“Get out.”
“Who are you?”
“Your guardian angel.”
Juan slammed down the phone.
***
Curtis opened his eyes and it was as if he had been staring at the sun. He saw only huge globes of light surrounded by darkness. The blinding pain had passed through him, up his nose, into his brain, and down his spine. It had been total and overwhelming. He still saw darkness around the globes, but soon he saw more and understood it was blood.
His nose still throbbed, but in comparison, calling it pain was laughable. What he felt was relief. He was on his knees on the floor. His free hand was on the cement. One hand was still cuffed to the bar.
“That’s just a little runoff,” said Virgil with a morbid laugh. “How did that feel?”
“It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt.”
“Yeah, I knew it was going to hurt. Did I mention that?”
“Once or twice.”
He saw Virgil was turned around, twisted, and had a smile on his face. It was a grim smile, but it was a smile nonetheless.
Curtis stared at his friend, not able to place his finger on what was wrong. Then he saw it. It was the movement. It wasn’t Virgil. It was behind him. The drunk on the bench in the tan coat rolled over and sat up.
Virgil’s eyes were elsewhere. His thoughts were inward. Curtis couldn’t hear anything, but he watched as the drunk on the bench got to his feet. He didn’t move drunk. He didn’t look drunk. His movements were quick and confident. His face was lean and hard.
It came to him suddenly, in the midst of all that was wrong. It was just a small footnote in Colon’s story, and he was the only one who cared. He’d seen this man before, seen traces of him, and read a solitary description. He instantly knew this man was called Angel.
Curtis opened his mouth to shout a warning when Angel broke into a run at Virgil. A sound did come out of his mouth, but it was too late. Angel kicked Virgil in the back of the head. His face smashed into the bars.
***
Eduardo stared in horror at what had become of the man he had known. His Colon had been clean and stylish man, well manicured and mannered. The giggling madman in the great armchair beside him looked like he’d been torn apart by animals and put back together with the worst of medieval medicine.
His daughter, Eduardo noted, appeared completely unaffected by his looks. Both of their reactions seemed to delight the old man.
When no one spoke, and Eduardo couldn’t bear the orgiastic smile on what was left of Colon’s face any longer, he had to ask a question.
“You survived the shooting in the car?”
This seemed to make the old man even happier.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Eduardo,” Senora Colon said with mild impatience. “He was never in the car.”
“How did you do it?” asked Eduardo with genuine intrigue. “I know the Americans checked.”
“Tell him,” said Senora Colon. “You want to.”
“Years ago,” said Colon in a rusty voice. “My cousin, his friend, and I went for a ride in a car that was stolen. We all ran, but my cousin was caught. He gave them my name, because I was young at the time. He went back to his village immediately after and never had any trouble again. He was very soft. I told him I would pay him back one day.”
“Eduardo,” began Senora Colon. “Has it occurred to you to ask why my father is living in a filthy shack?”
“I would think because the authorities or competition had begun to pose a threat?”
“You would think, wouldn’t you? When you met my father and his fancy homes, you were impressed. That is what you aspired to have, and he was who you aspired to be. What you didn’t realize, what you never could have known, was that persona—the wealthy, sophisticated drug dealer—was my father’s joke. Why retire peacefully to a country that will never extradite him or hold him responsible for his crimes when he could have a plastic surgeon disfigure him and live out a demented fantasy with that creature he keeps in the basement. My father never cared for money and he still doesn’t. My father changed himself a long time ago. He changed himself from a poor boy on a farm to the comfortable husband of a woman no one else wanted. He changed me from a loving, happy young woman to a shadow of himself. Has he had any fun with you, Eduardo?”
“No,” he answered quickly.
“Are you sure?” asked Senora Colon. “Has he asked you to run an unusual errand for him? Or do anything that was a little out of character? Did he make you think it was actually your own idea? Maybe he’s having his fun with you right now?”
***
Blood squirted into Curtis’ cell when Virgil’s head collided with the bar. The gash split him just over his left eye. Before he could react, or fight, or stand, Angel had him by the collar. He ripped Virgil to the other side and banged the back of his head against the bars. Curtis felt the vibration. Angel threw Virgil to the floor.
Curtis saw Virgil kick. Angel backed off, and Virgil got his one free hand under himself. As he rose, Angel kicked him again in the stomach. Curtis heard a gust of air rush out of his lungs. Virgil collapsed onto the floor.
Curtis could see him on the ground beneath the bench. He had rolled on to his side to shield himself as best he could. He was gasping for air. His head was bleeding. He looked scared.
Curtis knew then that if he had hurt a person like this, he would stop at this point. There was no greater victory to be had, and no further point to make. Virgil was helpless, and he was beaten. But Curtis wasn’t Angel.
Angel raised his shoe and brought the heel down on Virgil’s ear. He did it again. Then he hit his side, under the ribs, by the organs. Virgil rolled on to his back, unable to control himself. He was completely exposed.
Angel didn’t stop.
***
“Why have you brought me here?” Eduardo asked, finally feeling more confident in his surroundings. He looked sideways at the old man’s scars.
“That is a good question,” said Senora Colon. “You’ve been profitable for us, Mister Mendes, but other people have been profitable for us, and I haven’t chosen to meet them. I suppose you’ve intrigued me with your recent exploits. One of my father’s genuinely brilliant ideas was to have layers of insulation from those who might do him harm. My layer of insulation is down the hall drinking whiskey right now. My father’s layer of insulation is that he looks like he stuck his face in a lawn mower. Your layers of insulation were carved up on the floor of your apartment.”
Eduardo swallowed hard and tried not to show it. He thought about smiling, but didn’t.
“She was very beautiful. I’m sorry for your loss,” Senora Colon dryly.
“Thank you,” said Eduardo.
“I understand that there are people who want you to be held accountable for this.”
“I’m dealing with it.”
“The way you dealt with your legal problems in America?”
“I don’t understand,” said Eduardo.
Senora Colon sniffed.
“You were arrested. Suddenly, the agent who arrested you is here in this house, tearing it apart, looking for something. Or someone. It would appear to be a tremendous coincidence.”
“It isn’t.”
“No?” she said, faking intrigue. “Tell me how it isn’t.”
“The man who was here was Agent Curtis. He was the agent who interrogated me.”
From the look on her face, he gathered that these were things she already knew.
“But Agent Curtis miscalculated.”
“About what?” she asked.
“About me. When he realized his investigation into me was going to be revealed as a massive failure, he apparently decided to pursue some other leads. I’ve met the man. I don’t know much about him, but I know he is an accountant. I would expect you left a paper trail for him to follow to this house.”
“We…” said Senora Colon. “Left a paper trail?”
“How would I know about this place
?” he asked.
Senora Colon appeared unconvinced.
“Ask your father,” suggested Eduardo.
Senora Colon never took her eyes off of him.
“My father and I don’t speak,” she said.
***
Virgil wasn’t moving. Curtis could hear him though. A low-pitched painful sound was crawling out of his throat.
Angel stood a few feet away, watching, his chest rising and falling without a sound. Curtis knew his friend wasn’t getting to his feet, but watching Angel watch him, he knew this man was a patient killer. This man would wait all day.
Angel grabbed his own jacket and pulled it off. He dropped it to the floor as if he would never see it again. He wore a strange old shirt. It was plaid and tight on him and looked older than the man wearing it. Angel unbuttoned it, and it fell on top of the jacket.
He was bare from the waist to his neck. A light layer of sweat covered him. There was an ugly greenish burn mark on his right shoulder. It looked like a tattoo that had been burned and melted. There were ragged scars and sharp scars on his chest. He turned, and there were scars on his back. They were long stripes.
He wore a watch. It was gold with a leather strap and, even in this light, it looked very expensive.
Angel paid no mind to Curtis. He didn’t even seem to know he was there. He crossed the room to the sink where the two drunks snored, ignoring them too. He took a gray, gnarled brick of soap from atop the sink and inspected it. He tossed it into the sink and turned on the water.
Curtis heard a faint sound of metal on metal. He saw Virgil’s arm begin to rise, then fall weakly to the ground. He kept moaning. He saw the two drunks lying on one another. He saw Angel unbutton his pants.
***
“I wanted to meet you,” said Eduardo. “Not you, specifically, but you nonetheless.”
“Why?” asked Senora Colon.
“Because I want more,” said Eduardo.
“Why would I give you more? You have enough trouble handling the business we’ve already provided you.”
“This will all go away, and when it does, it will be business as usual.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Eduardo.”
It wasn’t her voice. It was the old man. He wasn’t laughing, and there was no mirthful look in his eye. He was very serious.
“You were given tools, Eduardo. You squandered them, and you ignored my advice. You drew attention to yourself. You, your personal style, your orders, all of these things incite emotions in people. Emotions like jealousy. People see what you have, and they want it for themselves. They see how you treat them, and they seek to treat you like that. They want to trade places.”
Colon spread out his arms.
“Do you suppose anyone wants to trade places with me?”
“I can do better,” said Eduardo.
“At a certain point in a man’s life, there is no being better. There is just what the man already is.”
“If Strauss can kill these men here in Mexico, I can go home and start anew.”
“Can you? Authorities in America know what you are now. They know what you do for a living. Even Strauss cannot fix that. Perhaps what you need is not new people. Perhaps what you need is a new Eduardo.”
“You need me too,” he said aggressively. “If you dismiss me,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “it will take time to rebuild your entire operation.”
“Our entire operation?” observed Senora Colon. “Mister Mendes, are you under the impression that you are our only distributor?”
Eduardo said nothing at all. He could feel the old man’s eyes. He felt as if he were sinking into his chair. He had thought he was the only one. Colon shook his head.
“We’ve enjoyed your success, Eduardo. We have. But you are one of seven. Our operation will not rise or fall with you.”
Suddenly, Eduardo’s mind began to do calculations. It was entirely involuntary, and he tried to stop. He couldn’t. He suddenly found himself entirely overwhelmed.
“Tell me what I need to do,” he said softly.
The old man sighed happily. He stood. He gazed at his daughter. She looked back at him with a quiet hatred in her eyes.
“Sacrifice,” said Colon. His voice sounded content when he said it.
***
Angel walked barefoot on the cement floor. The two drunks hadn’t moved. He had taken the gray bar of soap from the basin. It was now a frothy mass of bubbles in his fist. He tossed it on to the bench above where Virgil lay.
Angel wore only his underpants. It was red bikini underwear with a leopard print band. It looked obscene.
Angel studied the man on the ground for a heartbeat. Then he leaned down and slapped Virgil in the face. It was gentle at first, and Virgil shuddered, but when his eyes didn’t open, Angel hit him hard.
Virgil rolled onto his stomach. His knees and shoes scraped on the floor. He tried to get under the bench. He reached for the bars. He reached into Curtis’ cell. Virgil’s eyes were fixed on him, begging for help. One side of his face was coated with blood. The other side was coated with confusion and fear. Virgil dug in and pressed his face into the bars. It looked as if he were trying to squeeze himself through them.
Angel pulled him away and dragged him out from under the metal bed. Wordlessly, and without even a grunt, he picked Virgil up and dropped him chest down on to the bench. Singularly focused, Angel locked his left hand on the back of Virgil’s neck, holding him in place. What tiny bit of light there was in the room glinted off the watch for the thinnest of seconds. Virgil, weak and exhausted and unable to defend himself, reached with his free hand, but Angel slapped him away uselessly. He used his hand and feet to push down Virgil’s pants. Virgil’s eyes rolled upward, and he coughed. “No,” he said desperately.
Angel reached down for the soap and stopped suddenly. His eyes met Curtis’ eyes. They were inches away, just on the other side of the bars. Angel’s cool, distant eyes looked into those of a man possessed.
Angel’s glance shot down to his arm as two hands locked onto him from the adjacent cell. His arm was coated in sweat. Curtis gripped, and his hand slipped. They slid just a fraction of an inch and no more. His grip was held fast by the expensive watch on Angel’s wrist.
Angel looked up in shock. It was a look his face was not accustomed to making. Curtis, normally methodical and prone to hesitation, had no time to think. He pulled back with everything he had and ripped Angel face first into the iron bars.
Curtis saw life in slow motion. He saw Angel’s jaw fall open. He saw Angel’s eyes lose focus. He felt the muscles in his arm soften. It was only for a fraction of a second. He felt a jolt of electricity as Angel began to awaken. So he pulled him again.
Blood spurted from Angel’s head and struck Curtis in the face. It didn’t stop or slow him. Curtis pulled him again, his fingers circled around the expensive watch. He felt the collision of bone and metal deep in his ears. Curtis felt numbness in his extremities. He put a leg up to the bench. It was leverage. He pulled Angel’s body as hard as he could. He pulled until his whole shoulder was in his cell. He pulled until he heard that shoulder pop. He felt Angel go limp, and felt his body falling. He pulled again. He heard a crunch. He pulled again and again until Angel stopped moving. Curtis pulled until he couldn’t breathe.
Angel’s arm reached up from his cell and into the next, held in the air by Curtis’ hands. His body lay slumped atop Virgil. His head had imploded, and a purple mush-filled dent was all that was left of where his hair and forehead had been. Dark blood leaked from him. Curtis stood with one foot on the bench and felt himself shaking. He let go, and Angel’s arm fell loosely. His body slid helplessly off of Virgil and landed with a limp, meaty slap on the floor.
Virgil rolled his eyes upward without lifting his head off the bench. He looked at Curtis as if he expected to see someone else. Then he lifted his head up, not far, but enough.
“How?” he asked, still trying to breathe.
Curtis looked back at what had been his bench. Just above it, between the bars, a dull silver Saint Michael pendant dangled in the air, hanging from the end of a long chain, which was clasped onto the end of a tiny handcuff key, twisted into the lock of an old pair of cuffs, which had become stuck on a bolt instead of falling to the ground. “For the mistakes you can fix, and for those you can’t,” were inscribed on the back.
“Thank you,” Virgil said in a whisper, before putting his head back down again.
Curtis was shaking uncontrollably, and it was the proudest moment of his life.
***
The front desk at the police station was empty. Plexiglas separated the desk from the lobby. Scratches lined it from top to bottom. Juan peered through it to the big room beyond. He saw nothing and no one.
He heard papers ruffle and turned sharply. A fan was blowing on a desk. Two sheets of paper skidded about on the floor. He glided through the big room toward the office, looping to the back to see the parking lot. All of the cars were dark.
Back in the big room, Juan looked at the metal door to the cells. He had never cared for the cells. From the start, he had hated to see men inside them. He had always avoided their faces. All he ever saw in the cells was rage or begging. Neither was fit for a man.
There was a mug, filled to the brim with black coffee. Juan touched it. It was still hot. A little wisp of steam floated away from the brim. He set it down and entered the cell.
He smelled blood.
He saw the bare legs. He saw the red briefs. A crazed thought went through his head that the briefs were white, soaked with blood, but that was impossible. The legs were very real. The legs lay bare and vulnerable and unmoving.
He saw blood. He moved closer. It was in splatters, then in a pool. He inched forward. The ring of keys jingled in his bandaged hand. He stood in the doorway and soaked in his failure. He began to shuffle through the ring for the correct key when he felt the presence on him.
A hand raced past his face. It had a hold of his shirt, gripping him, pulling him off balance and into the bars.
His face touched metal. He tasted blood. Juan heard his shirt tear around the neck. He felt another hand grasp his belt.
South of Evil Page 17