They finished setting out the booby traps just before it got dark, leaving the trip wires slack. They were gunpowder/ napalm pipe bombs. Cooksey explained that they would rig them just before they went to bed. There were only ten of them, and it would be an easy matter to set them in the event that anyone nasty arrived during the hours of daylight.
“We’ll need to have Kevin now, my dear,” he said to Jenny while he camouflaged the last one. “He’ll have to walk the property with us so that he knows where these little beauties are to be found.”
“I’ll get him,” she said and ran off to the cottage they had once shared. No Kevin, just the lingering smell of his marijuana smoke.
She called his name, checked the bathroom, both without result, but when she came out the door she heard the sound of a VW starter cranking futilely.
Kevin was in the driver’s seat of the van, twisting the ignition key and cursing.
“That won’t start,” she said.
“Oh, you’re the fucking expert now,” he snarled and tried it again.
“No, but I can take a distributor rotor off.” She took it from her pocket and held it up for him to see. “Kevin, there’s a car full of gangsters down the road. They’re looking for you and me. Could you please just for oncethink!”
He threw open the door of the van. “Give me that!”
“No. What is so important that you have to go this minute?”
“I’ll tell you what, bitch! Me and Kearney are going to blow up the S-9 pump station tonight. Give me that fucking rotor!”
“That’s crazy, Kevin…,” she began, but stopped when she saw the pistol, pointing at her in his shaking hand.
“You’re going toshoot me?” she asked after a hideous pause.
“Not if you give me the rotor.”
As he said this, she could not help but notice that Kevin still had the pistol’s safety on and didn’t know it. Even in the fading light she could see the red dot wasn’t showing. She could also see in his face the flickering terror behind the arrogant asshole mask. It struck her forcefully for the first time that she was the real thing of which Kevin was the counterfeit, and not the other way around. She was tough, and a survivor, and knew her way around the world, and had shot guns, and been in jail. Kevin was a banker’s kid with attitude. She wondered why this had never occurred to her before. In fact, Kevin should not be allowed to cross the street alone. But, she thought, he could change, with some help from her. Now that she knew what a real man was, maybe she could nudge him somehow in the right direction. In any case, she couldn’t just ditch him, the jerk!
“All right,” she said, “but I’m coming with you.”
“No fucking way.”
“Then pull the trigger.” She took the rotor out of her pocket. “And hurry up, because I’m about to fling this thing into the pond.” They stood that way for some moments. Then Kevin cursed and shoved the pistol into his waistband. “Okay, okay, let’s go, then. Put that thing back in the engine!”
“Give me the keys first,” she said. “I’m driving.”
In the dark van Prudencio Rivera Martínez felt his cell phone vibrate. The number showing was that of Garcia, who was crouching behind a tall hibiscus hedge directly opposite the property they were watching.
“That painted van is coming out,” he reported. “The girl is driving, and that little blondiemaricón is with her.”
“Which direction?”
“Just a second.” A pause. “North.”
“I’ll have Montoya pick you up,” said Martínez. He had stationed two cars in blocking positions, one at each end of the short road called Ingraham Highway. His own van was lodged in a driveway in the approximate center of this road. Now he formulated a plan and mobilized his vehicles. In a few minutes, the VW van rolled by and Martínez’s driver, Cristobal Riba, swung behind it. Traffic was moderate.
“Where are we going to lift them?” asked Riba.
“Just ahead. This road goes under some heavy trees. It’s like a tunnel, pitch dark. We’ll do it there.”
“A lot of traffic for a lift,” said Riba doubtfully.
“They’ll think it’s a little accident. Iglesias will jam on his brakes, and you’ll run into their ass. We’ll get out, they’ll get out, we’ll show them guns, they’ll get in with Iglesias and Rascon, and I’ll get in with them and we’ll drive to the garage. One two three.”
Jenny gave a little cry and jammed on her brakes when the black van shot into the road from a hidden driveway and was thrown against her seat belt by the impact.
“Oh shit!” cried Kevin, and the same again when the following van rammed against the rear bumper. Dark-skinned men emerged from each van and walked toward the VW.
“Move the car, move the car!” Kevin screamed. He popped his seat belt and shifted in his seat, looking frantically to either side of the VW, watching the men approach.
“I can’t, we’re stuck,” she shouted back at him, and then she saw the man just outside her window, a thick man with a round hard face, heavy brows, pockmarked cheeks, black hair worn in a brush cut. He was dressed in tan slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt, untucked at the waist.
“You hit my car,” he said in clear but accented English. “You come out now and we show insurance, all right?”
She started to open her door, but Kevin shouted something she didn’t catch and heaved himself across her. To her horror he had his gun out and was pointing it at the man. “Move your fucking car, motherfucker, or I’ll blow your head off.”
Jenny saw surprise register on the man’s face. Kevin’s pistol was trembling right before her eyes and she saw that the safety was still on. She was about to mention this to Kevin when the pockmarked man reached under his shirt, drew out a semiautomatic pistol with a strangely long barrel and shot Kevin twice in the face, making less sound than the popping of two birthday balloons. Kevin collapsed, his dead head fell right on her thigh, gushing volumes of blood. She looked down at it, at the great obscene bulge of blood-matted hair, bone splinters, and ropes of gray brain, and drew in breath for the scream of her lifetime.
Whether she made a sound or not she never knew, for between that moment and the next she felt the familiar shaft of coldness shoot through her center and the sounds of the uncaring traffic faded and the face of the killer and everything else contracted to a bright dot and she went away into seizure land.
Tuesday morning, Lola Wise was still sound asleep, and her husband forbore to wake her. He called the hospital and had a brief conversation with Dr. Kemmelman, the chief resident, in which he said that his wife was suffering from exhaustion and would be out for some days. The doctor said he understood, that such things happened often in ER work, and not to worry. He asked if Paz wanted to pick up some meds; Paz declined. Paz then prepared his daughter for school, dodged a series of questions about what was wrong with Mommy, and took her to Providence. On his way back, he received a call from Tito Morales.
“Did you hear yet?”
“Hear what?”
“We should’ve gone over there last night, man. I had a bad feeling about that. I should’ve gone myself.”
“What’re you talking about, Tito?”
“Around nine-thirty last night a van belonging to the Forest Planet Alliance-remember them?-was jammed up on Ingraham Highway by a couple of vans. Witnesses thought it was a fender bender. A man named Kevin Voss took two through the head from a silenced nine and his companion, a woman named Jennifer Simpson, aged nineteen, was abducted by persons unknown. How do you like that shit?”
“Not much. I presume you’re all over the Forest Planet office by now.”
“You could say that. It’s based out of a big property on Ingraham south of Prospect, the bay side. Owned by a guy named Rupert Zenger, who’s conveniently out of town. Left just the other day, ho-ho. The only residents are a James Scott Burns, some kind of yard man, and a fellow named Nigel Cooksey, he’s an adjunct professor at the U. and the organization’s scientific guy. A Brit. Nothing on either of them, but this Simpson woman has a sheet, did six months in Cedar Rapids for guess what?”
“Impersonating a large spotted cat?”
A silence on the line. “You need to take this shit more seriously, amigo. She was muling dope, felony weight, but she caught a break as a first offender. And a cooperative witness. Also, we found a nine-millimeter pistol in the van that Voss and Simpson were in, unfired, with Voss’s prints on it. We traced it as stolen from a gun shop in Orlando last March.”
“So what’s the thinking now with all this?”
“Oh, thinking is not the word, my man. Finnegan and the county are having conniption fits that we found this FPA outfit and didn’t tell them like immediately. They’re moving to pick up a bunch of Colombians been hanging out on Fisher Island with the surviving Consuela guys. Oliphant is ballistic. How come we weren’t on them yesterday? And like I said last night, the feds are interested because of this Hurtado character. I hear they’re working on a warrant to raid your sister’s company.”
“Uh-huh. I think she’ll be forthcoming. By the way, did you find the Indian?”
“No, but at this point fucking magical invisible Indians are not high on the priority list. Everybody’s pretty well focused on Colombian gang war in the Magic City just before the tourist season.”
“None of which explains the two funny murders.”
“No, but the bosses got the bone in their teeth now. They want some Colombianpistoleros in the cells and we’ll figure out how they did it later.”
“So am I fired from being a funny-murder consultant?”
“Not that I heard. Why don’t you come by this Ingraham place and we’ll consult. They got a pool with piranhas in it. It’s something to see.”
“Twenty minutes,” said Paz. By this time he was on his own street. He went into the house and checked on his wife. She hadn’t moved since the last time he saw her, and he watched her for a considerable time, comforted by her slow, steady breathing. Then he left a note saying “Mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada. Call me when you get up,” and left.
Driving north on Coral Way, Paz had a thought and put it into action. He called his half sister’s cell number on his own cell phone.
“It’s Jimmy,” he said when she answered. “The feds are about to raid your company.”
To his relief she was not flustered by this news. “What’s their interest?”
“Dad, if I may call him that, apparently spent a lot of time on the horn to Cali, Colombia, talking to a fellow named Gabriel Hurtado. He’s a drug lord.”
“¡Coño!”she said, and Paz chuckled. “Yeah, that explains why your books are fucked up.”
“I figured out that much myself. What’s your advice,mi hermano?”
“Total transparency. Fire the old fart accountant, let him and Dad carry the can. Did you have guilty knowledge?”
She laughed. “Are you serious? I have half a dozen witnesses that’ll say he reamed my ass for even asking about a load of funny money I spotted on a balance sheet.”
“Then you should be all right personally. The company could go down, though.”
“I’ll work something out. If we fold, maybe someone will let me waitress in the family restaurant.”
“A done deal, Sis.”
“And thanks for the heads-up. I don’t even know you and I love you already.”
Paz closed the call feeling better and more comfortably Cuban than he had in a while.
There were police cars and a crime scene van parked at the Zenger property. Paz had to wait for Morales to let him through the gate.
“Anything interesting?” Paz asked, taking in the scene.
“Not much, but we’re still tossing the place. The late Voss had a collection of anarchist-type literature and a stash of high-grade marijuana. Also someone had secreted Baggies full of what looks like white bread at various places. They’re going to give it the full lab treatment.”
“Far more dangerous to the health than pot, if you ask me. Get anything out of the Professor?”
“Not much. The abducted girl was some kind of lost soul according to him. Epileptic, too. He seems like he’s a lot more concerned about her than about Voss getting killed.”
“What does he have to say about jaguars?”
“I don’t know. I was saving all that for you. Want a crack at him?”
“Lead on,” said Paz.
They found Cooksey sitting at the table on the patio, looking forlorn. When the two men approached, Cooksey asked, “Have you found her?”
“No, sir, I’m sorry, not yet,” said Morales and introduced Paz as a consultant on the murders of the two Cuban businessmen.
“I don’t understand,” said Cooksey. “What have they to do with what just happened?”
Paz smiled and pointed to the garden. “We don’t know, sir, that’s what we’re trying to determine. How about you and me take a stroll around the grounds. You could show me around and we could talk about it.”
They strolled. Paz asked questions about the pond and the plantings, about the work of the Alliance and Cooksey’s own work. Cooksey was formal, constrained, answering the questions but not allowing a natural flow, which Paz thought was a little off. He’d had much to do with experts in various fields (mainly women) and had learned that when experts got going on their chosen fields, it was if anything hard to shut them up. Another thing that was off about Cooksey was the way he moved down a path. He made very little noise when he walked and his head moved slightly from side to side at each step. Perhaps field biologists also learned to walk like that, but the last time Paz had observed such a walk was when he was in the marines. Guys who had been in close combat walked that way.
They were on a shady sun-dappled path under large mango trees when Paz noticed something glinting against a low trunk in a thin bar of sunlight. He knelt to examine it, then stood and asked, “What’s that?”
“It’s a hook for a booby trap trip wire,” said Cooksey.
“Really?”
“Yes. Raccoons come in at night and steal fruit and try to catch our fish. One can often annoy them by stretching wires across the paths rigged to let off flash-bangs.”
“Raccoons trip over wires?”
“Not precisely. But they have a fascination with any sort of wires, as you’d know if you’d ever had one in the house as a pet. They pull on them, and the thing goes off and they run away.”
“Very interesting. I didn’t know that. They tell me you’re an expert on tropical animals.”
“Mainly wasps, I’m afraid. But I did some general zoology when I was younger.”
“Know anything about jaguars?” Paz watched the man’s face as he said this, and was surprised to see a faint smile form.
“This is about those two Cuban businessmen, isn’t it?”
“As a matter of fact, it is. But I’d be curious to learn how you came to that conclusion.”
Cooksey gave him a long look. “I read the papers.”
“The papers didn’t mention any jaguars.”
Now a real smile. “No, sir, you have me there. Speaking of ferocious beasts, and the press, I must feed our piranhas. Would you like to watch?”
Paz made an acquiescent gesture and Cooksey led the way into the kitchen of the main house, where he took from the refrigerator a large plastic bag containing a whole beef liver. They returned to the paths, on a route that took them through thick lily thorn and wild coffee on a mild upward slope toward the sound of rushing water. When they came into sunlight again they were on a hill of coral rock some fifteen feet above the pool, with the waterfall pouring forth below them.
“We always feed them from here. The force of the water sends the meat down to where they tend to gather. It also helps keep the other fish from unfortunate accidents.”
The red mass hit the boiling foam and disappeared. Within seconds there appeared another boiling below and the water blushed pink. Paz could make out a churning mass of gray forms near the bottom of the pond.
“Can they really strip the flesh off a cow in three minutes?” Paz asked.
“A shoal of a thousand could. We’ve only forty-two. Still, I wouldn’t want to go for a swim in there with any sort of bleeding wound. I don’t say you’d be an instant skeleton, but it would be distinctly unpleasant.” Cooksey washed out the meat bag and put it in the pocket of his shorts.
“About that jaguar, Professor…?”
“You’re not a policeman, are you?”
“No, I was. Now I’m just consulting.”
“On…?”
“Crimes involving uncanny phenomena?”
Cooksey laughed. “Oh, well, then you’ve come to the right place. Since you’re not a policeman, you can join me in a drink. I’d very much like a whiskey just now.”
They went to Cooksey’s rooms. While Cooksey attended to the drinks, Paz looked around with interest and the policeman’s casual disregard for good manners. He noted the ex-laundry room and the sleeping arrangements therein, the neat piles of female clothing and the worn backpack, a framed photograph of an insect fixed to the wall. On what he took to be Cooksey’s desk were three other framed photos, one of a pretty woman holding a child of about two, smiling into the sun, another of an elderly couple in safari clothing, and the third was of three men in military gear, floppy hats, and battle dress, holding automatic rifles. Their faces were darkened for combat, but Paz could see that one of them was a younger Cooksey.
Cooksey didn’t comment on the poking around. He handed Paz a glass of amber liquid, no ice.
“Cheers,” he said and took a swallow. Paz did the same.
“Good stuff.”
“Talisker. It tastes of seaweed. An acquired taste, although I seem to have had no trouble acquiring it. I see you’re looking at my little gallery.”
“Yeah. That picture-you were a soldier?”
“A marine, actually. We were dropping some waffles just then.”
“Excuse me?”
“A joke. When Maggie sent us to the Falklands, Labour was somewhat muddled in their response, yielding the newspaper headline, British Left Waffles on Falklands. A famous victory, although those two men didn’t happen to survive.”
“And the others are your family?”
“Dead, too. All those people are dead but me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Quite. And now poor Jenny is gone as well.”
“You had a relationship with her. She slept here.”
“But alone, I’m afraid. We were friends, and she helped me in my work. I would very much like to see her safely back here.”
“Then you should be forthcoming with information.”
Cooksey sat down in his swivel chair and took another drink, a deep one. “I will be, Mr. Paz, although I don’t see what good it will do. This abduction and murder must have little direct connection with your, let’s call them, jaguar murders. Except through stupidity and inadvertence.”
Paz sipped lightly from his drink and waited.
“There is an Indian,” began Cooksey, and he told the tale, keeping mainly to the truth, but omitting any indication of where the Indian might be found. He refilled his glass twice during the telling. At the conclusion, he regarded Paz closely. “Is that uncanny enough for you?” he asked.
“Yes. By the way, did you tell this story to Detective Morales?”
“An expurgated version. He knows the Indian was here. I didn’t take him for someone who would entertain the, let’s say, uncanny portions.”
“Yeah, that was a good call. Why they have me. So, have you ever actually seen this Indian, ah, change himself into a gigantic jaguar.”
“No. I have only indirect evidence. The weight indicated by the footprints, as I mentioned. And his own testimony. And I wouldn’t say ‘changes himself’; he claims that the jaguar is a kind of god that takes him over and makes the transformation.”
“As a scientist, though, don’t you find that a stretch?”
“Frankly? I do indeed. Such things don’t happen. Although Jenny, who is no mean observer, says she saw him partially change whilst visiting a captive jaguar in the local zoo. It sent her into an epileptic fit. Of course, I’m sure there’s a perfectly materialist explanation for the whole affair, even though just at the moment I can’t tell you what it is.”
Paz finished his drink and stood up. “Do you think he’ll come back here?”
“I rather doubt it. Unless he’s assured by someone he trusts that the danger to his homeland has been eliminated, he will massacre the remaining leaders of the Consuela corporation and anyone else who stands in his way.”
“By magic.”
“We’ve just agreed that such things cannot be.”
“Assuming he can do it-I mean, kill those people: you don’t care?”
“These people are responsible for a good deal of slaughter, Mr. Paz. Indirectly, in the good old quasi-legal and industrial way. Forgive me if I withhold my tears.”
“You know where he’s hiding, don’t you?”
“If I did, I would probably decline to reveal that fact, in the interests of saving lives far more innocent, police officers and the like.”
Paz was about to question Cooksey further about the Indian, and also explain the Florida statutes compelling cooperation with the police, when the door burst open and Morales appeared, a triumphant expression on his face. “Jimmy, we found something. You got to see this.”
Paz followed him out, trailed by Cooksey.
There were police officers and crime-scene technicians standing around the patio table, upon which lay several objects: a heavy four-pronged forged-steel hand cultivator, whose tines had been filed to a bright pinpoint sharpness; a plaster cast of an animal foot; and a clear Baggie with two brown lumps in it.
“We found all this in a plastic grocery bag under a rock out behind the cottage where Voss and the girl lived,” said Morales. “There’s your mysterious jaguar.”
Paz looked at the things. “You’re assuming those turds are from a jaguar.”
“I sure as shit intend to find out,” said Morales boisterously. “So to speak.”
“May I?” said Cooksey. He leaned forward and picked up the Baggie, peering closely, then reaching in and breaking a small clump from one of the black masses. He held this to his nose and crumbled it. Several of the cops exchanged discreet eye rolls. “Cat, and the size suggests a large one. That cast is certainly of a jaguar right forepaw. In fact, I believe it’s part of my own collection. I didn’t know it was missing.”
“And there you have it,” said Morales, looking at Paz, unable to hide his glee.
“You think?”
“Fuck, yes!” said Morales. “It was Voss and the Indian. They had a fight in Fuentes’s office, they got kicked out, and then they did Fuentes. They used the cast to make the deep footprints. One of them stepped on it and the other one jumped up on his back. There you got your mysterious increase in weight. When we find the Indian, you’ll see-the weights will match up.” He picked up the cultivator. “They did the killings and the claw marks on the doors with that thing. And Calderón the same way.”
Paz nodded agreeably and said, “This is the special kind of hand cultivator that enables you to move with lightning speed and leap up walls.”
“Hey, it’s an Indian. Who the fuck knows what he can do? He probably spent his whole life climbing up trees. And he might’ve had other weapons, we don’t know.”
“No, we don’t,” Paz said. “I guess my work here is done. Way to go, Tito. You solved the great jaguar murder case. Almost. All you need is one little Indian.”
“We’ll get him,” said Morales. He gave Cooksey his cop stare. “I’m sure the professor here will provide us with a usable description.”
“I’m sure,” said Paz. “Tell me, Professor, do you think he’ll be easy to catch?”
“Almost impossible to catch, in my opinion,” said Cooksey.
“And why is that?” asked Morales.
“Because he’s very good at hiding. He could be behind that hedge right now or in the tops of any of our big trees.” Cooksey pointed and everyone looked, and looked nervous doing so. “Now, if you’re finished with me, I do still have my own work to do.”
He started to go but Paz held up a hand. “Just one more thing, sir. Does this guy have a name?”
“Yes. His name is Moie,” said Cooksey.
Two minutes later, Paz and a protesting Morales were in the latter’s unmarked, heading north on Ingraham at an unsafe speed. Paz was cursing in Spanish, mainly at the absent Cooksey, because an instant after hearing the name, he had loosed a barrage of ferocious questions and quickly determined that the scientist had stashed his Indian in the great banyan that shaded his daughter’s school; and cursed also himself, for being too slow to understand that Amelia did not have animaginary little friend up in the tree at all.
It was a short drive. When they stopped on the shoulder next to the school lawn, where the upper boughs of the monster overhung the road, Paz popped his door open and was about to get out when Morales grabbed his arm.
“This is mine, Jimmy,” he said.
Paz struggled in his grip. “No, I’m going up, man,” he said.
“I could cuff you to the wheel, if you want,” said the other. “I’m serious, Jimmy. This fucker is a serial killer and you’re unarmed, one, and two, a civilian. I should call for backup, except I don’t want to make an ass of myself in front of the whole SWAT team if this is another stupid Paz trick.”
“If you don’t think he’s there, why don’t you let me take an unoffi cial look?”
“Don’t be a jerk, Paz. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t break your neck.”
Both men left the car and approached the tree. Morales stared upward into its mass and let out a low whistle, as for the first time he realized just how big the thing was.
“You’re sure, now?” asked Paz. “I’m a lot closer to our African monkey roots than you are.”
“Jimmy, if your daughter can climb this fucker, so can I.”
“If you’re not down in three days, or if I see chunks of mangled flesh wrapped in a cheap suit, I’m going to call for help, okay?”
Morales did not dignify this last with a response but vanished into the shadowed base of the fig. Paz leaned against the police car and lit a short, thick, black cigar. Occasional cracking sounds reached him from the tree, and frequent curses. The cigar was nearly done before he heard slithering sounds from the tree and a worn and filthy cloth suitcase plopped on the ground amid a small scatter of leaf, twig, and fruit. Shortly thereafter, Morales appeared, amid a larger scatter of the same. He was red-faced, sweating, scratched, disheveled, with his shirttails hanging out and his slacks stained with sap.
“What’s in the case?” asked Paz. “Dried businessman jerky?”
“No, a black suit, a pair of shoes, a hat, and a hammock. And I found these.” He removed a large evidence envelope from his back pocket. In it were three small empty Fritos bags.
“They might have prints.”
“I’m sure,” said Paz. “Among them mine and my daughter’s. But no Indian.”
“No, but he might come back. This is his base. I think we should stake it out.”
“Well, you’re the cop,” said Paz. “And Tito? I’m real glad he wasn’t there this time. Don’t try to take this guy yourself.”
“He’s just an Indian, Jimmy.”
“So was Geronimo. But he’s not just an Indian. And our professor is not just a professor.”
“Meaning what?”
“A little too cool. The guy was some kind of commando. He’s spent a lot of time in Colombia, too. I were you, I’d find out who he’s been calling recently.”
Morales gave him a look to see if he was kidding, saw that he wasn’t, shrugged, and went to his car to call in the latest news to his superiors.
First there was the taste in her mouth, pennies and puke, and then the pain, as if a thick spike covered with grit had been driven across her skull just behind her eyes. A hot spike. She tried to open her mouth to spit and found she could not. It had been taped, and when she tried to take the tape off, she learned that her arms and legs were similarly bound. It took some time for her eyes to register what they were seeing, for the light was dim and the shapes baffling: pipes, oblong objects, wires, hoses, a dim skylight above this tangle. A smell, too, familiar but hard to place-chemical, heavy, a cold sort of smell, and suddenly everything clicked into the gestalt: she was in the repair bay of a garage, looking up at the ceiling. She was taped to one of the hoists, her arms and legs tied to theX -shaped steel beams of the lifting platform, at about table height above the floor. And she was naked.
Heavy footsteps and men’s voices. A shape stepped between her spread legs and she heard a laugh and a cruel insinuating voice speaking in Spanish. A rough finger was thrust into her and she squirmed violently. Someone else spoke in angry tones and the man spat out what sounded like a retort, but he moved away. Then a round, pockmarked brown face appeared above her own, one she recognized with horror. The man who had shot Kevin peeled the tape from her mouth.
“You thirsty?” asked the killer.
“Yes.”
The man produced a plastic squeeze bottle and pushed its tube between her lips. Orange juice, cool and sweet. She sucked at it for what seemed a long time.
“Thank you,” she said, gasping.
The killer said, “Okay, listen, you in lots of trouble, now. You got to tell them everything,comprende? Everything about thoseIndios killing those people. I try to keep those guys off you, I don’t know, maybe I can’t do, you know? So you tell me before the boss come, ’cause he gonna mess with you, and then you tell him, but maybe you lose some pieces.”
He reached over to one of the tool tables and held up a short bolt cutter. “The boss gonna cut you with this, start with your toes, then he burn you with a torch so it don’t bleed. I seen him do it before. You don’ wanna fuck wit’ him, you know? So you tell me an’ you be all right, yes? Yes?”
“I don’t know anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He shook his head sadly. “No,chica, that’s not the way to go. You think about this, yes? Where thoseIndios stay, who sent them, who their boss is, that’s what you got to tell him, you don’ wanna get chopped up.”
Jenny started to cry, and Prudencio Rivera Martínez left her and went back to the garage office, where he found Santiago Iglesias fiddling with a snowy, staticky television set, and Dario Rascon watching.
“I can’t get this whore to work for shit,” said Iglesias.
“Forget it,” said Martínez. “We won’t be here that long. And, Rascon, I told you to keep your hands off that girl.”
Rascon shrugged and grinned. “I was just getting her warmed up.”
“The man said don’t touch her until he gets here. You want to explain playing with her to El Silencio when he told you not to, that’s fine with me.”
“What, you’re going to rat me out?”
“No, but once you get started on a girl, you don’t stop until she’s all messed up.”
Iglesias looked up from the TV. “Yeah, when El Silencio gets finished with her, then you can have her. You can keep her in the parts bin, in those little drawers.”
“Shut up,pendejo!” said Rascon. “I guarantee you she won’t last two cuts, she’ll be telling her whole life story.”
“If she knows,” said Iglesias. “But if not, the man’s going to have to take her apart to make sure she don’t.”
“She knows,” said Rascon confidently. “She was with that little merdita Prudencio shot, and he was with theIndio. She’ll spit the whole thing out. And then…” Rascon leaned back in his chair and massaged his genitals. “You can have her asshole when I’m finished, Iglesias. You like that the best anyway.”
Martínez heard his cell phone ring and he snapped off the television. It was a brief conversation, consisting mainly of affirmatives on his part. When it was over, he said, “That wasel jefe. We got a small problem. The cops raided the houses on Fisher Island and picked up all our people, including El Silencio. They got nothing on them, he says, they’re just fucking us around. He figures they’ll keep them for a day or two and let them go. Meanwhile, we’re supposed to sit tight here and watch the girl, and not go out for any reason.”
Rascon cursed vividly and Iglesias switched on the static again. “Then I better get this piece of shit to work,” he said.