B0056C0C00 EBOK (11 page)

I walked through the lengthening shadows toward Motel 49. Pushing the dresser against the door, I dropped onto the bed. Closing my eyes, I tried to figure my next move. Somewhere, not far from where I lay, a baby girl was in desperate straits and I didn’t feel any closer to finding her. Maybe I had been looking at the problem from the wrong side. I was acting like a John, looking for tail, but these cats had their own supply of gash. If I was them, what would I need?

CHAPTER 11

I
N THE GENTLE DUSK LIGHT, A
dust crusted Toyota Land Cruiser sat hidden amongst a bramble of manzanitas and scrub oak. Xlmen powered down the windows so that he could better hear the world around. Reclining the truck’s seat all the way back, he stretched out. He was a small man even by Mexican standards, but had none of the twitchiness that accompanied so many wiry men. He was at peace in his sinewy body. Tilting his sweat stained fedora down over his eyes, he let his lids drift shut. Waiting was never difficult for the killer. Either in a four by six foot cell or hunting in the mountains of Sonora, waiting was not different. When there was no action to take, he took no action. It was that simple.

Xlmen was Santiago’s finest hunter. Sure, he was a sadist and crude in his personal habits, but when it came to making problems disappear, he had no equal. He would have Xlmen watch the hacienda.

Earlier in the day, Santiago dropped a burlap sack on the table between them. Lifting the cloth he exposed the decaying severed head of Gaspar, Xlmen’s cousin. Xlmen didn’t blink. He looked from the head up to Santiago’s eyes. “Who?”

Santiago lay the blood stained tarot card on the table.

“Gaspar was family. I want the kill.”

“You have earned that right.”

Xlmen killed his first human when he was ten years old. The boy was much bigger than Xlmen’s stunted size, he was also richer. Xlmen knew this because the boy had new boots, a backpack and Levi jeans. With a primitive garrote made from baling wire and two short pieces of a broomstick, Xlmen had strangled the boy. His only feeling at the time was disgust that the boy had soiled himself and rendered the jeans unwearable. A mountain lion felt no guilt when a goat stumbled across his path, why should Xlmen? Life was an endless food chain, and Xlmen stood at the top. Who knew how many men or beasts he had dropped in the fifty years after that first boy, who cared? He took no pride nor had shame in any of it. It just was. And now the tarot killer had entered his sights. It would only end one way.

From where he was hidden, he could see up the slope to the Russian’s hacienda, he could also watch the only road leading in or out. He was comfortable in the deep leather seat of the luxury SUV Santiago had bought him. He respected Santiago, he was a man of his word, and he understood how life worked. The strong fed off the weak. Xlmen had no illusions about his patrón, if Xlmen grew soft or failed, Santiago would have him killed. And Xlmen would kill Santiago if he failed to keep his word, or grew ineffectual.

On the passenger seat sat a satellite phone. If it rang it would be Santiago, no others had the number. Beside the phone was a Ruger Redhawk .44 Magnum with a six-inch barrel. Years in a holster had worn some of the blueing off, but it shot true. In the cargo compartment was his scoped Remington 700 hunting rifle and a cut down 12 gauge. Xlmen had no worry about being arrested on weapons charges, Santiago owned policemen, judges and even one mayor. He had procured Xlmen a license as a guide and professional hunter, even the army would let him pass without trouble.

Through his network of pimps and putos, street kids and business men, Santiago had Baja wired up tight. Sooner or later, the tarot killer would surface. Then the satellite phone would ring and Xlmen would go to work.

Gregor’s mother spoke very little English. After lots of stumbling, she finally handed the phone to my friend. He told me Uncle Manny had left several messages on his cell asking Gregor to call the club.

“Manny’s just sweating because he’s down two bouncers,” I told him. Doc, the third bouncer, had an expensive girl and two kids with an ex so I knew he could always use the extra shifts. Truth was, Manny was probably worried about us and wanted an update.

“I rolled past my crib,” Gregor said. “That King Kong jumbo Ruski had the place staked out.”

“He spot you?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re a fucking ghost when you want to be.” I filled him in on what little I had found out south of the border and then had him put Anya on.

“Have you found Nika?” Anya asked as soon as she picked up the phone.

“No, but I’m close.” I couldn’t stand to tell her the truth, I was miles from anything that looked like close.

“You will find her, you are my strong good man.”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“You make fun of me?”

“No.”

“Yes, but I’m serious. You are a good man.”

“If you say so.” Getting my mind back on track, I asked her about the Russians who had held her. What did they like, what were their particular vices? I was looking for any handle I could get a grip on.

“Vodka, of course, with every meal many bottles.”

“What brand?”

“Vodka is vodka... wait, I remember the old man was yelling at his cook one night because they ran out of Zyr, it is from Moscow, very expensive.”

“What else do they like?”

“Russian caviar and, oh yes, those fucking Cuban cigars. Must always be Cuban. Will that help?”

“Yeah, you did good. How is my boy treating you?” It was out of my mouth before I could stop the words.

“Gregor,” she hesitated for just a moment and I filled the silence with jealous worry. “He is very good to me, but he isn’t you,” she whispered the last part, keeping it from Gregor, I was sure.

I dropped twenty dollars on the motel’s manager for the phone call and went to wake Peter. At a little after seven, I hoped it was still early enough for him to reach a researcher at the Times. I had him looking for stores that sold Zyr vodka in Ensenada. It was a scarce enough brand, I was betting not many places in Mexico carried it. While Peter worked the phone, I hit the Avenue.

“Prima de Fumar,” Teyo, my tip boy, told me. He had explained that if I wanted a bullshit tourist Cuban cigar, I could find them on any corner, but they were crap, some counterfeit Mexican tobacco, others from Cuba but stale from being poorly stored. “No, for the real deal Cuban, Prima de Fumar is the only shop. They closed, but I’ll find the owner and I hook you up.” Before I could say anything, he had his cell phone out and was rattling away in Spanish. After a rapid fire conversation, he dropped his phone into his pocket.

“We on?” I asked.

“Man, you always in a hurry, you in the land of mañana now.”

“Twenty bucks US speed this up?” I dropped a Jackson into his palm.

“You got it, dude, twenty minutes come here and I’ll have you smoking one fine cigar.” I wasn’t sure if he would come through, but this was a fishing expedition and cash was our chum.

Xlmen pushed back his hat, raising the binoculars to his eyes. A black Mercedes came down the mountain from the hacienda, Xlmen could make out at least three men in the car. He wondered if he should follow them, his orders had been to watch the house, but these men may have been going to find the killer. And if they found the killer, what would they do? They would bring the killer back to their boss. Back up the road Xlmen was watching. Dropping the glasses, he closed his eyes.

The white haired old man in the white room hung up the phone and let out a dry breath. He had kept his temper in check through his entire conversation with the Israelis, but he wondered as he often had if they were worth the trouble. Yes, they inarguably had been a benefit in the growth of his empire, but their constant worrying was like dealing with old ladies, deadly old ladies for sure, but old ladies nonetheless. Now they were panicking over this nightclub bouncer and one girl gone missing. They had given him forty-eight hours to straighten it out, find the bouncer and bring back the woman, breathing or not. It was the insolence of it that galled him most; the implication that he and his men couldn’t handle this. Yes, they had failed in the first attempt, but that would not happen twice. Picking up a prepaid cell phone he dialed an equally disposable line in Mexico.

Kolya felt the phone vibrate in his pocket. There were many things he had the power to decide on, but answering his master’s call was not one of them. Stepping into the den that had become his office, he locked the door before speaking into the phone, “Dimitri Petravich, I hope all is well with you and Gallina.” Gallina was the old man’s sour-faced shrew of a wife and although Kolya cared little to nothing for her, not to ask after her wellbeing would be a social misstep that would not be lost on the old man.

“We survive, but are we well? No, Kolya Antonivich, we most definitely are the very antithesis of well.” His voice was like two dry sticks being rubbed together.

“I’m sorry to hear this,” Kolya said, forcing himself to sound fully subservient, “What can I do to make things better for you?”

“The little package from Moscow, Veronika Kolpacolva, you have her in your possession, yes?”

“Arrived yesterday, with three other fresh ones.”

“And how is the training proceeding, no problems?”

“None.” Kolya was suddenly worried that someone had told the old man of the trouble the little girl was causing. “They will all be housebroken and eating out of my hand before I ship them north.”

“Marvelous, I expect no less from you, Kolya Antonivich, no less and no more.” The insult sailed over Kolya’s head.

“Thank you, sir, was there anything else you needed?”

“Has there been anyone investigating or inquiring after our Ensenada enterprise?”

“Investigating?” Damn him, how had he heard of this crazy killer Santiago had been whining about? If Santiago had climbed over his head and spoken to the old man, Kolya would have to kill the sleazy greaser. “We own the police, who would investigate us?”

“Possibly no one, but I want you to keep both eyes open for the time being. Is that crystalline?”

“Sure, I’ll spread the word to my men, both eyes open.”

“And Kolya, if you lose the little girl, Veronika? It will cost you your skin.”

“Sir?” With a click, the connection was cut. Kolya knew this was no idle threat. Years back, when Kolya was still working for the KGB and the old man was a minor gang leader, Dimitri Petravich had skinned a thieving gypsy and nailed his bloody corpse to the door of his wagon. The barbaric act had won the old man his bones with the local mob, and taught Kolya never to cross him.

Flicking on a monitor, Kolya punched up the camera in the girls’ dormitory. The girls were all awake, sitting quietly, staring into the unseen distance, all except this Veronika. She lay curled like an infant, clutching her knees to her chest. Her lips were dry and cracked, and what little body fat she had come in with was dissolving away, her small stomach was starting to pooch from distention.

Svetlana had shown him that if they could get the girls to submit willingly, it made them complicit in the act. Their guilt and shame mixed with a healthy dose of fear made them compliant. But Svetlana was wrong about this one, this one would starve before she submitted. And he couldn’t have that, not with the old man watching her progress. No, if she didn’t come to her senses by the time his men returned from Ensenada, he would have her taken by force. Sometimes all a girl like this needed was a good rough tumble to see the light. It was too bad she wasn’t better behaved, if he could have controlled her, she would have brought top dollar from the man who got her cherry.

“Ok, muchacho, it’s set,” Teyo said.

“Give me the address and I’m gone.” I passed him another twenty.

“No, it’s close, I’ll take you.”

“Not necessary.”

“These street are dangerous after dark, be a shame for you to get cut up.”

“Do I look like the kind of man who gets cut up?”

“No,” he let out a nervous laugh, “but the cigar store owner, he knows me, not you, it’s close, come on.” There was no shaking him, so I had to follow.

We had gone a few blocks when I heard someone calling out my name. Peter pushed his way through the young tourists clogging the street. Teyo didn’t look too happy to be joined by a stranger, but he quickly recovered and shook Peter’s hand like they were old amigos.

Peter struck out with finding the Vodka, but his researcher would keep on it. It was a long shot, but something might show up in the morning. Turning down a small side street, we walked deeper into Ensenada.

The Americans. One big, dangerous. One small, weak. A stripper told me the big one was looking for Russian whores. I have followed him all day. He is good. Aware. I blend in. Moving deeper into the city we go. My hand is on my blade. Trust no one.

Leaving the tourist district, it wasn’t long before we were the only pale faces. Through a taqueria’s grease-streaked window, I saw the place was filled with mariachi. An older man in a dusty black suit sat on the curb plucking out a tune on a large bodied guitarron. A young man sat beside him, watching the older player’s hands and trying to follow the melody on his fiddle.

Away from the tourist area street lights were nonexistent. Dense clouds drifted across the moon, blocking out what little light there was. Peter started to look worried as we ventured down darker and poorer streets. “Who the hell would put a cigar shop this far from the main drag? Does this guy think we’re complete idiots? Does this look like the kind of place people go to buy fine cigars?” His mouth was in overdrive, while his mind ground gears. Stopping to tie my boots, I nodded for Peter to hold up. The sidewalk under my foot was split with gaping cracks.