Luck and Death at the Edge of the World, the Official Pirate Edition (27 page)

I fly awake and roll quickly off the bed, stifling a sound in my throat as I assume a battle stance, ready to defend myself against the shadows on the wall. Behind me the street noises have resumed their normal tenor. People laugh, talk, shout happily... music plays and car horns blare at one another. Another night of partying in the shuttered community of hotels in the heart of Mexico City. Tijuana is far away.

I take another shower, a quick one this time, just to get the sweat of terror off of me. There’s no way I’ll sleep now. I dress and leave my room, padding down the clean, carpeted hallway of the hotel, wait for the elevator. It arrives and I begin descending, and for a moment I remember the dream and I half expect to exit into the mayhem of urban pacification. Of course when the doors open there’s nothing there but the nighttime lobby: half-lit, quiet, cool. I cross it and enter the bar. There are other travellers here, a few couples but mostly men, either alone or in small groups. Discreet, well-coiffed escorts vogue on the barstools. I take a seat far from anyone and order a double vodka tonic. Take a sip. I concentrate on thinking about Max, trying to push the nightmares away.

Things are bothering me about the case and despite the nightmares, some part of my mind has been distilling them during my sleep. First there’s the initial attack. On the one hand, it took tremendous expertise to enter Max’s compound despite the elaborate security system, and the data burn required an element of finesse found only amongst the most proficient security hackers. Nonetheless, the assassin failed. After all the effort of the intrusion, when Max hit a security panel, the shooter didn’t even fire a second bullet. It’s as if the most competent organization in the world sent in an inexperienced killer who panicked at the first sign that things weren’t going as planned. Those two things don’t go together.

Then there are the ‘homeless’ men who murdered a bunch of innocent Angelenos while trying to kill me. Presumably they were sent by the same sophisticated individual or organization that penetrated Max’s security. That follows logically, given the elaborate and effective means by which their shells were ordered. But for all the bullets they fired, and despite having the advantage of surprise, they didn’t hit me once. And the one who chased me fell for an amateur’s ruse—my jacket tossed toward the alleyway’s exit. Again, a mismatch between apparent expertise and ultimate results.

And finally there are my captors here in Mexico. Because of Vicente’s reputation, as confirmed by Ramon, no Mexican would have dared to touch me, so this incident, too, likely has its roots in L.A. and the attack on Max, rather than being a criminal or political kidnapping. They knew I was coming here, they knew where to find me, and they were sent by the L.A. bad guys, who are apparently professionals. Nonetheless, they behaved like amateurs: the long-distance stun, birth-bodies rather than shells, the bandana disguises, the wooden chair, the house where they held me. Everything points to their inexperience, including their lack of fighting skills. Once again, a mismatch.

I don’t know whether to fear for my life or laugh. Most of all, and most dangerously, I don’t know how to make sense of it. I notice that my drink is empty and order another. Lightweight Mexican music plays on the bar’s sound system. Music for foreigners, vacationers, conventioneers. While I’m waiting for my drink a young woman sits down on the next stool. She’s dressed expensively enough that she might be a guest, but by her looks she’s Mexican and therefore probably an escort. The Cordoba doesn’t cater to local guests. She’s also a little too attractive to be a random human being. This is someone who looks good for a living.

“Would you like to buy me one?”

I look at her. She’s probably twenty, but all I can see is Damita, peddling her young body to survive. I wonder whether the escorts are recruited from the cream of the street trade or whether they come from somewhere else entirely.

“I don’t mind buying you a drink, but I’m not looking for company.”

She smiles at that.

“A drink with no strings attached? It almost restores my faith in humanity.”

Her English is accented but good. Very clear and precise.

“I don’t think I’m the person to come to for restored faith.”

“You have a low opinion of humanity? Join the club.”

She signals to the bartender, who brings her a margarita, evidently knowing her tastes. “Aren’t you wasting your time drinking with me? There are paying customers here, I’m sure.”

“That’s one way of looking at it. On the other hand you could say I’m wasting my time when I’m with them and that talking to someone with a brain in his head is a better way to spend the next few minutes.”

This is not a regular hooker’s come-on, not even the more sophisticated escort’s version. I’m confused. Then I’m not.

“You’re a student.”

“Very good.”

“How’s next year’s tuition coming along?”

She takes a sip of her drink before answering.

“I’ll make it. Another month or so and I can stop hanging around this shithole anyway, making passes at married bankers and clumsy psychologists, or geologists, or cardiologists. All the other assholes attending conventions.”

I like her directness.

“What are you studying?”

“Medicine.”

“Med student? Really?”

“You bet.”

“Because of your love for humanity?”

“It’s a business. Besides, I’m specializing in pathology. You don’t need to love humanity to deal with cadavers. Hell, half the time you’re just dealing with a tissue sample. Exactly what I like about it.”

My second drink is done and her first is nearly finished.

“Want another drink, or do you have to get back to work?”

“No strings attached?”

“No strings attached.”

The second round leads to a few more, until we’re both a little drunk. We talk about her studies for a while. She’s animated as she discusses her work, and I enjoy listening to her even though a lot of it is over my head. She seems content to take time off and talk with me, and, after all the assassins, the 
Suerte
, my kidnapping, and the dreams, it feels good to just talk with someone.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Gat. You?”

“Maria.”

“Uh huh.”

“Did you expect my real name? I don’t even know you.”

“‘Maria’ will do. Are a lot of the girls here students?”

“Sure. If you want to go to college you either come from a rich family, get a sugar daddy, or come here. Those are pretty much the options for higher education in the city. What do you do?”

“Personal security.”

“You kill people?”

“Generally I try to keep people from being killed.”

“But to do that you might need to kill someone, right?”

Her tone is getting less friendly, but I’m not going to lie to her.

“I try my best to avoid it. The only people I’ve killed have been trying to kill my clients, so morally it’s not exactly black and white. Still, I try to avoid it.”

“You have a conscience.”

“I’d make more money without one.”

“Most security guys were in the Forces. California, Texas, even Mexican.”

It hangs there like a question that I don’t want to answer. She hasn’t phrased it that way, but she’s clearly waiting for a response.

“Yes, I was in the Forces. I was young and had few choices. Like you.”

“Cali, right? By your accent.”

“Yes Cali.”

She turns in her stool, looking belligerent.

“Cali Forces kill people, I just fuck them. I made a choice I don’t like, but it’s not the same.”

I reply quietly and carefully. “No, it’s not the same. I agree.”

“Show me your tats.”

“What?”

“Come on, your insignias.”

“What for?”

“You scared?”

“Fine.” I roll up my sleeves, knowing this is the end of our friendly conversation. Still, I’m not going to add lying to my sins. Not after so many others.

“You fucker.”

She’s staring at the Tijuana tattoo. I take her arm and lean in close.

“We were used, do you understand that? No one knew what we were getting into. They trained us, then pumped us to the gills with drugs that make you into someone you’re not. Do you 
get
 that? Do you have any idea what it’s like to 
live
 with that?”

She pulls her arm free and spits in my face.

“Fuck you,” she says, and strides angrily out of the bar. End of the friendly conversation, just as I thought. The bartender rushes over to me, solicitous.

“I am so sorry sir. I will see that she is not allowed in the Cordoba again. There is no excuse for this.”

I think of ‘Maria’ and her tuition.

“No, she was right. I was very rude. Please don’t hold it against her.”

He looks askance at me.

“As a guest of the Cordoba I am requesting that you allow her to continue to come here. You have my word that she won’t behave that way again.”

“If you say so, sir,” he replies, rather stiffly. I leave the bar and ride the elevator back upstairs alone, then fall into bed. This time there are no dreams of Tijuana, no dreams of any kind at all.

Arriving at LAX, the city seems odd. L.A. is simultaneously more forgiving and more lifeless than Mexico City. It lacks the brutal deprivation and the exorbitant degree of casual cruelty, but it also lacks the warmth, the heart. I feel like no matter how well I know it, I’m now a little distant from it, like meeting an ex-lover.

I try to shake off the sensation. It’s probably just the case that has me feeling out of sorts. The encounter with Maria, or whatever her real name is, distracted me from the troubling, paradoxical aspects of the attack on Max and the events that followed it, but now my head is crowded with them. I have a primitive urge to do something violent, to simply shake the tree until something falls out, rather than try to reason my way through the mass of unlikely contradictions.

That kind of behavior’s not likely to get me anywhere, though, even if it would feel good. All I have at the moment is the bone that Vicente tossed me: James Jerome’s affair with Porsche. I’ll have to talk to him about that. I have a sudden, clear memory of how vehemently he rejected her as a suspect and wonder if he was being honest or just protecting a woman he wanted back in his bed. Hell, maybe he even thinks he 
loves
 her.

Prender picks me up in Jenna’s van. I climb into the passenger seat and risk a glance at the rear of the van. It is a mish mash of half-rebuilt electronics, with circuit panels and monitors missing and one stretch of carpet rolled back to allow the cables beneath to be reconfigured.

“How’d you do the surveillance on Tenenbaum with the van in this kind of shape?” I ask Prender as we pull away. “Oh, the stuff we needed is functional. It was pretty basic. I’m mostly working on the next level systems.”

“How’s the overhaul going?”

“She’s coming along. Going to be pretty when she’s done.”

“Damn, I hope so. Looks like shit now.” I look back at the road ahead of us.

Prender smiles a small smile. Nicky Prender is my latest acquisition, headhunted directly out of the Forces when he was demobilized. He is a slim, quiet, man with a café au lait complexion. All of twenty-four years old, he knows more about electronic surveillance than any three men. One day he’ll be giving Carmen a run for her money.

When I offered him the job he asked to see my equipment first, then accepted on the condition that he could have a budget to upgrade it. It was a ballsy move for a new recruit, but he knew his value and knew how far he could push his demands. I gave him half the budget he asked for and told him to show me what he could do with it. If he did a good job, he’d get the rest. It’s a good thing he agreed to the installment plan because I couldn’t have afforded more at that point.

“How are things back at Cloud City?” I ask.

“Zip. All quiet, but zero progress is what TJ tells me.”

“He and Carmen still out there?”

“Yeah, they’re still running down data with Alan but so far nothing has come of it.”

“What about the surveillance I asked TJ for, the cameras.”

“Yeah, he set it up. I finessed it a little afterward, just to ensure better coverage and to harden its protection. It’s working now, but we won’t know how it’ll hold up unless someone actually attacks again.”

“I have faith in your talent. Besides, if it doesn’t work, you’re fired.”

He smiles faintly at that, nothing more.

“Any messages from Dave?” I ask.

“About the shells? No, I haven’t heard anything. You got any ideas?”

“I have one. No clue if it will pan out or not.”

“Well,” Prender says evenly “one’s better than none.”

The guy says everything evenly, in the same steady way. I can tell that it’ll start to get on my nerves one day, like Carmen’s weird moods.

“Yeah, I guess it’s better than nothing.”

“You going home?”

“No, take me to Cloud City. No point in dragging things out.”

I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. I just got off the jet and I’m tired of sitting still, but there’s nothing to do until we get to Max’s. Maybe it’s all the time I spent in the Mexican heat, but I fall asleep without a further thought. The next thing I know the gate to Cloud City is opening for us. Prender takes us up the long, perfect, gravel drive and stops in front of the main house.

“Park here,” I tell him. “I’m going to talk to James Jerome. I want you to check on Carmen and TJ, make sure they’re not overworking themselves, ok?”

“Sure,” he says, switching off the engine.

“Be subtle, all right? Just act like you’re curious about what they’re doing.”

Prender gives me a pained look, as though he doesn’t need to be told. Maybe he doesn’t, but I don’t want Carmen and TJ to think that I doubt their abilities. At the same time, I know both of them well, and the fact is that knowing when to quit is not a strong point with either of them.

Inside the house I ask one of the staff to show Prender to security, while I go out back to find a cart. On the way I note the new cameras: at doorways, in the hallways, everywhere. No one’s bothered to hide them, which is fine. If there’s another attack and seeing them acts as a deterrent, great. If the attacker comes ahead anyway, maybe we’ll at least be able to see who’s after us. I ride out to Jerome’s and on the way I wonder how best to approach the subject of his relationship with Porsche, given that it might compromise his job and make him a suspect at the same time. Nearing the familiar Victorian mansion, I decide on a direct approach. With someone as wily as Jerome nothing short of a blunt, direct, frontal attack is going to catch him off guard, which is where I want him.