty and disheveled after his odyssey.
“What happened to you?”
The bodyguard didn’t answer.
“My key.”
The kid handed it over without taking his eyes off the driver.
The Bus kept going until he reached his room and threw himself on the bed, cursing the detective and his thing for old cars. Then he thought about how fond Mr. De León was of the Maverick, which he’d driven when he was young. As if he could read his thoughts, the magnate called five minutes later.
“What were you doing when they took Treviño? What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I was doing my job.”
“Your job was to keep him safe, stupid. If we lose him, we lose my daughter too. Go find him. Now. Who took him?”
“Seems to have been Los Nuevos, sir.”
“I don’t know how you’re going to do it, but you’re going to get him back right now, you incompetent son of a bitch. And if we’ve lost him, you’re going into that goddamn compound and you’re going to get my daughter out. Do you hear me?”
He hung up while the Bus was still blathering apologies into the receiver. Asshole, thought the bodyguard.
This is your fault, Treviño, he went on. You shouldn’t have agreed to come with us. Besides, who would leave such a beautiful woman alone on the beach? With that smile, that smooth cinnamon skin, that silky hair … Who would leave her behind? It was the detective’s fault. That’s how this all started. The things he’d had to do these past few days. That little assignment he’d been given with La Caterpillar. How the fuck did I let m
yself get roped into that one? Why didn’t I just tell him to go to hell? He thought back to what had happened earlier at Babydollz. La Cat had swished her bulk down the hall and the Bus hadn’t had any choice but to follow. The host walked in front of them, a room key in his hand. When she passed through the glow of a red light, she reminded him of a certain wrestler known for his bad temper. He could feel himself losing his nerve. “Listen, I’d rather just have a drink and talk,” he’d said. “As friends. Wouldn’t you? Order a bottle of champagne, maybe?” But La Caterpillar had just stared at him.
It took him a minute to realize that his second cell phone, the personal one, was vibrating in his pocket. He had a text message:
THERES NO FOOD LEFT AND WATERS SHUT OFF. WHEN R U COMING HOME?
He realized he hadn’t touched base since the morning. His lady needed help. Of course she was anxious. He answered:
RITE 2 THE BOSS AND SAY 2 BRING FOOD. BE THERE 2MORROW NITE.
Then he added:
NEED SOME SPECIAL TIME WITH U … U HAVE NO IDEA WHAT HAPPENED HERE.
He looked at his watch. It was three thirty in the morning. Mr. De León was crazy if he thought he was going anywhere near that compound. How was he supposed to get past three security fences? His height and build meant he usually stuck out like a sore thumb. And he wasn’t looking to get caught. He figured he’d probably get fired. Fuck ’em, he thought.
He didn’t want there to be any doubt about what had happened, and since the police had abandoned Ciudad Miel months ago, he was going to need to get to the next town over—with all the risks that this implied—and file a report. But first, he needed to wait for the sun to come up; he was too tired, anyway, to take a single step. He didn’t expect much to come of his visit to the precinct, besides getting a copy of the police report to show his boss. With any luck, he thought, they’ll tell me when they find Treviño’s body, and that’ll be that. I can’t see why they’d keep him alive.
Without taking off his clothes or his boots, the Bus pulled the blanket up over his eyes, then stuck his arm out and fumbled around until he managed to turn out the light.
The pain in his legs and groin nearly woke him up screaming. A line of fire ants was going to town on him. He seemed to recall leaving some gordita crumbs in the bed.
He tried to regain his composure after stripping down and shaking off the insects, but when he got back into bed he thought, There really is something about this valley. He wasn’t able to fall asleep again. He lay there like that until dawn, when his work phone rang again. It was Mr. De León.
“Yes, boss?”
“Come back. We heard from the kidnappers.” And he hung up.
The Bus did the math. Four days it took them, he thought. Four fucking days. About goddamn time. They sure dragged it out. He lay there a little while longer and thought, What if they’re not the real kidnappers? What if they’re bullshitting? News of the girl’s kidnapping had probably gotten out by that point, and it wasn’t impossible that a couple of smart-asses had decided to take advantage of the situation.
After his shower, the Bus put on the pants he’d worn the day before. He noticed a lump in the pocket and pulled out his notebook. During the drive, he’d convinced Treviño to discuss his experience as a detective, and he’d jotted down a few phrases he didn’t want to forget when they got to the hotel. What had he said about the job? There’s not much to tell you. Don’t trust anyone, and never leave home without your piece.
When he went into Treviño’s room to gather his personal effects, he found the contract the detective had signed with Mr. De León. The Bus was blown away by how much he stood to earn. Fucking hell, he thought. I picked the wrong profession.
He thought about Treviño for a long time, how all his hard work had come to nothing. That stubborn son of a bitch. If he hadn’t been so thorough, he’d still be alive. But hey, he thought, smiling, the bastard was asking for it. I’ll have a burger or two in his memory when I get back.
At exactly eight o’clock in the morning, the police in El Torito, six miles from Ciudad Miel, informed him that filing a report for kidnapping and destruction of property would cost him a thousand pesos.
“You don’t want to examine the scene?” asked the Bus, surprised.
“What’s the point?” said the officer who’d taken his statement. “We wouldn’t be able to get prints off anything, anyway. Take your report and have a nice day.”
As he left, one of the officers guarding the door remarked loudly, “Nice mustache. I’m gonna start trimming mine just like that.”
Four hours later, after he got off the first bus headed toward the port, a taxi dropped him off in front of his employer’s mansion. The guards at the gate could tell he’d been through the wringer and opened up for him.
“What happened to the car?”
“They burned it,” answered the Bus, annoyed.
Mr. De León shook his head as soon as he saw the Bus coming up the stairs. With an expression of complete disdain, he read the photocopy of his driver’s statement to the police, then crumpled it up and threw it to the floor.
“You let me down, Valentín.”
His first instinct was to hurl insults at his boss, but he didn’t have the energy. He was so tired and irritated that he asked for a personal day instead. He needed to go home and rest.
“You have twelve hours,” said the magnate. “If you’re not back first thing tomorrow morning, you’ll be replaced.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wait, wait. We should talk first.” As if the exhaustion weren’t enough, the consul wanted him to sit there and go over every detail again. When the gringo asked if he’d be willing to take a lie detector test, the Bus almost beat him to a pulp. But he agreed. He was there for an hour, and every few minutes he felt like he was about to keel over. Eventually, the gringo let him go.
“We should have sent Moreno,” he said.
The Bus silently imagined dishing out another ass-whipping while he asked how the kidnappers had contacted the family. The consul signaled to Moreno, who showed him a sheet of yellow paper in a plastic bag. Close up, it was clear that the kidnappers had cut letters out of the newspaper to make the note’s four lines of text.
* * * WE HAVE CRISTINA * * *
* * * SHE HAS A BIRTHMARK ON HER BACK * * *
* * * WE WANT THREE MILLION DOLLARS * * *
* * * GET THE MONEY READY AND WAIT FOR OUR INSTRUCTIONS * * *
They’d included a Polaroid of the girl with the note. In the picture, she was on her knees in a room with a concrete floor, trying to cover her face. There was no mistaking her for anyone else, though. No one else had her eyes or bone structure. Instead of the pink dress she was wearing the night she was taken from the club, they’d dressed her in white sneakers and a blue track suit that hung loosely from her frame.
“We found the note inside a plastic bag caught in a pine tree out back. We don’t know how long it’d been hanging there,” Moreno said. “Whoever left it didn’t know the house well and didn’t realize we wouldn’t see it there, or else they knew it very well and knew it’s the only place on the property where we don’t have security cameras.”
“So, there’s nothing on the video feeds … nothing unusual?” asked the Bus, weakly.
“Nothing,” Moreno responded, taking back the evidence. “Go get some rest. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
The Bus walked unsteadily down the stairs, dragged himself across the parking lot, and got into one of the Lobos.
On his way home, he stopped at the supermarket. He deserved to enjoy a feast with his lady, even if it meant maxing out his credit card. His life had been in real danger, after all. I deserve it, sons of bitches. He’d been sending her text messages since he got on the bus. She hadn’t answered, but he figured she’d just run out of credit on her phone. Who cares? he thought. I’m alive and we’re going to celebrate.
He grabbed a shopping cart and started grabbing food as if it was the last thing he w
as ever going to do. Three baguettes and a package of serrano ham, some sliced manchego, and two bottles of French wine went into the cart, followed by two rotisserie chickens, six cans of pickled chiles, two packages of corn tortillas, three jumbo bags of potato chips, and a big bottle, the biggest they had, of Tabasco. He started to head toward the cashiers but turned around and dropped two cakes and three pints of ice cream into his cart, along with a box of chocolate chip cookies, a bag of frozen strawberries, and a pack of Chocotorros. Then he threw in some Old Spice lotion and two boxes of condoms. Too bad they don’t sell gorditas, he thought. If I see a place that’s open, I’m buying a pound. I’ve got lots to celebrate. I’m alive, and things are looking up.
The Bus hadn’t really had many long-term relationships. Or any, for that matter, aside from the ladies of the evening he visited regularly from the time he was a teenager. Women just weren’t interested. Which is why he felt so lucky to have met La Muda, despite the age difference (she was more than fifteen years his senior, but even in her forties she still had the body of a twenty-something). The only real problem was that he couldn’t stand the wild gestures she used to make herself understood, since she couldn’t speak, or the fact that she wasn’t very pretty. The Bus, who wasn’t exactly a model of loyalty, told himself he’d trade her in for a newer (more attractive) model the first chance he got. She would do for now, and they were going to celebrate.
It was a short drive, but he nearly dozed off more than once: the all-nighter and hours on the road had finally caught up with him. He parked in front of La Muda’s house and got out, carrying the groceries. He had a small apartment downtown but spent the night at his girlfriend’s place whenever he could: she had a three-bedroom home in a neighborhood full of public housing. It was the quietest place he’d ever spent the night, by far. It turned out that her house was so quiet because all the others on the street had been abandoned when their owners got tired of the constant clatter of gunfire. But La Muda, who had been a cop in La Eternidad for years, wasn’t easily intimidated.
Don't Send Flowers Page 19