15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers)

by Luis Samways

  After a few seconds of me scanning the near empty bar, I decided it was safe to take a seat on one of the stools propped up below the counter. I wanted to make sure no one else was hiding in the shadows, much like that sleeping mustachioed gentleman in the corner. To my delight, it was only him and me in the bar. So I went and sat on one of the stools. They were black, which I thought was weird. The stool felt wobbly when I sat down on it, the legs underneath me buckling a little under my weight. I placed the briefcase on the bar. It remained there as I attempted to loosen up my crooked wrist. I heard it click a few times as I rotated the joint, the pressure that the briefcase had been putting on my hand finally disappearing.

  The music continued to play in the background. I sat on the lonesome stool for a good four to five minutes. I was waiting for somebody. I didn’t know who, but Bill had insisted that I deliver the briefcase, or else. And I wasn’t really in the mood to find out what other alternatives I had.

  After a five-minute wait, I grew impatient. I was just about to leave when I heard a door open. I turned around. The front door was closed. But when I turned back to face the bar, I saw a face staring at me. It belonged to a large gentleman. He was at least six feet tall, which was uncommon around here, from what I’d seen on the streets. He was also very muscular and had a shaven head. I spotted a neck tattoo that ran across his Adam’s apple. I had grown up in Watts, so I knew a gangster when I saw one. Even if this particular gangster had a towel on his right shoulder, and was handing me a beer.

  “What brings you to Tijuana?” he said in a thick accent. His English, though, was impeccable.

  “The sights and women,” I said. It was a fast response. One I had planned in my head. I had heard of stories of guys from L.A. going to Mexico for sex and partying. I decided that would be my cover story. Unfortunately for me, it wasn’t going to fly with this guy.

  “The briefcase?” he said, looking at it sitting by the beer he handed me.

  “I was told to bring it here,” I said, swigging on my beer. I reached into my pocket.

  The guy’s face changed. He put his hand on my arm, stopping me from reaching in. “Don’t you think about it, perro.”

  I sat there, wide-eyed. I was a little confused. The guy was on edge. I knew he was a bad motherfucker. I could see it in his eyes. He possessed a steely cold stare.

  “Money for the beer. It’s in my pocket. I was going to hand it to you,” I found myself stuttering.

  “Your money isn’t welcome here. Now get up and follow me,” the barman said, slowly moving his heavy hand off my arm and clicking his fingers. “Rapido,” he hissed.

  I got to my feet. The stool I was sitting on crashed to the floor. I was about to pick it up when the barman shook his head menacingly at me. “Are you fucking deaf? I said move it!”

  I backed away from the bar, and he ushered me around it. He grabbed the briefcase. He waited behind the bar and opened the flap for me. “Here, take it. It’s yours,” he said, pushing the briefcase into my sternum. I coughed at the impact of the case hitting my stomach. A slight wheeze escaped my mouth. The barman turned his back to me and opened a mysterious black door that hung to the right behind the bar. It sucked open, and the familiar smell of cannabis hit me as he signaled me to follow him.

  We walked down some stairs, about twenty or so steps. It was obvious that we were now in the cellar. Beer kegs sat on either side of the walls, only allowing us a little room in the middle, like a church pew. We came to another door in the cellar. This one was also black. It had all sorts of graffiti plastered across its surface. The menacing barman knocked on the black door. Two heavy knocks.

  “Enter,” I heard a voice say.

  Forty-Three

  The barman allowed me to go in first. He had a grin on his face that I could only decipher as “good luck — you’re gonna need it, pal!”

  I walked into a room. It was a small office. It was dark. The only light emanated from a golden lampshade that sat on the edge of an oak desk. Behind the desk sat a fat man in a white suit. His face was abrasive-looking and sported a very fine haircut. His combed-back hair was neater than I could ever imagine hair could be. Not one strand was out of place. Immaculate down to the “T.” The white suit he was wearing was also well kept. In contrast, the room around us was dirty and unused-looking. The man was the only clean-looking thing in the small confines of the room. But I had an idea that he wasn’t as clean as he looked.

  “Please sit,” the fat guy said, in a surprisingly placid tone. He had an inbetweener accent. Meaning, I couldn’t work out which accents he was between. His voice sounded calm and generic. I didn’t know if he was American, Mexican, or English.

  I sat down as he asked. The barman had left us to our own devices. The fat man behind the desk stared at me for a long while. His eyelids didn’t blink. His eyes didn’t give anything away. Mine, on the other hand, were probably telling him my whole life story. I was a bad poker player, so I knew I’d be bad at this. Whatever this was exactly, I didn’t know.

  “The briefcase,” the fat guy said, extending his huge arms. I gave the case to him and felt an immediate sense of relief. I was ever so glad to be rid of the thing. It had been weighing down on me. I didn’t know what was in it, and, quite frankly, I didn’t care. I just wanted to be done with this and get on with my life.

  “You haven’t opened it,” the man in white said. I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. I decided to tell him I didn’t.

  “I know, I can see,” he replied.

  I was confused. I sat back in the chair and waited for whatever else was going to come my way. I was of two minds. I didn’t know if the case was a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe these guys provided protection, and Bill thought I’d be better off knowing them.

  “You can go,” the man said. He stood up and extended his hand to me. I shook it and got to my feet, still holding his hand. He had a firm grip. He didn’t let go. He just stood there for a few seconds, eyeing me up and down. I puffed my chest out and attempted to look hard. Whatever he saw, he smiled.

  “You’re okay, you know that?” he said, letting my hand go.

  “You seem fine, too,” I replied.

  That’s when the awkward silence returned.

  “I’m not fine. I’m a bad guy. A really bad guy,” he said.

  “Am I supposed to be scared?” I asked.

  “Yes, and by the look in your eyes, I can tell you’ve gotten the message. You can go. If I need you, I’ll find you.”

  I shrugged and turned my back to him. I was about to leave when I decided to ask another question. In hindsight, I should have just left. Mobsters are easier to deal with when they don’t know much about you. I didn’t want to give too much away.

  “I don’t get it. What message have I gotten, exactly?” I asked.

  The fat man shook his head. He looked disappointed.

  “I guess I was wrong. You aren’t as smart as you look. Now get going. I don’t want to have to kill you.”

  I didn’t say anything else. I just walked out of the room and back up to the bar. I had a drink waiting for me. The barman gave me a shot of tequila. He then handed me an envelope.

  “For your troubles. Thanks for delivering the briefcase. We will be in touch if we need you. We probably won’t, though. Our business is done,” the bartender said, pouring me another shot.

  I downed both and gave him a smile.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said.

  I walked to the door and was about to leave when I heard him say, “Welcome to Mexico.”

  Forty-Four

  Passing the clock tower again, I noticed it was now 3:45 a.m. The night was quickly turning into day. I needed to find somewhere to stay, or I’d be risking my safety staying on the streets. To my surprise, the two women I’d gotten directions from about forty-five minutes earlier were still on the street corner. Either I was right the first time about them being hookers, or right the second time, and somebody was seriously stand
ing them up.

  I approached the two nicely dressed women and attempted to ask for directions. When they saw it was me again, they lit up. Maybe they were easily taken aback by good looks, but I wasn’t one to consider myself anything but mildly handsome, if not generic-looking. I decided to give them a smile, and they returned the favor.

  “You are obsessed with us? Do you want to ask us on a date or something?” the one on the left said, to a nod from the other girl. It seemed as if these two worked in tandem. Everything they said echoed off each other. They mimicked each other. I then realized that they were sisters.

  “I’m ever so sorry to bother you again, but I’m looking for a hotel room,” I said, breaking another smile. Suddenly they turned cold on me. The one who had been doing the talking didn’t look half impressed with me. She pouted her voluptuous lips and gave me the stink-eye.

  “We aren’t prostitutes. You have to ask somebody else for a good time, gringo!” the other girl said, putting her arm around her sister. She obviously was proud of the fact that they weren’t prostitutes and were very annoyed at me for hitting on them. The thing is, I wasn’t interested in that. I really needed a room.

  “You’ve misunderstood me, girls. I don’t want to have sex with you. I’m looking for a room. To sleep in, nothing else!” I said, pleading with them, my arms out to my sides, showing the white flag of defeat.

  They weren’t biting, though. For some reason, my mention of the word “sex” had set them off.

  “So what? You don’t want to have sex with us? Why not? We aren’t pretty enough for you, gringo?” the pouty-lipped girl said.

  “Um, no. It’s not that. I just want a room, that’s all. I’m very tired.”

  The two girls looked at each other briefly and then relaxed a little. I could tell they were used to being approached by guys. I sensed that these girls were good people, if not a little hotheaded.

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I tell you where room is, okay?” the girl on the left said.

  She pointed down the road I had come from. “On the left, a place called Benito’s. You can get room for the hour there,” she said.

  I shook my head and widened my eyes a little. I couldn’t believe they still thought I was trying to have sex. I needed to make myself clear. “No, I don’t want a room for the hour. I need it for the night. The whole night,” I said to a chorus of giggles from the two beauties.

  “You think very highly of yourself, gringo. You wouldn’t last one minute with me or anybody else. I can tell, it’s in your eyes, you see! The window to the soul,” the girl with the pouty lips said, to a cackle from her sister.

  “Fine, whatever. Thanks a bunch,” I said, walking off and leaving the two cackling witches to their spot on the corner. I was just about to turn when I heard one of them say, “If you want to talk anytime, we will be here, gringo! Have a good night of sex!”

  I rolled my eyes and made my way around the corner, noticing a big neon sign that said Girls, girls, girls…and rooms.

  “This will have to do,” I said, walking up to the seedy looking hotel and reaching for the sticky door handle. “Eww, goddammit. Where’s a Hilton when you need one?”

  Forty-Five

  I walk into the seedy hotel and spotted somebody slumped in a chair at the check-in desk. The place had a weird smell to it. I wasn’t going to hazard a guess as to what exactly that smell was. I walked up to the check-in, and the person behind the desk sat up with a startled look on his face. He turned his head and looked up at the clock on the wall.

  “It’s 4 a.m., sir. You are very late to check-in,” he said.

  I was surprised that he knew I wasn’t Mexican and wasn’t speaking to me in Spanish. Was I really that pale? The mirror behind him confirmed that I was. “I’m sorry, I know it’s late, but I really need a room. I’m beat. My flight came in late,” I said.

  The guy swiveled on his office chair a little as he contemplated my response. I could see he didn’t believe me. “Look, I can’t make exceptions. The latest time for check-in in midnight. You have shown up four hours late. You will need to wait in the lobby until 11 a.m. Then I can check you in.”

  I thumped my fist on the counter. It frightened the young man a little. His buggy eyes shifted from me to the phone on the wall. I reached into my pocket, and he flinched.

  He squirmed. “Please sir, don’t kill me. I don’t make the rules!”

  “Here, take this. If you can’t find me a room, then I’ll go, but if you do, you can keep it,” I said, placing a hundred-dollar bill on the table. I had gotten it from my inside jacket pocket. The envelope the mobsters gave me was still sealed. I had decided that I would only open that envelope in my room — if I ever got one, that is.

  “One hundred dollars? Wow, that is so much. A room here is twelve dollars a night. Forty-five with one of our girls,” he said, noticeably relaxing a little.

  He stared at the note and then at me. He then dragged himself closer to the computer, the wheels on his chair screeching as he did so. He pressed on his mouse and scrolled for a while. His face lit up, and he grabbed the hundred-dollar bill.

  “I have found a room for you. The person canceled late last night. It has been cleaned. You can have it.”

  I nodded my head and held my hand out for the key.

  “You need to pay for the room,” the young guy said, smiling at me.

  “But I just gave you…. Never mind, here,” I said, handing him another hundred-dollar bill.

  “Jesus, man, be careful about paying for stuff in hundreds. American money is good here, but so is your head on a stick if somebody robs you. I advise you to change the money into smaller denominations. Also, changing some into pesos wouldn’t hurt.”

  I nodded and took the key from the check-in clerk. He handed me sixty-five dollars in change.

  “The girl will be up in ten minutes. You like blondes or brunettes?” he asked.

  “I don’t want a girl. I just want to sleep,” I replied, walking off.

  “But sir, I booked you into a room with a girl. Let me change the booking and give you back some change!”

  “Keep it,” I replied, looking down at my room key. “Room 15,” I said under my breath.

  Forty-Six

  I trudged down the narrow hallway. It had green wallpaper peeling off at the seams. I passed a couple of wooden doors. Rooms number 12 and 13 were obviously occupied. I could tell by the loud sounds of sex coming from them. Whatever was going on in those rooms, the people involved sounded like they were enjoying it.

  I finally got to my room. The number on the door was skewed. The “1” was tilted at an angle and the “5” was positioned upside down. A few loose screws were poking out of the sides. I put the key in the lock, and the door jammed open with a loud creak. A distinct smell of chlorine hit my nostrils. The room had obviously been cleaned. But I wondered why they had used so much bleach as I walked in and let the door behind me come to a close. I instantly relaxed at the thought of being encased in four walls. Nobody would find me here. I was no longer in danger. Being indoors is a wonderful thing. Although a little bit of me on the inside had enjoyed my journey to Mexico, relishing all the danger that had surrounded me, I was happy to be in a room by myself. No people trying to kill me. No news stories spreading lies about me. I was home free.

  I took off my sweater and threw it onto the floor. I then walked up to the window and looked out. I saw the sun was breaking on the horizon. It made the city of Tijuana glow in the early morning light. It was magnificent. I felt a smile spread across my face. The beauty of this city made me feel safe. I didn’t know what it was exactly, but being in a country that was surrounded by trouble around every corner made me feel safe. I was hiding in plain sight.

  After a few minutes of sightseeing through my window, I decided to get undressed and hop into the shower. I spent a good ten minutes getting clean. The remnants of the day’s events were still engrained in my skin. My fingernails were dirty, and my body was burned out
. I washed myself and got out of the small shower. For the price, the room wasn’t half bad. It had everything you’d expect from a hotel room. There was a TV and a minibar. The bathroom was clean and had white towels that looked freshly pressed. I guess it surprised me, that’s all. I mean, when I walked into the hotel, I thought it was a dive. It might have been down in the lobby, but my room at least was well kept.

  I dried myself and went to the sink to splash water on my face. I stared at my reflection for a while, pondering my fate. My eyes looked red and dry. My face was pale and lacked color. I knew why I looked the way I did. But for somebody else, they might assume that I was just unwell. But I knew my body wasn’t pumping blood around. I knew my heart had stopped. But what really surprised me was I didn’t look dead. I wasn’t rotting away. I checked my skin. There weren’t any breaks. There weren’t any cuts or bruises.

  I sniffed my hand, and it smelled normal. I parted my eyelids and examined my eyeballs. They looked normal, too. I then placed my index finger on the carotid artery in my neck and felt for any signs of life.

  “Still no beat,” I said, feeling a little depressed.

  Most people would marvel at the fact that they were experiencing the superhuman characteristic of having no heartbeat. But every superhero in the comic books, from Peter Parker to the Fantastic Four, longed to be normal. Just like me. I could remember always wanting to be normal. Even before I collapsed on that run and died, I had dreamed of having a normal life, a life in which I wasn’t conscious of my own heartbeat thumping in my chest, waiting for it to give out.

  I spent twenty years wondering when it would happen. And when it did, I was glad. I don’t know if I had a smile on my face when I collapsed that day, but I was smiling on the inside.

  They say it’s the anticipation that kills you. But when I woke up in the morgue, I was anticipating something different. I thought there had been a mistake. Somehow, somebody had pronounced me dead. But there I was, alive.