“Give me the keys,” said Curtis.
Juan Two Saints brought his eyes up to the man speaking. He was wild eyed and covered in sweat and blood. His grip was relentless. Their faces were inches away from one another. Juan could see teeth, and he had no doubt that this man would chew his face off if he didn’t do what he told him. He held the keys behind himself, awkwardly, stretched out and away from the bars.
He could have tossed the keys. He could have thrown them into a corner. He could have dropped them on the floor. He had a gun in his pants. He could have shot this madman. But the more he looked at him, the less Juan Two Saints wanted to do that. The madman before him was one of the Americans. Juan had thought he was the soft one. He looked at the man on the ground. Juan didn’t know if he was dead or alive, but he could still smell blood. Slowly, deliberately, he passed the keys through the iron bars and into Curtis’ hands.
***
Senora Colon stood alone in the doorway. The warm light from the house kept her as a dark shadow.
“I will be interested to see how you deal with this situation, Mister Mendes,” she said. “And whether or not we have a long term relationship.”
It was exceedingly clear to Eduardo what she meant.
“I think you’ll be calling me to congratulate me on a job well done.”
“After this, you and I will never speak again. Good night, Mister Mendes.”
She began to move away when Eduardo called to her.
“Senora?”
She paused, annoyed, since the last word had been hers and already spoken.
“Tell me one thing?” he asked.
From the dark figure in the door, Eduardo saw an almost imperceptible nod. Eduardo pointed to the Porsche Carrera in the driveway.
“You drove here, didn’t you?” he asked. Maybe she could see him smiling, but when she spoke, her voice was cold.
“Good night, Mister Mendes,” she said.
***
Juan Two Saints had a needle in his hand. He had thread in the other. The contents of the first aid box had been spilled over the nearest desk. It was as old as the rest of the station. Curtis thought of asking if they should boil some water for the needle.
Instead, he asked, “Do we have time for this?”
Juan looked at the clock. Then he looked at the mug of coffee on the desk. He poked his finger into the coffee.
“No,” said Juan. “But we have to.”
He had poured clean bottled water over the wound and was mopping it with a bandage. He took the needle then, ignoring the very skeptical looks of Virgil and Curtis, and stabbed the hematoma. He clotted it immediately with a bandage. Virgil winced and then sighed. Juan began to massage the wound.
“Better?” Juan asked. Virgil nodded.
Juan clotted the wound with bandages and then laid them on the desk. Virgil saw the mess and reflected that it had all come out of him. A vision occurred to him of the man lying in the cell behind them.
“Is he dead?” he asked.
“Not yet,” said Juan flatly.
“Do you know who he was?”
Juan Two Saints nodded.
“A man you do not want to meet.”
He thought of the way that man’s head looked, and hoped his own head looked nothing like it. It occurred to him then what had almost happened. It occurred to him then what he now owed to Curtis. He watched his slight, skinny friend pace.
“We need a car,” said Curtis, coming back to them.
Juan reached into his pocket and threw his keys to him.
“It is in front,” he said. He handed a stack of bandages to Virgil. He told him to finish patching himself up in the car. He handed his radio to Curtis.
“Habla espanol?”
“A little.”
“Listen to this. It will work for a few hours, but it is not fully charged. Make a straight run for the border until you hear them talking about the highways. Then get off.”
Virgil was picturing the man on the floor of the cell. He was picturing himself naked and bleeding in his place.
“What is your name?” asked Virgil.
“Don’t tell him,” interrupted Curtis. “In case we get caught.”
He didn’t say that they would be tortured and killed. He didn’t say what he knew, which was that no one could withstand torture, and when enough pain was applied, he would answer any question they asked.
These were things Juan knew too and wished he didn’t.
“They call me Juan Two Saints,” he said.
“Thank you, Juan Two Saints,” said Virgil.
“Juan, the big man, Jefe…he took our guns and our passports. All our ID’s.”
Juan walked into the office. They could hear desks and cabinets opening and closing. The sounded like the old metal kind that could be found in every municipal building all over the world. Juan came back with a brown paper bag. He handed it to Curtis. It was heavy and filled with their guns.
“Where are the passports? And the wallets?”
“Jefe will have them.”
“Why did he leave the guns?”
“Guns are common. A US passport is valuable.”
Juan reached into the back of his waistband and brought out a revolver, placing it on the desk. Virgil slowly climbed to his feet.
“You’re not coming with us?” Curtis asked.
“No, he’s not,” said Virgil, understanding.
“What are you going to tell them?” Curtis asked.
Juan Two Saints walked to a nearby desk and began rifling the drawers. He slapped a pair of handcuffs on the desk. The coffee in the mug rippled. He rooted through another drawer until he found what he needed. He held out a heavy nightstick to Curtis.
“Nothing,” he said.
Curtis felt sick as he began to see it. He wanted nothing to do with this.
“I was overpowered as I entered the cell. I was severely beaten,” said Juan. “I was lucky to survive, but I don’t remember anything else.”
“I’m not going to do this,” said Curtis.
“If you don’t, he will kill me.”
“There has to be another way.”
“Not in Mexico.”
Juan walked back to the cells and waited in the doorway. He looked patient, but there was little time. Curtis looked to Virgil, who could barely stand up straight. Virgil understood.
“You have to,” said Virgil.
“How can this be right?”
“Without him, we would still be in that cell.”
Curtis felt like he was in a trance. He had forgotten about the urgency. He had forgotten about the police, who would no doubt be returning soon. He had forgotten about the weight of the bag until he set it down with a heavy thud and started across the room. As he did, Juan clicked one handcuff around his wrist and put his hands behind his back. Curtis heard the other bracelet click.
“I’m so sorry,” said Curtis, with the bat in his hand.
“It’s all right,” said Juan. “I actually want it to hurt.”
“Why are you doing this?” Curtis asked.
Juan Two Saints smiled as he walked into the cells.
“Because I’m a police officer,” he said.
Chapter Ten
Virgil – Monterrey, MX
Curtis wasn’t speaking. Before tonight, Virgil had never even seen Curtis in a fight. He thought of Curtis with the heavy night stick in his hand, and then Juan Two Saints saying, “If it’s not convincing, they will kill me.” He had smiled gently when he said it. Virgil knew his friend and knew what he was made of, so when Curtis finally hit him, the man took it and said, “I have a family. Do this for me.” A flurry of violence exploded from Curtis, the stick striking the man as he stood, the man falling, and the stick following him to the ground. The stick continued to fly. It flew again and again until Virgil caught Curtis by the wrist. A single drop of blood rolled down the stick and on to Curtis’s hand. It stopped before it reached Virgil.
“I think he�
�s covered,” Virgil said.
He ushered Curtis out of the cells, and though he tried not to, he glanced down at the man who had attacked him. His face was a mess. His arm hung awkwardly. He looked at Angel, naked except for his underwear, and remembered how close he had come to being that man. He stole one last glance at Juan Two Saints. Suddenly, he felt bad for neither of them.
***
Virgil had a terrifying thought. He kept it to himself, imagining that he was being hysterical. He didn’t speak Spanish. He didn’t know where they were. He looked into the sky for the moon. He found it, but it meant nothing to him.
Finally, he saw another sign, and he knew he wasn’t crazy.
“Where are we going?” He realized he had yelled.
“Back to the house,” said Curtis.
“What house?”
“Colon’s house.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“No,” said Curtis. “I am absolutely clear.”
“About what?”
“About everything. Finally.”
“I want to leave Mexico now.”
“We have to stop first.”
“Why?”
“We’re going to pick up Aureliano Colon, and we’re going to bring him back with us.”
“He’s dead. You told me all about it.”
“No. I was wrong. Everyone was wrong. Colon is alive and well and living a quiet life.”
“I don’t care what he does. I don’t care if he lives or dies. I want to go home.”
“You just don’t understand.” His voice was strangely calm. Virgil knew Curtis was prone to excitement. He was one to get carried away.
“Help me understand.”
“I bet on Aureliano Colon. He outsmarted me. I bet everything I had and I lost. I tried again, and Eduardo Mendes beat me. This time, I was ridiculed. I was put out to pasture. You know what? I have a chance to prove I wasn’t wrong. That I’m not a joke. Imagine if you suddenly got the chance to prove that guy had a gun, and he was pointing it at you. What would you do to prove it, to get your name back?”
Virgil looked again for the moon. He had lost it in the clouds. There were no other cars on the highway, and the roadside was growing thick with trees. He remembered the bag of guns at his feet. He rubbed the wound on his head.
“How far away are we?” he asked.
***
Eduardo paused as he touched the door. He tried to smile arrogantly, but his lips were filled with nerves. He was painfully aware of how much he had to lose.
“What did I miss?” he said with a smile upon walking into the bar. He saw the Russian size him up again. The Russian nodded.
Ordo was eyeing him as if he hadn’t eaten in years.
“You have bigger balls than I thought,” shouted Ordo.
“Is he still planning to kill me?” Eduardo asked quietly.
“Eventually, yes,” said Strauss.
“I don’t suppose you would talk him out of it?”
“You have about two minutes before Ordo finishes his drink and comes over here. While we wait, do you want to tell me how you and the Russian know one another?” asked Strauss.
Eduardo’s eyes darted automatically for the nearest washroom. Strauss waited patiently.
“It was a favor for Colon,” said Eduardo.
“A favor?”
Eduardo looked at Strauss for the first time. He was tall and stoic and impassive and patient.
“Colon asked me to send two men for some work. Instead, I hired the Russian and I came myself.”
“What were you thinking?” asked Strauss incredulously.
“I was looking for his secrets,” said Eduardo, in a voice so heavy and deep that it could only have told the truth. He felt better saying it aloud, and worse all at once. He waited for Strauss to ask what had happened, but he never did. He saw Ordo Beltran and his quickly draining glass.
Eduardo exhaled long and loud. He hoped to drive out every nervous cell in his body. When he breathed again, the air was smoke and liquor. He thought of his father and his summons to Mexico. He walked directly toward Ordo Beltran. Then he smiled.
“I’ve seen a lot of men before they died,” said Ordo. “None of them looked as happy as you.”
“Today is not my day to die.”
Ordo laughed. He looked to the Russian, who did not smile.
“Where is your man?”
“My man?”
“Your protection. Strauss. He is hiding across the room with his creepy friend. He washed his hands of you.”
Eduardo could see Strauss, and he could see the distance between them.
“He doesn’t need to hear what I am about to say.”
“He’s heard men beg before.”
“You won’t need to beg. You just need to say yes.”
Ordo looked puzzled. He wasn’t sure if he should be amused or offended. Instead, he looked at the Russian and laughed.
“Say yes to what?”
“My offer.”
“What is this now?”
Eduardo exhaled. This time, he did it through his nose, so no one would notice. He had a fleeting thought of his first meeting with Colon.
“I had a woman in Texas. If I said she was beautiful, that wouldn’t do justice to what she was. Imagine God having a fantasy of the most sexually perfect woman, and then breathing life to her. That was my Odalys. She was my creation, and I loved her. Last week, I had a man tear her apart with a knife.”
“Why?” asked Ordo. It seemed he was genuinely intrigued. Eduardo felt his steam rising.
“Because I am a survivor. Many men in this business like the idea of being ruthless. Very few truly understand it. To be genuinely ruthless is not to be cruel to your enemies. To be genuinely ruthless means to be cruel to those you love most, including yourself, if that is what it takes to survive and to succeed.”
Ordo looked into his glass for inspiration. Eduardo took a chance.
“My accountant is dead. My woman is dead. My connection is alive, and my customers are alive. I am alive. My money is alive. I have work ahead of me. I cut ties between me and every single living human being who could hurt me. I am alive, and they are not. Tomorrow, I am going to make money, and they will stay dead. What do you think about that?”
Ordo said nothing.
“This business is filled with talkers. Men who have a lot to say about what they will do if, and what they might do when. I have already told you what I did when I needed to do it. What I am willing to do is now obvious. Your friend will vouch for me, will he not?”
Ordo looked uncomfortably at the Russian. He nodded.
“So what are you saying?” asked Ordo, suddenly sounding unsure.
“I’m saying I need new people. A new organization. One that is tight and ruthless, made of men who have no problem making lots and lots of money. Would you like to be part of an organization like that?”
Ordo stared into his drink. He pretended to be mulling over the offer, but Eduardo could already see his offer taking effect.
“I notice you’re not still threatening to kill me,” said Eduardo.
***
Curtis turned the lights off while he was on the main road and slowly, silently rolled the car through the driveway. The house rose up before them. There were no cars and no sounds. The entire property was still.
They found the front door open a few inches. Virgil looked nervously before he remembered that they had broken it. The room behind it was dark. He reached out to push it open when a voice spoke from behind them.
Virgil spun, his hand on his weapon, thumb breaking the catch and ready to draw. He saw Curtis had dropped to a crouch. They looked across the empty field, all the way to the trees. There was no one there.
They voice came again. It was speaking Spanish in harsh static. Curtis laughed. He reached into his back pocket and removed the radio they had taken from Juan Two Saints. Curtis looked like he wanted to laugh. He clicked the off button.
Then they heard a woman scream. It wasn’t the radio. It was inside the house.
***
“You should get rid of the old man,” said Ordo to Eduardo. They all turned and looked toward Strauss, except for the Russian. Guillermo was refilling their glasses.
“You still don’t know who he is, do you?” Guillermo asked.
“I know what I need to know,” said Ordo dismissively.
“You think you do,” Guillermo responded. He saw the look coming from Ordo. “Twenty years ago, in Juarez, if you needed a man dead and it couldn’t be done, he was the one to do it.”
“Why couldn’t it have been done?” asked Ordo.
“Some people were protected.”
“There’s no such thing,” said Ordo.
“No,” agreed Guillermo. “Not anymore.”
Eduardo saw Strauss returning his phone in his pocket as he approached.
“That was the call,” said Strauss. “But it was not the call you wanted.”
***
It was an awful, desperate, choking cough. It was tough and clear and followed by a plea. Then the plea disappeared.
They made their way up the stairs. Curtis went first. He heard water. It was splashing roughly, spilling onto the floor. They heard gasping. The woman was begging for air, begging for reprieve, begging for it to stop, all of it in desperate, unfocused sounds.
“Por favor,“ came the first articulate sounds. A man screamed at her.
“In English!” he shouted.
“Please,” she said. They heard a splash, and there was no more talking.
They followed the screams to the master bedroom. The bureau drawers had been opened haphazardly. Gaudy lingerie spilled forth. He saw a long black phallus with straps on it. A machete rested on top of the bureau. Blood glistened on the blade. The bathroom glowed bright white and pink. A filthy man held a woman’s head under the water.
He wore old khaki shorts with huge pockets. He wore a simple work shirt, and it was gray and wet. He had thinning hair. His skin was tanned from being outdoors. He didn’t look at Curtis.
Curtis heard her voice again. It was Maria. It was the woman they had found locked in the basement. She was on her knees now. There was water all over the floor. Her hands were bound behind her back with metal bracelets, and she was dressed like a prostitute, in only a skirt and a bra. Her hair was soaking wet.
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