15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers)

by Luis Samways

  I was staring at myself in the mirror, wondering why. I needed to know the full extent of my situation. I decided that after some sleep, I’d go and see somebody. Attempt to find something out. I needed to know if I was truly dead or if I was just imagining the whole thing.

  I stepped away from the mirror with two things on my mind.

  I needed sleep and thought about the dreams I’d been having. Why were they coming to me like that? What was the meaning of the lights? And why does a dead man need sleep at all?

  “Guess I’m not dead,” I said, pulling the covers off the double bed. The sheets underneath were bright white and looked clean enough to eat toast off.

  I climbed in and closed my eyes. I decided not to think about anything anymore. I had been doing too much of it. If I wasn’t careful, I’d fry my brain and become a vegetable.

  Ignorance is bliss. Knowledge is power. Too much of both is a curse.

  Forty-Seven

  I woke up gasping for air. Turning my head to the left, I saw the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was 2 p.m. I had been asleep for around seven hours. I had dreamed about the lights again. The voices were still calling my name. I sat up and swatted the pillow onto the floor.

  “Damn it!” I huffed, annoyed by my rude awakening.

  I was growing tired of the whole ordeal. A thought of suicide popped into my head. For a second or two, I contemplated it. But then reality kicked in. I was dead already, or at least that’s what I assumed.

  “Enough of the theories,” I said, climbing out of bed and rushing around the room.

  I grabbed my clothes off the floor and put them on. I slid my jeans on and decided to go without my hooded sweater. I settled for the V-neck shirt I had underneath. It was mighty hot in my hotel room. I caught a glimpse of the sun in the window. It looked like a scorching day outside. It made sense to look the part. I didn’t want to bring attention to myself by wearing a sweater in the sweltering heat. I needed to stay fresh-faced and cooled down. I was tired of feeling flustered and wanted to be comfortable.

  I was just about to leave when I noticed the envelope I had placed on the side table near the door. I looked at it for a long while, contemplating its contents. I knew what was in there. I’d be stupid to not realize the fat man in the white suit had paid me off for the briefcase. I just couldn’t figure out why Bill had set me up with the deal. He was obviously going to deliver it himself. Did he think I’d need the money on the run? I guess he wasn’t aware of the ten grand that I had taken with me. If he was, I doubt he’d be that inclined to be a Good Samaritan.

  I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my own envelope. I saw the fat wad of cash that hung out of the sides and smiled. I was practically rich. I could do what I wanted with the cash. I could party. I could go into business for myself. But the one thing I knew that would come in useful was the fact that I could lie low. I’d able to support myself with the cash. I could buy food and maybe rent a property of my own. I could wait for everything to blow over. I wondered if the hotel had access to American TV. Maybe I’d be able to keep tabs on my story. See what the press was saying about me.

  I set my envelope down next to the mob stash and stared at both. Part of me didn’t want to open the mob one, but I knew I’d have to. So I did. I grabbed it and sat on the edge of my bed. I gently parted the manila envelope, holding it away from my face just in case a puff of powder plumed out of it and I got infected with some sort of disease.

  Luckily for me, the old mob trick of anthrax in the envelope was a miss, and all the package contained was another fat wad of money. Pesos, to be precise. Lots and lots of pesos.

  “Holy shit,” I said as I attempted to count them out. I didn’t have the brain function to count the cash, so I grabbed a bunch and stuffed it into my pocket. I was just about to put the stash back when I noticed a note in between the money. I pulled it out and read it.

  There was only one sentence on the note. It wasn’t signed or anything.

  It just said:

  Your work is done.

  Forty-Eight

  With the ten thousand pesos in my pocket and a newfound momentum, I headed out of my hotel room with nothing but the truth on my mind. I was now engaged on a quest for truth, and I would be damned if I didn’t turn every stone looking for it.

  I reached the foyer and saw the same check-in clerk at the desk. He was a little fresher-looking in the afternoon sun that was beating through a skylight above the desk. I could see little specks of dust rise and fall in the air as I approached. He gave me a smile and handed me sixty-five dollars.

  “Your change. You didn’t order a girl, so I am reimbursing you. Also, I can’t accept the money you gave me to search for the room, so here is your hundred dollars back,” the guy said, looking a little disappointed. I could tell he’d been told to give me the money back. Maybe he told his manager, and the guy flipped out on him. And there I was thinking that Mexico was the land of bribery to get your own way.

  “Okay, fine. Put down the hundred and the sixty-five toward my room. How many days will that give me?” I asked.

  “Um, well…according to my computer, you can get eleven days for that price. Some sort of loyalty discount for long stays. Should I put you down for eleven days?”

  I fished in my pocket and pulled out ten thousand pesos. I placed it on the desk and watched the young kid’s reaction. His eyes lit up, and he started checking the computer some more.

  “One month,” the guy said.

  “Good enough for me,” I replied.

  There was an awkward moment of silence as the kid filled out a form for me. I signed it, not using my actual name.

  The kid looked up and squinted. “Jack Beaver?” he said out loud.

  “Close enough,” I said, about to leave. I was a fan of 24. I guess the adventures of Jack Beaver would never compete.

  “They didn’t let me keep the money,” the kid said as I reached the exit.

  “Who are ‘they’?” I asked, turning back around. I could see his expression was one of a startled kid. Somebody who knew they shouldn’t be telling me whatever was about to come out of his mouth.

  “I can’t say,” the kid said.

  “Suit yourself,” I replied, leaving the hotel.

  I didn’t look back. I just continued down the street. I went around the corner, and, to my surprise, I saw the two young beauties who were there the night before. I walked up to them. They were too busy speaking to each other to notice me, but when I cleared my throat, they turned around.

  “Oh, it’s you. You run out of hookers to fuck?” the prettiest one asked.

  “Nope. You could line them all up, and I’d still have plenty,” I said, nodding my head and bidding them farewell.

  The two girls smiled at me, and I walked off. I knew where I was going. At first when I left my room, I had no idea who I’d talk to, but now I had spoken with the clerk at check-in, I knew where to go. I knew that the fat man in the white suit was the person I needed to speak to. Why else would he check up on where I was staying and threaten the kid behind the desk? Maybe he knew something I didn’t.

  Forty-Nine

  I walked up to the same bar I’d been in the night before on my “welcome to Mexico” inauguration. The door still looked as black as night, and the paint was still peeling. I could hear the same sort of music playing on the other side of the door. When I opened the door and went through, the music hit my eardrums with considerable force. The bar had a different atmosphere compared to the night before. It was teeming with people. I struggled to walk through the crowds. They all had their backs to me; they were watching some sort of soccer game. I think it was a national game. I saw Mexican flags on the table, some of the patrons waving them as they drank from their large pint glasses.

  There was dense smoke in the room coming from various cigars and cigarettes. People were ignoring me, all of them transfixed by a big projector screen in the corner of the bar. To my right I saw the same sleeping
Mexican slumped in the corner. This time he had a large wine bottle in his hands and a lit cigarette in the crook of his mouth. He opened his eyes and winked at me, closing them almost immediately.

  I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. I felt out of my comfort zone. There were too many people around me, all speaking a language I didn’t understand. I wasn’t sure if they were aware of me. They seemed to be in a trance, every now and then shouting at the top of their lungs at the actions of the referee on the television. I saw the ref whip out a red card to the sound of a near atomic bomb of emotions.

  “Puta!” I heard someone scream.

  I decided that I wasn’t going to hang around much longer. I needed to talk to the man in the white suit. I needed to know why he paid me off and why he was keeping tabs on me. Ever since I left the bar the night before, I felt like people were watching me. It was like a permanent feeling of eyes penetrating the back of your head, watching your every move. Maybe it was unjust paranoia, but seeing that I’d had a bad couple of days, I thought the paranoia was justified.

  I made my way through a sea of people. I brushed against somebody, knocking their beer bottle to the floor. I closed my eyes in anticipation of a stiff punch to the face. In my experience of bar hopping and drinking in pubs, knocking somebody’s beer over was a cardinal sin that usually resulted in your teeth being shoved down your throat. But when I opened my eyes again, I saw the person smiling at me and telling me it was okay.

  “No problem, amigo. It happens,” he said, turning his attention back to the game.

  I was curious to know why the man had been so friendly. He himself looked a little rougher than he sounded. He had a very stiff face and gold teeth. He was covered in tattoos, and I could see a knife sheathed on his belt. But when I saw the score line on the TV, I understood why the man was so calm and forgiving. Mexico was beating Argentina by four goals to nothing. I guess that sort of score would make any Mexican happy.

  I reached the smoky bar and sat on a free stool. It was the only one left. All the others were taken by women. It was a strange sight to see. All the men had their backs to the bar, watching the big screen, while the women were commingling with drinks, facing the bar. I felt like an outcast. The women around me gave me a weird look, but I remained calm. I snapped my fingers and beckoned to the bartender. He hadn’t noticed me. He was too busy flirting with one of the obviously married women. I thought it was mighty brave to do something like that, especially if the woman’s husband was somewhere in the bar, enjoying a drink. It didn’t look like it fazed the bartender, though. He was the toughest-looking son of a bitch in the bar anyway.

  I snapped my fingers again on the off chance that he hadn’t heard me.

  “Hey, bartender!” I shouted over the chaotic sound of beer drinking, joking, and arguing.

  He shot me a look from across the table and shook his head. I could see he was angry. He didn’t like being talked to like that. Or even talked to at all, by the looks of it, unless you had a perfect set of breasts, that is.

  He stormed over to me and slammed both hands down on the bar, leaning over me with a snarly look on his face. If he were an animal, he’d be a hyena. He had that sort of look about him, one that enjoyed pain and laughed in the face of danger.

  “What the hell do you want, gringo?” he said, hissing the words out at me.

  “I want a drink. Now, be a good boy and get me one, comprendé?” I said.

  I was fed up with being talked to like dirt around here. It was like I had a sign on my back that said “kick me when I’m down.”

  “You want a fucking drink? I’ll get you a fucking drink,” the guy said, turning his back to me and grabbing an empty beer bottle from the washing-up bowl.

  “I hope you don’t mind warm beer,” he said, unzipping his pants and urinating into the bottle. He then plunked the dripping bottle down on the counter and smiled. “There is your drink, puta,” he added, admiring the frothing beverage with a smile.

  I got up and swatted the bottle toward him. It hit his midsection, spilling all over him. His face turned a bright red. He was just about to grab me by the scruff of the neck when his Bluetooth earpiece went off. He clicked it inward and answered, still sporting a savage look on his face.

  “Bueno,” he said, clicking it back in and giving me a coy smile. “Looks like the boss doesn’t want me to gut you just yet. Get your ass down to the cellar. He wants to speak to you.”

  I nodded my head and caught a red light beaming from the right-hand corner of the bar. I saw it was a security camera. It was pointing at me, blinking nonchalantly. They must have been watching my interaction with the bartender. I guess they saw something in me, because next thing I knew, I had another meeting with the boss. I just didn’t know how important this man was. If I did, then maybe I wouldn’t have swatted urine all over one of his workers. Even if the guy had deserved it.

  I walked behind the bar, the bartender opening the cellar door for me. He gave me a slight nudge as he pushed me into the darkness, slamming the door behind me.

  “I guess this is the moment of truth,” I said to myself while walking cautiously down the dark stairs. “Do you die from a bullet to the head, or does the Mexican drug cartel skin you alive?” I muttered, knocking on that ominous cellar door for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

  “Enter,” I heard a familiar voice beckon.

  Fifty

  “I want to know what was in that case! Why give me all that money? Why me at all?” I demanded as I sat down on the chair, not even giving the man in the white suit the chance to greet me properly.

  “It is not of your concern,” he said, cracking his fingers as he spoke. He had two armed men next to him on either side of the table. A large stash of American money was planted in the middle of the desk. He saw me looking at it and broke into a grin.

  “You like the color of green, Mr.…?” he asked.

  “My name is Bryan,” I shot back, grinning myself.

  “Sure it is….Bryan.”

  There was a long silence. The two goons on opposite sides of the table gave me equally daring looks. As if to test me. They wanted me to lose my temper, I could tell. That’s how they knew whether or not to trust me. Or so I thought.

  “You strike me as an odd man, Bryan.”

  I turned to see the boss still smiling at me. His white suit was immaculate under the beam of light coming from his desk lamp.

  “I don’t really consider myself odd at all,” I replied.

  “Well, that could be up for debate.”

  “It sure could,” I said.

  The man in the white suit relaxed his cheeks and sighed. “There’s just something about you. Something I can’t pinpoint. When I look into a man’s eyes, I usually see their soul. It’s like yours is missing.”

  There was another long pause. I could hear the goon on the left side of the desk grinding his teeth. He was seething in anger. I then noticed the security camera setup opposite him. He had a perfect view of the monitors. And for some reason, he had a dark look to him. He hadn’t taken his eyes off me since I entered the room. He looked quite similar to the bartender. I didn’t put two and two together until he finally said something.

  “Hey, gringo!” he yelled out of the blue, cradling his automatic rifle in his hands like a newborn. “You think I’m going to let you get away with what you did to my brother, coño?”

  I didn’t say anything. I just looked at the man in the white suit, who immediately went red. He stood up, slamming his fist onto his desk. It startled me and his two bodyguards.

  “Callarse! Don’t you say another word! Your damn brother provoked the boy in the first place. If you talk out of line one more time, Hector, I will personally see to it that you never speak without permission again.” The man in the white suit sat back down. “Excuse my outburst, Bryan. It’s just business. Sometimes it gets heated. I can trust that you know the meaning of it, am I right?”

  I didn’t know what
he was getting at, but I played along. The goon on the left called Hector had stopped staring daggers into me. He had a look on his face akin to a scolded dog who knew he was in for a whupping after shitting on the carpet.

  “I know you have to do what you have to do,” I said, staring at the man in the white suit. I decided that I wanted to come off strong. I wouldn’t last a minute in Mexico if I was perceived to be anything but strong. They kill people for lack of courage around here. In Mexico, honor is everything. And I wanted everybody to know that I wouldn’t be pushed around. It was the only way I’d stay out of jail, or worse, the ground.

  “One has to do things sometimes that go against their moral code. When somebody is used to partaking in certain forms of cruelty and violence, they become used to the sight of pain and anguish. You strike me as odd, that’s all,” the man in the white suit said, crinkling the sides of his mouth a little into a contorted grin.

  “I am not odd,” I argued.

  The man in the white suit stood up and reached into his jacket. He pulled out a newspaper clipping and laid it on the desk, facing the right way up for me to read. It had my picture on it, along with a headline that read Dangerous fugitive suspected of faking his own death is believed to be hiding in Mexico.

  “Now, forgive me for being so blunt,” the man in the white suit said, walking around his desk and up beside me. He stood there and looked down, his face half covered in the blackness of the room. “I just find it odd that a man who is wanted by the U.S. authorities for murder would jump the border and stay in a town that is a mere few miles from the place where they are wanted,” the man said.

  “I don’t understand,” I replied.

  “It isn’t for you to understand, Bryan…or should I call you Derrick? Just know this. I know who you really are. And I know what you are really doing here.”