Blackjack (33 page)

He sat down across from a copper-complected man who wore his thick hair pulled straight back, tied in a braided ponytail.

“Cross,” the man said, not offering to shake hands. He wasn’t engaging in any welcoming ceremony, merely stating a fact.

“Muñoz.”

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” a voice interrupted their stare-down. “My name is Lance. I’ll be serving you today.
Our house specials today are a baby-spinach salad with a mild vinaigrette dressing, together with—”

“That will be perfect,” Muñoz said, his English laced with a regal touch of Castilian. “Bring us each one of those. But first … you have Ron Rico?”

“Yes, we do,” the waiter replied. “But if I could perhaps suggest—”

“Bring me a double,” Muñoz cut him off again. “And for my friend here …”

“Water,” Cross said.

“We have San Pellegrino, and also a new—”

“Water,” Cross repeated.

The waiter flounced off. “I hate them,” Muñoz spat out.

“Who?”

“You know what I mean.
Los maricones
. You must know. After all, one of your own crew—”

“Princess. Yeah. He went along nice and easy?” Cross asked, his face still an unreadable blank.

“
Dios mío
, no!” Muñoz smiled, showing off a very expensive set of teeth. “That is one
hard
man, no matter that he is not really a man at all. First, he pulls out a pistol the size of a small house. The
noise
 … like a cannon. It blew up one of our cars like a mortar strike!

“And
then
he killed two of my best men. With his bare hands! I held an Uzi on him, but he only laughed. If Lupe had not shot him, we would still be—”

“You shot him?” Cross asked, suddenly
very
soft-voiced.

“With a tranquilizer dart,
amigo
. Like you would use on a mad dog. It was loaded with enough juice to drop a gorilla. But even with the dart still in him, he continued to fight. I wonder how such a magnificent warrior—”

“What do you want?” Cross interrupted, no impatience in his voice.

“I already told you,
hombre
. I want you to do a job for us. Then you get your merchandise back.”

“I don’t read minds.”

“You see this?” Muñoz asked, as he slid a tiny microchip across the marble tabletop.

Cross didn’t touch the chip. “So?”

“So this is what we need,” Muñoz answered. “Watch closely.” He grasped the chip with the thumb and forefinger of each hand and pulled it apart, revealing one male and one female coupling. “We have this one,” he said, holding up the male piece. “The other one, the mate, that is in the hands of another.”

“Who?”

“Right to the point, yes?
Justo lo suficiente
. You know Humberto Gonzales? He works out of a bunch of connected apartments on the West Side.”

Cross shook his head.

“No matter. We will tell you where he is, and you will take our property from him.”

“How can you be sure—?”

“It is always with him, Cross. Always on his person. There was no one he could trust with it. But we have very good sources inside his organization. We know
exactly
where to look. It is in his right arm.”

“
In
his arm?”

“On his right arm, right here,” Muñoz said, patting his right biceps to illustrate. “He has a big tattoo. Of a dancing girl. Very pretty. The chip is somewhere under that tattoo. Implanted. A fine piece of surgery. So. We need his arm. You bring it to us, your job is done. That very instant, we return your … friend.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no? Why do you say this?”

“What am I supposed to do, Muñoz? Pack the arm in dry ice and send it FedEx? You wouldn’t give me a delivery address. And I’m sure not meeting you to hand it over in person.

“So here’s how it’s gonna happen,” Cross continued. “Send that pigeon of yours—the chip would fit in his carry-pouch easy enough if it’s the same size as that one there,” Cross finished, pointing at the microchip lying on the tabletop.

“
Bueno!
That is a good plan,
hombre
. As soon as our bird is home, we will release your man … or whatever he is.”

“What’s on the chip?”

“That is not your business, my friend.”

“Then get somebody else to do it.”

“I do not think you understand.…”

“I understand just fine. I don’t think
you
do. Things have changed around here since nine/eleven. There’s jobs I don’t take. Now, what’s on the chip?”

Muñoz stroked his chin. Cross lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. A long minute passed, during which Cross took two more drags and stubbed out his cigarette.

The waiter approached with a pair of glasses on a tray. “Here you are, gentlemen. Your salads will be along in a few minutes.”

Muñoz waved him away, leaning forward so his eyes were locked on Cross. “You speak
español
, yes?”

“Poquito.”

“You know the word
favela?
”

“No.”

“It is Portuguese. A language half shared. It means ‘slum,’ but not as you Americans speak of such places. I was born in a
favela
. In the hills just outside of Rio, built on land used to bury toxic waste, right next to a huge dump site for garbage. A mountain of people, one tiny shack of tin and wood on top of another. Just to get water would take a whole day.”

“Why tell me?”

“A
favela
makes your prisons look like palaces. There are three ways out. I do not play football—what you call ‘soccer’—and I cannot sing.”

“So you went into dope.
That’s
what you think I need to know?”

“No,
hombre
. What you need to know is only this: I would kill a thousand times—a thousand
cities
—rather than return to the
favela
.”

“There’s no reason to kill a man more than once.”

“Ah, you joke when I try to … explain myself.
Muy bien
. So now
you
listen: Herrera had a couple of dozen locations. Locations where he stashed money. Money and product. He and I were partners. I have half of the microchip, but mine only works if snapped into his half. Same for him, of course.

“Now, Herrera, he was having a problem. I
know
he himself hired you to retrieve a certain book. But, after that, I hear nothing. Then I learn Herrera was killed. His car, his bodyguards … everything blown to pieces. So I know even more now. I know you were paid. Paid twice.

“Why do I say ‘twice’? Because it is Humberto who has the chip, not Esteban. Why? Because we knew all along that Esteban was secret partners with Herrera. We speak of honor, but
betrayal
—that is the life we live. Partnerships mean nothing to a savage like Herrera. That old man, he was ready to eliminate Esteban, so perhaps Esteban also paid you to eliminate Herrera? That would be your style, would it not?”

Seeing Cross was not going to respond, or even change expression, Muñoz continued:

“My partnership with Humberto is no different than the one Herrera had with me, or Esteban with
him
. That is why we use the chips, so that each of us has nothing without the other. But our negotiations with Humberto have proved
fruitless—he is greedy beyond tolerance. I want to go back across the border, and I want to
stay
there. But, first, I need Humberto’s arm.”

“What’s my piece?” Cross said, his voice as expressionless as his face.

“Your piece? Your piece? I told you … you get
el maricón
returned to you.”

“You got a good sense of humor, Muñoz. You want me to do all kinds of risky stuff to score something worth tens of millions to you, and you want to trade a POW in exchange? Do the math.”

“This … Princess. He was your man. We have—”

“What you have is a soldier. A soldier who knew the deal when he signed on. I wouldn’t want to lose him, but I could live with that a lot better than if there’s anything on that microchip that would ring the wrong alarm bells. Those Homeland Security boys all carry open paper—they fill it in
after
they do whatever they want to.

“Don’t get me wrong. In
our
country, nobody gives a damn about flags or uniforms. When we fight, we fight for only two reasons: self-defense or money. So I’ll make it simple. Half a million. Cash.
And
Princess. For that, you get your little chip.”

“You will trust me to—”

“You should take that act onstage, Muñoz. Sure, I’ll trust you to release Princess. It wouldn’t do you any good to dust him. You wouldn’t make a dime, and you might get some of the wrong people angry at you if you did. People who can travel south anytime they want.

“But the cash … no way. You send a man.
Your
man, okay? We hand him the chip. He puts it in the pigeon’s bag, and hands over the cash. The bird takes off. It lands wherever you taught it to. When it touches down, you try the chip. You see that it works, and then we’re done. We hold on to
your man until we see Princess, then your guy walks away. Got it?”

“What is to prevent you from killing my man and keeping the money?
And
the chip?”

“Don’t play stupid. Half of that chip’s no more use to me than it was to you. What I want is the money. And I want you back over the border, too. This job’s gonna draw enough heat as it is.”

“Your salads, gentlemen,” the waiter interrupted again, placing a plate in front of each man. “Will there be anything—?”

“No,” Muñoz snapped, eyes still on his opponent. Finally, he slid a folded piece of paper over to Cross. “It is all there. Everything you need.
Muy pronto
, eh?”

Cross lit another cigarette, ignoring his salad as he pocketed the paper. Then he leaned forward slightly, dropping his voice a notch. “You’re a professional. So am I. We understand how these things are done. Money is money. Business is business. I’m gonna get you your little chip, Muñoz. You’re gonna pay me my money and let my man go, are we clear?”

Muñoz nodded, warily.

“You know how soldiers are,” Cross said, just above a whisper. “In war, you don’t look too deep. A guy’s good with explosives, another’s a top sniper, maybe another’s a master trail-reader. It all comes down to what you need. Turns out one of the guys you recruit is a little bent, you don’t pay much attention to what he does when he’s not in the field, you understand what I’m saying?”

Muñoz tilted his head slightly forward, waiting.

“Some people, they’re in because they like it. It’s not for the money—it’s certain … opportunities they want. I got nobody like that in my crew. But maybe, just maybe, you do. Guys who might do something unprofessional, just because they
like
doing it. You can always spot them: the first ones
who volunteer to do interrogations. Rapists. Torture freaks. You always got them sniffing around, looking for work, right?”

“So?” Muñoz challenged. “What has this to do with what I—?”

“You got my man, got him locked up. He’s your hostage. I understand that. I don’t expect you’re gonna feed him whiskey and steak, send up a friend if he gets lonely. That’s okay. But maybe you got guys on your team who like to hurt people. Hurt them for fun. That’s not professional.”

“Yes,” Muñoz said impatiently. “I know all this.”

“Herrera, he liked to watch men die. That’s why he had those cage fights.”

“Herrera is no more,
amigo
. You above all should know that.”

“There’s others like him. Maybe you have some of them in your crew. What I want to tell you is this: I can find one myself, easy enough.”

“Why do you say all this? What is your meaning?” Muñoz spoke softly, but a titanium thread of menace throbbed in his voice.

“Just play it for real,” Cross told him. “Nobody gets paid for acting stupid. You know about me. You know people who owe me.
Some
of them, anyway. You know what I can do.

“So listen good. If you hurt Princess, if we don’t get him back in the same condition as you found him, we’ll find you. Wherever you go, no matter how long it takes, we
will
find you, Muñoz. And when we do, it’s going to take you a long time to die.”

“
HOW MUCH
do I owe you?” Rhino asked the waiter from Nostrum’s. They were standing near the mouth of an alley that opened into a street in the heart of the gay cruising area.

“You owe me some respect,” the waiter snapped. “I don’t forget what Princess did for us. I’m a man,” he said with quiet force. “A man pays his debts.”

“I apologize,” Rhino squeaked. “If there’s ever—”

But the waiter was already walking away.