by Tim Green
"It could be a while," Macken said.
"If she's got something connecting us to that place, there better be nothing left by tomorrow night but some smoke and a dirty drain."
He flicked away the inch-long ash tip of his fat cigar and plugged it back into lips. The end glowed a fiery red.
Mandy waited until the sound of their voices faded away through the bedroom. She poured a fresh drink, downing it in three gulps, and poured another. She rose, steadying herself on the statue, and staggered toward their empty spot at the rail with the drink in one hand and the bottle in the other. On the granite floor, her husband's cigar lay in a speckling of black soot and white ash.
"You think I can't do something about it?" she said, talking to the cigar. "You think I'm one of your whores? You can keep eating that Viagra like M &M'S but you're no man."
She nudged the cigar with her toe and saw that beneath the black ash of its tip a small orange ember still lived. She thought about his wrinkled, bony hide snuggling up to her in bed, his cold limp thing on her leg and hot bourbon breath in her ear asking her for "a poke.''
"I know how to stop you," she said, resting the bottle of vodka on the table and tossing what remained of her drink over the railing. "You son of a bitch. I'll do it.
"I'll do it," she said again. "You fucking gargoyle.''
She stamped the cigar, grinding it flat into the tiles, smearing the ember into the burned-up waste and the soggy leaves, smiling as it crunched beneath her toe like a bug, dead and unknowing, and then her heels clicked across the terrace and down the back stairs to the office where he did his work.
CHAPTER 66
TWENTY FEET FROM THE TABLE, TWO BIG FAT MEN IN BLACK cowboy hats, jeans, and Western shirts with rhinestone pocket buttons stepped in front of him. Jose held up his hands, shouted his name above the music, and asked to speak with Flaco. One frisked him, examining Jose's cell phone, while the other held a finger to his ear and spoke into his lapel before they returned the phone and let him pass. Jose glanced up and saw the riflemen relax.
The gold grill in Flaco's wide smiling mouth winked at Jose beneath a thin black mustache. Flaco's bug eyes spun around the table from whore to whore as he finished up a story that left everyone laughing. Jose's eyes traveled quickly over the women with big breasts and big white teeth, but lingered to study Flaco's cronies, two young punks he didn't know.
Flaco's eyes widened even more when he saw Jose.
"Eh, Jose mi espanol irlandes," he said, poking his hat back up on his forehead with a long-nailed thumb.
"You know," Jose said, sitting down in a space Flaco made for him on the edge of the booth and resting his beer, "up there, they call me a Mex. Down here, I'm a mick. I'm a man without a country."
Flaco laughed and rolled his eyes at the whores and, in Spanish, introduced Jose as the only good cop north of the border. A waitress set down a dozen pale green shooters that shimmered in the changing light.
"You gonna like this, amigo," Flaco said, raising a glass. "Is green like your Irish ass.''
Jose obliged, slammed his glass down after he swallowed its contents, and put back another before offering up a grin and telling Flaco, in Spanish, that he needed to see Soto.
At this, Flaco grew instantly serious and at the stiffening of his body, Jose saw the riflemen swing their guns back his way in unison, like a small school of fish. From the corner of his eye, he caught a minute red laser dot spring to life on his hand and scuttle quickly up his arm like a roach, coming to rest, he figured, at the base of his skull. Absently, he rubbed the skin behind his ear.
Jose took a breath.
Flaco cast an angry look at his compatriots and flicked his head. He gripped Jose's arm and leaned close.
"You come in here asking for Soto?" Flaco said, his words a snaking hiss. "Are you fucking joking with me, man? Does he know? Are you fucking with me? Are you wired? Because if you are, we'll gut you like a fucking fish."
The two fat men Jose had passed by now reappeared. Flaco glared up at them.
"He wired? You check for that?" Flaco asked them accusingly.
One of the men lifted Jose roughly from the booth, and together they swept their hands up underneath Jose's shirt and combed through his hair. One of them examined his ears and open mouth with a penlight while the other dropped his drawers and frisked everything in his boxers and boots.
"What?" Jose said. "Aren't you going to kiss me first?"
After the inspection, he buckled his pants and glared at Flaco. Around them, the thin crowd continued its dancing and drinking without pause.
"You don't say his name," Flaco said, shaking his head like a dog at the kill. "Every other motherfucking badass bitch you can think of is looking for the man. The Cougar. That's what he is called."
"Well," Jose said, "I thought I had a marker. Maybe I was wrong."
"You think you got a marker? I think you got a fucking marker in your brain, man," Flaco said.
"You going to call?" Jose asked. "Or are you saying he pusses out of a deal?''
"You crazy bitch," Flaco said, sliding out of the booth. "I'll get him word. I don't promise nothing."
Jose watched Flaco disappear through a back door with one of the big fatties. He took a swig of his beer, but before he could enjoy a second, Flaco burst back through the door, put a hand on Jose's shoulder, and leaned close.
"He said for me to tell you that you got cojones the size of cannonballs," Flaco said. "Muy macho."
Jose nodded and said, "Solid steel."
"We'll see," Flaco said. "Come on."
Outside Perro Rojo, a Suburban raced up the alley and came to a rocking halt. Two thugs in black cargo pants and T-shirts jumped out, handcuffed Jose, and wrapped his eyes with ACE bandage, taping it tight. After spinning him around like a child in front of a pinata, they helped him into the SUV, which took off with the same yip from its tires that had announced its arrival only moments before. They turned three or four times a minute for the first ten, then the road got straight. They took that for a time before pulling an abrupt U-turn, where Jose felt the truck nearly roll. They rode back twice as fast, Jose's heart in his throat, he guessed their speed at somewhere over a hundred miles per hour, before taking a sudden right and going for nearly an hour on a bumpy road. Twice, Jose's head bounced off the ceiling, eliciting chuckles from the two men who sat on either side of him, gripping his elbows.
When the SUV finally stopped, Jose climbed out and held out his hands for the cuffs to be removed.
"Vamos," one of them said, telling him to come on and grabbing him by the collar.
They helped him into a helicopter, buckling him in as the blades chuffed into motion. The bird lifted, tilting forward, and eased up and away from the earth. Jose figured they flew for twenty minutes before descending to a soft landing. They hustled him off and lifted him by the armpits up a long set of what felt and sounded like stone steps. He heard the creak of massive metal doors that clanged shut behind him before heavy hardware rattled back into place. From the echoes of their footsteps, Jose knew they passed into and out of two large chambers before coming to a halt in the middle of a third, where the cool air seemed to swallow all sound.
When they removed his handcuffs and unwound the bandage on his face, Jose saw before him the big sad eyes and heavy drooping jowls of his old nemesis Soto.
CHAPTER 67
ON SOTO'S PINKY, A FIFTEEN-CARAT DIAMOND WINKED IN competition with the diamond Rolex Presidential on his wrist. His hair, thin and matted flat with grease, showed the band from the cowboy hat that rested on the arm of his bulky leather chair. The only thing that had changed in the five years since Jose had last seen the Cougar was the plastic oxygen mask fixed to his face. He nodded at Jose, removing the mask and placing it atop the valve of the tank resting beside him on a little cart. An empty chair sat facing Soto. A small table with a silver pot of coffee and two dainty cups separated the chairs.
With a quick glance around, Jose knew the
gigantic space was some kind of a cave, even though the polished granite floor, Turkish floor lamps, Oriental rug, and heavy leather chairs bespoke a palace antechamber. Soto poured from the pot a thick brown stream whose curls of steam tickled Jose's nose with the rich scent of coffee.
"I like to offer my finest coffee to my guests," Soto said in a wheezy but still sonorous voice. "It's from Jamaica. Blue Mountain. They ship it with the coke and weed. Those crazy black bastards know good cafe.''
His lips parted just a bit and the hint of a smile tugged one corner of his mouth. "Drink the coffee slow, my friend.''
Jose saw the three thin red beams, splinters of light in the black cave beyond the rug, directed at him from different angles. He looked down and watched them move in slow steady orbits around his breastbone, only slightly left of center.
Jose made a show of looking at the rug around him and said, "You get a new rug for every guest or send it out for cleaning?"
Soto finished pouring, sat back with his cup, and waved a hand.
"Don't even think about those," he said, pointing at Jose's breastbone. "It's only a precaution."
"I feel so much better. Thanks, Soto.''
After sipping the coffee, Soto lurched as though he were going to vomit, rested the cup and saucer on the arm of his chair, and quickly grasped the oxygen mask, plastering it to his face and inhaling deeply.
"Smoking?" Jose asked after he had settled down, nodding at the tank.
Soto shook his head.
"Bomb," he said, returning the mask to its tank and easing back into his chair.
Wearily, he fluttered his fingers at Jose and said, "This is why all the red dots. My life is filled with red dots now. I like that they don't seem to affect you the way they do some people."
Soto gently patted his chest. "I lost one lung and part of another, but…"
He shrugged and sipped his coffee.
"Well," Soto said, "let's talk about you. To do something this stupid, you must have a very big problem."
"Nothing you can't solve," Jose said.
Soto looked at him, unblinking. "I like to return my favors, but only to a point. Things, as you can see, are-how would you say it-constrained."
"Nothing happens in Nuevo Leon without your knowledge," Jose said, sipping from his cup.
Soto let his lids droop and he inclined his head.
"There is a factory south of Nuevo Laredo, just off the highway," Jose said. "Big place. Can't miss it. People are being shipped in there like frozen dinners. I need to know who and what and why."
Soto mashed his lips together, inhaled through his nose, and let it out. He took his own cup, lifting it daintily to his mouth as he leaned forward and said, "After what you did-betraying your own government to allow me my escape-in a strange way, I consider you a friend. A loco brother."
Soto raised the tiny cup toward Jose and said, "So I'll tell you what I know."
CHAPTER 68
E LIJANDRO LIFTED THE POT FROM THE STOVE AND BEGAN BANGING it with a spoon. He smiled at Isodora and said they needed to celebrate. Paquita danced around his legs wearing an indigo crepe dress and jangling silver bracelets on her arms, bracelets belonging to her dead grandmother. The banging grew louder and louder. Paquita spun faster and turned into an enormous black whirl. The bracelets spilled to the floor like spare change and Isodora began to shout at Elijandro to stop it.
Isodora yelled so loud she awoke and saw a guard banging her metal food bowl against the steel door.
"Wake up," he said, speaking Spanish. "Come with me if you want to see your little girl. Now."
Isodora felt for the dirty sheet and pulled it close like a shawl. Her feet swung from the narrow bed and she staggered toward the door barely feeling her legs. Her mouth, too, felt numb, so when she asked where Paquita was it came out in a garbled mess. She followed the guard, though, without hesitation. Nothing mattered but Paquita.
Down a long hallway, past dozens of cell doors like her own, she followed the guard, her bare feet slapping the cold and dirty concrete floor. Slime oozed from the ceiling, discoloring the walls with a moldy fur. The smell of human waste fouled the air.
Outside the door, she saw the starry sky above the haze of a halogen streetlight. A single box truck sat idling, spewing diesel fumes into the wind that carried them her way. The guard rolled up the door in the back of the truck and there, in the dark, lay Paquita, swathed in a dirty sheet like her own, sleeping fitfully. A small shriek escaped Isodora's throat and she threw herself onto the bed of the truck, scrabbling to climb in.
The guard grabbed her legs, lifted, and shoved her forward. She wrapped herself around her little girl and Paquita's eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused. Isodora began to cry.
"What do we do with these?" a voice outside the truck asked.
"We're getting rid of them," said another.
The door rolled down, slamming shut with a shudder that Isodora felt in the floor beneath her. She could see nothing, but it didn't matter.
She held her little girl tight.
CHAPTER 69
JOSe SLUMPED DOWN IN THE FRONT SEAT OF THE '67 FIREBIRD, peering just over the air scoop and watching the white panel van sitting across from their motel room. The van didn't belong. The faint glow from the tip of a cigarette burned in the darkness, confirming his suspicion. The man-or more likely the men-sitting in the dark van outside their motel room meant one of two things: either they already had Casey or they were waiting for him to show up and planning to take them at the same time.
"Keep going," Jose said, slumping farther down. "Just drive past and don't look at anything."
"I'm just supposed to drop you and go," the punk said, speaking English, but in a thick accent. "I'm no tour guide."
Jose dug into his pocket and peeled off a hundred-dollar bill, extending it to the kid.
"Something extra," Jose said, allowing the kid to snatch it. "Just keep going and look normal. You can drop me around the corner."
The kid did as he said, cruising right on through the motel parking lot with the car's pipes rumbling, then screeching when he pulled into the street, burning up his mag wheels until they came to an abrupt stop at the light.
Jose looked back. Nothing moved except the hair on the back of his neck. "Nice," he said sarcastically.
"You said 'look normal,' the kid said with a lazy shrug, one hand draped over the steering wheel.
"I'll give you another hundred for that shitty little.22 you got in your boot," Jose said to the kid, opening the door.
"No way," the kid said, peering up from beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. "I ain't going naked."
Jose peeled off a second bill and said, "For two hundred you can buy ten of those pieces. C'mon, I'll put in a good word with Flaco."
The kid raised his pants leg and removed the steel black.22 with a broken grip, handing it to Jose for the two hundreds.
"You got any extra shells?" Jose asked.
"Man, you ain't got to shoot more'n once if you shoot straight, old-timer."
"Right," Jose said, shutting the door and slipping the gun into the waist of his pants before he scooted into the dark.
He made his way through the shadows and around to the back of the motel. As he studied the terrain, he dialed up Casey's cell phone, listening for tension in her voice as she answered the phone.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "Where are you?"
"Outside."
"The motel?"
"Did you park the car by that car wash around the block?" he asked.
"Yes. What's going on?"
"Just stay calm," he said. "Don't go to the window, but I think we have some visitors out front. There's a white van. I'm out back and I don't see anything, but hang tight. Throw your things and mine in our bags. I'll ease up to the bathroom window and knock twice if it's clear."
Jose hung up and crept along slowly, his eyes scanning every nook and cranny, stepping into the rotten carcass
of a dead animal and nearly vomiting before wiping his boot sideways in the switchgrass beyond the broken pavement. When he reached the window to their room, he studied the shadows around him one final time before rapping his knuckles softly on the glass.
Casey swept the curtain aside and her face appeared. Quietly, she opened the window and handed their bags out before climbing through herself, Jose helping her to the ground. He mashed a finger to his lips and signaled for her to follow and stay close. When they reached the far corner of the building he paused in the shadows and took a pair of night-vision goggles from his bag, peering around the corner and directing them at the van.
Inside the vehicle, he could make out three men in what looked like bulletproof vests carrying assault rifles and waiting, still as mannequins.
"What do you see?" Casey asked, her hand on his shoulder and her lips whispering into his ear.
"They aren't here to kidnap us," he said.
"Then why?" she asked.
"They're here to kill us. Come on."
Casey had dozed off and Jose let her sleep while he drove them back toward home. When she woke they were at a gas station and he was outside the Mercedes, adding fuel under the halogen lights. The sky showed no sign of the coming dawn and although no rain fell, the blacktop still bore the slick puddles and stains of earlier weather. Casey stretched, yawned, and got out, putting her hands on his shoulders and her face against the muscles in his back, absorbing his heat in the predawn chill.
"Want to use the facilities?" he asked.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"About an hour south of Dallas," he said. "Almost to the Lucky Star Ranch. I'm going in for a coffee with about three shots of espresso for a booster. Want one? Can you believe they have espresso in a gas station?"
She yawned and said she'd take a coffee and hit the restroom. When she returned, he fired up the car and pulled around the side of the truck stop.
" Sharon called twice," he said, glancing her way. "And a couple numbers that didn't have a name. I wanted to let you sleep."