"You know," Jose said, sitting down in a space Flaco made for him on the edge of the booth and resting his beer, "up there, they call me a Mex. Down here, I'm a mick. I'm a man without a country."
Flaco laughed and rolled his eyes at the whores and, in Spanish, introduced Jose as the only good cop north of the border. A waitress set down a dozen pale green shooters that shimmered in the changing light.
"You gonna like this, amigo," Flaco said, raising a glass. "Is green like your Irish ass.''
Jose obliged, slammed his glass down after he swallowed its contents, and put back another before offering up a grin and telling Flaco, in Spanish, that he needed to see Soto.
At this, Flaco grew instantly serious and at the stiffening of his body, Jose saw the riflemen swing their guns back his way in unison, like a small school of fish. From the corner of his eye, he caught a minute red laser dot spring to life on his hand and scuttle quickly up his arm like a roach, coming to rest, he figured, at the base of his skull. Absently, he rubbed the skin behind his ear.
Jose took a breath.
Flaco cast an angry look at his compatriots and flicked his head. He gripped Jose's arm and leaned close.
"You come in here asking for Soto?" Flaco said, his words a snaking hiss. "Are you fucking joking with me, man? Does he know? Are you fucking with me? Are you wired? Because if you are, we'll gut you like a fucking fish."
The two fat men Jose had passed by now reappeared. Flaco glared up at them.
"He wired? You check for that?" Flaco asked them accusingly.
One of the men lifted Jose roughly from the booth, and together they swept their hands up underneath Jose's shirt and combed through his hair. One of them examined his ears and open mouth with a penlight while the other dropped his drawers and frisked everything in his boxers and boots.
"What?" Jose said. "Aren't you going to kiss me first?"
After the inspection, he buckled his pants and glared at Flaco. Around them, the thin crowd continued its dancing and drinking without pause.
"You don't say his name," Flaco said, shaking his head like a dog at the kill. "Every other motherfucking badass bitch you can think of is looking for the man. The Cougar. That's what he is called."
"Well," Jose said, "I thought I had a marker. Maybe I was wrong."
"You think you got a marker? I think you got a fucking marker in your brain, man," Flaco said.
"You going to call?" Jose asked. "Or are you saying he pusses out of a deal?''
"You crazy bitch," Flaco said, sliding out of the booth. "I'll get him word. I don't promise nothing."
Jose watched Flaco disappear through a back door with one of the big fatties. He took a swig of his beer, but before he could enjoy a second, Flaco burst back through the door, put a hand on Jose's shoulder, and leaned close.
"He said for me to tell you that you got cojones the size of cannonballs," Flaco said. "Muy macho."
Jose nodded and said, "Solid steel."
"We'll see," Flaco said. "Come on."
Outside Perro Rojo, a Suburban raced up the alley and came to a rocking halt. Two thugs in black cargo pants and T-shirts jumped out, handcuffed Jose, and wrapped his eyes with ACE bandage, taping it tight. After spinning him around like a child in front of a pinata, they helped him into the SUV, which took off with the same yip from its tires that had announced its arrival only moments before. They turned three or four times a minute for the first ten, then the road got straight. They took that for a time before pulling an abrupt U-turn, where Jose felt the truck nearly roll. They rode back twice as fast, Jose's heart in his throat, he guessed their speed at somewhere over a hundred miles per hour, before taking a sudden right and going for nearly an hour on a bumpy road. Twice, Jose's head bounced off the ceiling, eliciting chuckles from the two men who sat on either side of him, gripping his elbows.
When the SUV finally stopped, Jose climbed out and held out his hands for the cuffs to be removed.
"Vamos," one of them said, telling him to come on and grabbing him by the collar.
They helped him into a helicopter, buckling him in as the blades chuffed into motion. The bird lifted, tilting forward, and eased up and away from the earth. Jose figured they flew for twenty minutes before descending to a soft landing. They hustled him off and lifted him by the armpits up a long set of what felt and sounded like stone steps. He heard the creak of massive metal doors that clanged shut behind him before heavy hardware rattled back into place. From the echoes of their footsteps, Jose knew they passed into and out of two large chambers before coming to a halt in the middle of a third, where the cool air seemed to swallow all sound.
When they removed his handcuffs and unwound the bandage on his face, Jose saw before him the big sad eyes and heavy drooping jowls of his old nemesis Soto.
CHAPTER 67
ON SOTO'S PINKY, A FIFTEEN-CARAT DIAMOND WINKED IN competition with the diamond Rolex Presidential on his wrist. His hair, thin and matted flat with grease, showed the band from the cowboy hat that rested on the arm of his bulky leather chair. The only thing that had changed in the five years since Jose had last seen the Cougar was the plastic oxygen mask fixed to his face. He nodded at Jose, removing the mask and placing it atop the valve of the tank resting beside him on a little cart. An empty chair sat facing Soto. A small table with a silver pot of coffee and two dainty cups separated the chairs.
With a quick glance around, Jose knew the gigantic space was some kind of a cave, even though the polished granite floor, Turkish floor lamps, Oriental rug, and heavy leather chairs bespoke a palace antechamber. Soto poured from the pot a thick brown stream whose curls of steam tickled Jose's nose with the rich scent of coffee.
"I like to offer my finest coffee to my guests," Soto said in a wheezy but still sonorous voice. "It's from Jamaica. Blue Mountain. They ship it with the coke and weed. Those crazy black bastards know good cafe.''
His lips parted just a bit and the hint of a smile tugged one corner of his mouth. "Drink the coffee slow, my friend.''
Jose saw the three thin red beams, splinters of light in the black cave beyond the rug, directed at him from different angles. He looked down and watched them move in slow steady orbits around his breastbone, only slightly left of center.
Jose made a show of looking at the rug around him and said, "You get a new rug for every guest or send it out for cleaning?"
Soto finished pouring, sat back with his cup, and waved a hand.
"Don't even think about those," he said, pointing at Jose's breastbone. "It's only a precaution."
"I feel so much better. Thanks, Soto.''
After sipping the coffee, Soto lurched as though he were going to vomit, rested the cup and saucer on the arm of his chair, and quickly grasped the oxygen mask, plastering it to his face and inhaling deeply.
"Smoking?" Jose asked after he had settled down, nodding at the tank.
Soto shook his head.
"Bomb," he said, returning the mask to its tank and easing back into his chair.
Wearily, he fluttered his fingers at Jose and said, "This is why all the red dots. My life is filled with red dots now. I like that they don't seem to affect you the way they do some people."
Soto gently patted his chest. "I lost one lung and part of another, but…"
He shrugged and sipped his coffee.
"Well," Soto said, "let's talk about you. To do something this stupid, you must have a very big problem."
"Nothing you can't solve," Jose said.
Soto looked at him, unblinking. "I like to return my favors, but only to a point. Things, as you can see, are-how would you say it-constrained."
"Nothing happens in Nuevo Leon without your knowledge," Jose said, sipping from his cup.
Soto let his lids droop and he inclined his head.
"There is a factory south of Nuevo Laredo, just off the highway," Jose said. "Big place. Can't miss it. People are being shipped in there like frozen dinners. I need to know who and what and why."