Saint Death - John Milton #3 (13 page)

“Who are you?” the man said.

“Beau Baxter. Who are you?”

“Smith.”

Beau grinned. “Mr. Smith––?”

The man smiled, or, at least, his taut, thin lips rose a little at the edges. “John Smith. What do you do, Mr. Baxter?”

Beau looked him over. Not much to him, really, at least on the surface: a little taller than average, a little slimmer than average for someone his size, running two hundred, maybe two ten. Caucasian, a nasty scar on his face. Salt and pepper hair. Heavy, untidy beard. Around forty, maybe. The kind of man who’d be swallowed up by the crowd. He knew that sort. He was anonymous, at least until you looked a little harder. His eyes were different; they were cold and dark, enough to give a man a moment of reflection, a chance to think about things.

Beau shrugged. “I’m thinking you know what I do. Me and you, I’m guessing we’re in the same line of work.”

“I doubt that. Let me put it a different way: what are you doing here?”

He held up the wilting bouquet. “I brought the girl some flowers.”

“She doesn’t want them.”

“I want to speak to her.”

“I don’t think so. Not while I’m here.”

They both looked through the dirty window into the room. Caterina was sitting up in bed as a doctor examined the wound on her shoulder.

“You’re the cook, right? I heard what you did.”

“And how would you know about that?”

“My line of business, it pays me to know people who know things.”

“Police?”

“Sure––among others.”

“What do you want?”

“She had any visitors? Unexpected ones?”

Milton looked at him. He didn’t answer.

“Let me describe him for you, tell me how close I am: he’s in his forties, his hair is perfectly black, plain skin, smiles a lot but there’s something going on beneath the smile that you don’t feel too comfortable about. How am I doing?”

“Close enough.”

“Thought so––can we talk about him?”

“Talk, then.”

“When was it?”

“Half an hour ago.”

“And what happened?”

“I scared him off.”

“I doubt that. He’s a bad man.”

“There are a lot of bad men.”

“Not like him. He’s one of a kind.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“I can get him out of the way.”

“You think I can’t do that myself?”

“I doubt it. You don’t know what you’re up against.”

“And you don’t know who I am.”

“I know you ain’t no cook.” He smiled at him. “Okay. What do you know about him?”

The man didn’t answer.

“You speak Spanish?”

“Enough.”

“They call him Santa Muerte. Know what that means?”

“Saint Death.”

“That’s right: Saint Death. Bit grandiose, I’ll give you that, but, believe me, this dude, my word, he backs it up. This is not a man you want to know. Those people he takes a personal interest in, they tend not to be around for long after he’s introduced himself, you know what I mean?”

“I’ve met people like that before. I’m still here.”

He held Beau’s gaze without flinching. It was rare to meet a man like this. It didn’t look as if he had an ounce of fright in him. He was either brave or he had no idea what he was dealing with. “You’re a long way from home, bro. That accent––English, right?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, then, old partner. Let me just lay it out for you. Imagine living in a place where you can kill anyone you want and nothing happens except they drop down dead. You won’t get arrested. Your name won’t get in the papers. You can just carry on with things like nothing has happened. You can kill again, too, just keep on going, and nothing will be different. Look at your friend in there––you can take a woman, anyone you want, and you can rape her for days and nothing will happen. And, once you’re done with her, you can kill her, too. Nothing will happen. That kind of place? You’re in it. That’s Juárez, through and through.”

“Sounds awful.”

He stripped the good humour from his voice. “You need to pay attention, Mr. Smith. This man, Santa Muerte, even in a place as fucked up as this, he’s the worst of the worse. Top of the food chain. What you’d call the apex predator. And you have his attention now. Undivided. All of it. I know what you did in the restaurant. I know what you did here, too, sending him away. And now he’s not going to stop. Men like him, they survive because of their reputations. People start to think he’s lost his edge, maybe they start getting brave, maybe someone who bears a grudge decides now’s the time to get their revenge and stamp his ticket for him.
Reputation
, man. He has to kill you now. And there’s nothing you can do to stop him short of putting a bullet in his head.”

“What does this have to do with you?”

“I can help you. My line of work: I find people, I settle accounts, I solve problems. And my employers––this group of Italians, not men you’d want to cross––these men, well, see, they have good reason to speak to him. They had a business arrangement with the organisation he works for. Didn’t go to plan. He sent them a video, one of theirs hung upside down from a tree while he sawed off his head with a machete. They’re paying me to bring him back to the States. They’d prefer him alive, but that don’t really matter, not really, they’ll take him dead if that’s the only way I can get him to them. And I will get him eventually. The only question is whether it’s after he’s killed you and your friend in there or before. I don’t have any reason to protect you but I will, if you help me out.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Beau stood up and straightened out the fall of his trousers. “I don’t know why, but he wants the girl. He’ll drop out of sight now. You won’t be able to find him. He’ll bide his time, and then he’ll come after her. And that’s when you’ll need me.” He took a pen from his pocket and, tearing off a square of the brown paper sheaf that was wrapped around the flowers, he wrote down a number. He handed it to the man. “This is me. When you’re ready to start thinking about how to get her out of the almighty motherfucking mess she’s got herself into, you give me a call, alright?”

“What’s his name?”

“His real name? I’ve heard lots of possibilities but I don’t know for sure.”

“You’re sure I can’t find him?”

“Have you been listening to me? You don’t find him, man. He finds you.”

26.

THEY DISCHARGED Caterina a little before midday. The doctor said that she would be fine; there were no vascular injuries, no bones had been clipped, it was all just flesh. They had performed a quick fasciotomy while she was out cold and had cleared away the fabric from her shirt that had been sucked into the wound, removed the dead tissue. The doctor checked the sutures were holding, gave her a tetanus shot, told her to take it easy, and sent her on her way. Milton led her to the elevator, shielding her as they stepped out into the lobby downstairs.

Lieutenant Plato was waiting for them.

“How are you feeling?” he asked her.

“Better now. Thank you.”

“Do you know where you’re going?”

“A hotel.”

“I was going to ask you,” Milton said to him. “What would be a good hotel?”

Plato chuckled. “You know all the hotels get booked?”

“By who?”

“The narcos own them,” Caterina answered. “They book the room but no-one ever stays. Perfect way to launder all their money.”

“There is a place,” Plato said. “La Playa Consulado, up by the border. You should be able to get in there.”

“Thanks.”

“And then?”

“New Mexico. Señor Smith says he’s going to help me. Doesn’t seem I have much choice in the matter.”

“Alright, then. You keep your head down. If I need to speak to you about what happened––the investigation, and what have you––I’ll be in touch.” He reached out a hand and she took it. “Good luck, Caterina.”

Milton led Caterina out of the hospital. The midday heat was like a furnace. It was so fierce that it had just about cleared the streets, forcing everyone inside. A siesta sounded pretty good right around now, he thought. Those people who were out looked punch drunk and listless. He led the way down to the cabstand, opened the door of the cab parked there and ushered her inside.

The car was air-conditioned.

“You know the La Playa Consulado?” he said.

The driver looked at him in the mirror. “Near the US Consulate?”

“That’s the one.”

“
Si
––I know it.”

They drove out, Milton checking that they were not being followed. If the narcos were good there would be no way of knowing, but they would have to be very good, and Milton didn’t see anything suspicious.

“What about you?” Caterina asked him suddenly.

“What about me?”

“I told you about me. What about you? You married?”

“I was, once. She left me.”

“Oh––I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Family?”

“My parents died when I was little. No brothers or sisters.”

“Girlfriend?”

“I’m never in the same place long enough to get attached.”

“You must have someone?”

“Not really,” he said with a wry smile. “This is it.”

“I’m sorry about that,” she said.

“For what?”

“That you’re alone.”

“Don’t be. I choose to be that way.”

“You’re not lonely?”

“No. It’s the way I like it. To be honest, I’m not the best company. I doubt anyone would put up with me for all that long, not unless they had to.”

“And you move around a lot?”

“All the time.”

“Why Mexico?”

“Why not? I’ve been heading north the best part of six months. Mexico was just the next place on the way.”

“And Juárez? How long have you been here?”

“I got in on Monday.”

She stared out of the window. “Good timing.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m glad I was there. It could’ve been a lot worse.”

“But why here? Most people would go a hundred miles in either direction.”

“Then I suppose I’m not most people.”

“Why do you move around so much? Are you running from something?”

My history, he thought, but rather than that he said, “Not really. I just needed some time alone. To clear my head.”

“From what?”

“That doesn’t really matter, Caterina.”

She thought about his answer. He saw her tension coming back and she was quiet again.

La Playa Consulado was on Paseo De La Victoria. A two storey motor court set around a large parking lot, an ugly sign outside advertising Restaurant Cebollero and its flautas, tacos and hamburguesas. Milton got out first, his hand resting on the burning roof of the cab as he checked again that they had not been followed. Satisfied, he stepped aside so that Caterina could get out, paid the driver and went into the reception. Net curtains, wood panels, décor from deep into the eighties. A woman was sitting watching a chat show on TV. She got up and went around behind the desk.

“We need two rooms, one next to the other.”

“I can do that. How many nights?”

“I don’t know. Let’s say a week.”

“Weekly rate’s forty-five dollars per night plus two dollars seventy-five tax. Cash or card?”

“Discount for cash?”

She took out a calculator and tapped it out. “No discount, sir. Forty-seven dollars, seventy-five cents per night, times two, times seven. That’s six hundred and sixty-eight dollars and fifty cents.”

Milton took out a roll of notes from his pocket and peeled off seven hundred dollar bills. He gave them to the woman. “If anyone asks, we’re not here. No visitors. No messages, at any time. No-one cleans the rooms.” He peeled off another note and laid it on the desk. “Is that going to be alright?”

“Absolutely fine, sir.”

Milton took the two keys and led the way outside again, following a scrappy path around the parking lot to the row of rooms. He opened the door to the first room, number eleven, and went inside. He waited until Caterina had followed, shut the door again and closed the curtains. He checked the room: a queen-sized bed with a heavy wooden headboard and a garish quilt cover; purple carpets, stained in places; an artexed asbestos ceiling; a print of a vase of flowers on the wall; a bathroom with shower. Light from outside came in through the net curtains. Milton switched on the overhead light.

Caterina sat down heavily on the bed.

Milton stood at the window, parted the curtains a little and looked out through them at the courtyard outside. A few cars, lots of empty spaces, plastic rubbish and newspaper snagged in the branches of sickly creosote bushes. He ran things over in his mind. He got two glasses of water from the bathroom and came back and went to the window again. He took a sip and set the water on the cheap bedside table. Halfway there, he thought.

Caterina slumped back on the bed. “This is crazy. I can’t hide here forever.”

“Just for a few days.”

“So you can do what?”

“I know someone who’ll be able to help you get across the border.”

“In exchange for what? I told you I don’t have any money.”

“He has a problem I can help him with. And there’s no harm in you staying here until I can do that, is there?”

She shook her head and stared straight up at the stippled ceiling. “I don’t suppose so. I know I can’t go home.”

“Is there anything you need?”

“Nothing we can’t get in New Mexico.”

“Sure?”

“There is something––we’ve got another couple of writers. I have to get word to them.”

“Call them?”

“Their details are on my laptop. I need that, then I can mail them.”

“Where is it?”

“In my apartment.”

“Alright––I’ll get it. Write down your address.”

She did, writing it on a page that she tore from the Gideon’s bible in the drawer. Milton closed the curtains.

“You’re not just a cook, are you?”

“No.”

“You were a soldier.”

“Yes.”

“What kind of soldier?”

He thought about what to say. He had a sudden urge to be completely truthful but he knew that might not be the best policy with her: good for him, bad for her, so he evaded the question a little. “I was in the special forces for a while. And then I was transferred to work for a special detail. I can’t really tell you very much about that.”