American Blood (23 page)

The guy’s face went slack and his mouth fell open very slowly. He cleared his throat but kept his voice low. “You don’t, we can.” He closed his eyes, showed Wayne his palms. “Just, relax.”

Wayne said, “I am relaxed. What do you think relaxed is?”

“Just. You don’t need that.”

“Where’s Frazer?”

“I don’t know where Emile is.”

“I told you. I’m after Junior.”

“What for?”

He was watching the gun. Wayne said, “You just need to tell me where he is.”

“Okay, okay.” Head lowered as he spoke. “He’s at Andrea’s. You probably drove past it. That Mexican place. He likes breakfast there.”

“Back a couple blocks?”

“Yeah. Two, three blocks, not far. Look, man, I just do the car stuff, I promise. I have absolutely zero involvement in, you know.” Eyes still downcast, like if he didn’t look it wouldn’t happen. “The other stuff they’re running. I mean, I know nothing about it.”

Wayne said, “But you do know there’s other stuff they’re running.”

The guy didn’t answer.

Quiet a long time and then finally the squeal of the wrench. The guy looked up slowly. “We good?”

Wayne nodded. “Yeah, we’re good.”

The wrench again, perfect sound cover, and Wayne squeezed the trigger. The round caught the guy on the bridge of the nose and sprayed his brains on that clean white gypsum. The limp corpse tipping slowly back, squeak of springs as it went almost horizontal, like a dentist’s chair.

Wayne let his breath out.

Blood and pink matter dripping on the floor. A final blast off the wrench. He took his foot off the desk and stood up and holstered his piece. Sharp smell of gun smoke. Standing in the doorway watching, one hand on the frame, was a little boy about four or five years old.

Wayne still had his hand on the SIG. He said, “Ah, shit.”

*   *   *

He drove slow to Andrea’s. It gave him time to call home. Bad form being diverted midjob, but he needed to hear her voice. He dialed on the red phone, and she was always so happy it was him.

He could see the sign up ahead, but he still got to talk to her for two blocks, and it made the rest of it disappear.

*   *   *

Andrea’s Restaurante Mexicana was in a low concrete-block building opposite a supermarket turned Mormon headquarters. A security gate covered the door and there were mesh screens over the windows, the steelwork all bright yellow, like it was purely adornment.

There was a line of cars parked nose-in at an angle along one side of the building beneath a metal verandah. Wayne turned in and parked next to a gleaming red Humvee and got out and locked the car and walked around to the front. A sandwich board at the curb announced today’s special: sopapilla with green or red chili. He went in, and more mariachi music greeted him, probably the same station as the dead man’s. To the left was a counter and register surrounded by potted plants, and behind it a door through to the kitchen. Two families of four seated separately, and down the back facing the entry a man of about thirty eating alone.

Wayne went over and pulled out a metal chair and sat down opposite. He leaned forward and rested his clasped hands on the edge of the table.

The guy looked up. He had Emile’s features but with less droop and less neck. He wiped his mouth with the back of a wrist. “Help you?”

Wayne said, “I’m the Dallas Man.”

Frazer laughed quietly and looked around. “Well shit, I wondered when I’d see you.” He let his fork drift idly through his meal, like doodling on a blotter. He had rice and enchiladas in a big plate of green chili. He said, “Haven’t heard from Dad since he met you yesterday.”

Wayne said, “Not answering his phone?”

Frazer shook his head. “Nah, nothing.”

Wayne nodded slowly. He clucked his tongue. He said, “Doesn’t that make you wonder a little?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well. Doesn’t it make you wonder? About where he might be?”

The guy didn’t answer.

Wayne said, “Why didn’t you have the special?”

“What?”

“Why didn’t you have the special? Sopapilla.”

The guy chewed some enchilada. “I dunno, I don’t like it as much.”

Wayne sat watching him over his clasped hands, the other man clearly unsettled.

Frazer said, “Do you know where he is?”

Wayne nodded. “Yeah, I know where he is.”

Frazer loading another forkful, waiting for it.

Wayne said, “He’s in the desert out west with a bullet in his head.”

The fork was en route to Frazer’s mouth when he dropped it on the table. He gave Wayne the same slack expression as the guy at the desk.

“Jesus, you killed him?”

His hand went to his mouth and his voice broke on the last word.

Wayne said, “It was a conflict-of-interest issue. He wanted me to take out someone I’m already working for. It was just a professionalism thing.”

He unwrapped the napkin from his cutlery and wiped up the spilled mouthful and balled it carefully.

Frazer’s lip wavered, eyes filling as he looked at him. “God, you really killed him?”

“I really killed him. Keep it together, we don’t want a scene.”

Frazer started panting, glancing around, touched a hand to his brow. “God. Shit.”

Wayne said, “Just keep it together. You’ve got an important decision to make.”

Frazer leaned back, gripped the edge of the table. This little moment of desperation and the mariachi music just pushing on cheerily. Wayne liked the juxtaposition. He said, “We can either do it in here, or we can do it outside in the car.” Hoping for the car. Like father, like son.

Frazer panting through his teeth. “Do what?”

“Guess.”

The guy didn’t answer.

Wayne said, “What, you think this was a courtesy call? Let you know what happened?”

Frazer wiped his brow, looked at his knife. Not worth the risk: no point on it.

Wayne said, “That your Humvee out there?”

“You piece of shit. Go to hell.”

Wayne gave that a few seconds’ grace and then he repeated the question.

Frazer nodded.

Wayne said, “I always like guys like you. You know. Most days you got plenty of attitude, drive the sort of car that lets people know it, but then you hit a situation like this and we’re not getting much of a fight. Could of stabbed me with the fork or something.”

Frazer didn’t answer.

Wayne said, “You can choose where we do it, and you’re probably best to go for the car. I’ve got a gun in a shoulder rig so I can draw pretty fast, and I don’t think you’d have much hope. In the car I’m more hemmed in, so you’ll have more of a show.”

Disbelief in the guy’s face and Wayne felt duty bound to answer the unspoken question. He said, “If I give you some options it eliminates the certainty of the outcome. It’s a gamble, which is sort of the essence of life. That element of unknowing. Suddenly we’re within a spectrum of likelihoods, which is more fun for me, because there’s that suspense factor, which is what we live for, and what you might die for.”

Clench-jawed silence and then Frazer said, “Where is he?”

“I told you. Out in the desert.”

Frazer didn’t answer.

Wayne said, “He was telling me he wanted to get to someone called the Patriarch. You know anything about that?”

Frazer shook his head, eyes full of tears.

Wayne said, “I thought that might be the case. You want to finish your meal, or shall we head outside?”

Frazer chose the latter. Wayne left money on the table, a careful pincer motion so he wouldn’t leave a print, and then followed him out and round to where the Humvee was parked. He could see Frazer was unarmed.

Wayne said, “You want driver or passenger seat?”

Frazer said, “Passenger.”

Wayne didn’t answer, just slid into the driver’s seat when Frazer unlocked the car. Frazer climbed slowly in and closed his door and then there was just the two of them and the quiet and Frazer looking at the glove compartment.

Wayne said, “What have you got in there?”

Frazer didn’t answer. He closed his eyes.

Wayne said, “You’re not going to be much good for it if you’re not looking.”

“How did you find me?”

“I went and talked to the guy at the shop.”

“Oh, god. You didn’t hurt my boy?”

Wayne shook his head. “No, I didn’t hurt your boy. I’ve got a little girl not much older.”

He cupped both hands round his mouth and nose. “So he’s okay?”

“Yes, he’s okay. Promise.”

“Thank Christ.”

He lost some posture as he let his breath out, visibly shaking. Truth be told, “okay” was a slight embellishment: Wayne had locked the kid in the office with the body.

Frazer back to staring at the glove compartment.

Wayne said, “You have to make a move at some point. Otherwise I’ll have to, and you’ll just be a bystander to something you could have intervened with. Maybe.”

Frazer didn’t answer.

Wayne said, “Situation like this, it’s better to take an active role. You’re changing a certainty into a small chance in your favor. So why wouldn’t you?”

Frazer choked as he said, “Why are you here?”

Wayne said, “Bad luck really. Your father tried to hire the wrong man. Sometimes that’s just how it goes.”

Frazer wiped his eyes with his wrist. “Maybe we could make a deal.”

“I don’t think so.”

“No, wait, just listen. I’ve got information. We know the other players down here. We’ve got workups on all of them.”

Wayne said, “Show me.”

“You’ve got to let me walk away from this.”

Wayne shook his head. “I haven’t even seen what you’re offering yet. We’re still dealing in hypotheticals.”

“Okay, just … Let’s take it easy.”

He wiped his eyes again, turned very carefully on his seat and eased his wallet out of his pocket with two fingers. Wayne sat there calmly, looking out the windshield. Frazer opened a zippered pocket and removed an SD card.

“I’m not shitting you, we’ve got everything. Names, addresses, phone numbers, access codes, stock levels, all of it. We had these ex-Mossad guys do it. Like, total pros, we don’t even know what they look like.”

Wayne held out a hand. Frazer gave him the card. Wayne said, “You have photos, too?”

Frazer raised his hands. “Man, it’s thirty-two gigs. We have everything. Honestly, that’s a hundred grand worth of intel, right there.”

Wayne didn’t answer.

“What do you say?”

A few seconds of tense quiet, just Frazer’s breathing. Wayne kept his eyes straight ahead, slipped the card in his jacket pocket, and then he went for it, swung the fork he’d taken off the table in the restaurant and stabbed Frazer in the left carotid.

Gouts of blood hitting the windshield and Frazer sat thrashing and clutching his neck. Wayne got out of the car and used his sleeve to clean blood off his face, wiped the door handle with his tie. He took the fork with him.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Rojas

He was wrecked.

He’d had visions of a nonstop drive, reaching his mother’s place that day. The look on her face when she saw the money. He could picture it: hands to mouth, eyes bright with tears.

Three million cold.

And a Colt .44, dead cold.

But an hour on the road and he felt himself drifting, the road yielding to dreams. He kept seeing that cop. The fear of being wanted fought the trauma of Bolt dead. The money kept him grounded. He was almost high on the smell of it. The warm, giddy hit of perfect, endless promise.

Three
A.M
.

He was southbound on 25, turned off at Bernalillo onto U.S. 550. He found a motel less than a quarter mile off the freeway. The night guy was in a worse state than he was: slouched on the counter, eyes hidden under the peak of his cap.

He could smell his own sweat, but all he could do was lie down. He fell on the bed and dropped the bag on the floor, reached for the gun and slid it under the covers beside him.

He smiled before he drifted off. When was the last time he’d done this? Safe behind a locked door with no one he couldn’t trust.

*   *   *

He woke a little after eight. Nothing gentle about that morning: azure sky promising awful heat, four lanes of heavy traffic out on 550. There was another motel across the street, handful of cars in the lot, a Ford Bronco just pulling in. A pizza place on the right and a gas station to the left, sign on its pole probably the tallest thing for miles, just a flat, tan plain all the way to the northern tip of the Sandias, blue-green coming into summer.

He showered, and he reckoned he’d pissed at higher pressure, but it still felt good. Cleansing in more ways than one.

He left his shirt off, water beaded on his torso, just like Leon would do it.

I’m the new king.

He stuck the .44 in the back of his jeans, like Leon had with the Ruger, and picked up the bag and tipped it on the center of the table. The bills piling and spilling, that lovely smell. He drew back a chair and sat down, hair in his eyes, drips running down his back.

I’m the new king.

He started stacking.

Ten bundles, a three-four-three lineup, a hundred grand. He pulled it toward him and sat cradling it.

It took him more than five minutes just to count it all.

Not a bad first guess. Total value: $3.1 million. He slipped a bundle in his pocket, got up and walked the room, giving it some swagger.

This is what it feels like. So loaded, 10K is just petty cash, don’t matter if you drop it.

Get used to the feeling.

He paced in front of the bed, fists clenched, riding the rush. He drew the Colt and held it sideways at eye level.

Guess what’s in my pocket, asshole. Ten grand. You know how it got there? ’Cause when some dipshit gives me attitude, I drill them and take them for what they’re worth.

And I’ve been doing it a long time.

Think you’re smooth, Leon? I just rolled you.

He stood in the bathroom and gave the mirror some poses. Hair raked back, leaning on the basin, bringing the gun right in close.

Colt .44, asshole. Pray I don’t pull.

A cold laugh for a fake antagonist: I’ve got three million cash, man. I don’t care who’s chasing me.