Juan was still whining about something. When Art tuned back in, he heard the wannabe gangster saying, “Come on man, I got kids.”
Art’s eyebrows quirked. “A few here, it says. Looks like you got a couple sets of Irish twins, but I don’t think you should worry about them — they grew up without a father in their lives, which is probably a good thing for once. You aren’t exactly an ideal role model.” His mouth curved into a sardonic grin. “Are you even sure half of them are yours? I mean, if you do the math on some of these kids, they were probably conceived while you were on the inside doing one of your tours.”
Art knew his distaste was evident, but he didn’t care. He still couldn’t understand how people fucked up their lives so badly that they weren’t ever intent upon — or capable of — fixing their mistakes.
“What’s it going to be? You going to answer some questions for me, or do I have to play hardball?”
Juan’s face was a mask of fear and confusion. After all, Art still hadn’t told him why he’d been brought in. The uncertainty of the situation was advantageous for Art. Juan remained silent, weighing his options. By his expression, he’d come up short.
“I guess a warrant it is then!” Art boomed, standing up straight in one quick motion. The action made Juan jump. Art continued speaking like he hadn’t noticed. “God knows what sorts of drugs are stuffed in your walls, or how many dead presidents we find under your mattress.”
Juan’s lip curled, a feeble attempt to play the cool con. “Last I checked, Franklin won’t no prez’dent.”
Art was surprised Juan would even know such a thing, but he wasn’t about to let it show. And he’d grown tired of playing this game. “Shut the fuck up!” he bellowed, slamming his palms on the metal table. In a brief loss of control, he belted a smack across Juan’s face. The motion was so quick Bracamontes didn’t even see it coming — hell, Art barely had. The bone in Juan’s nose was no match for the force of Art’s massive hand. It cracked easily and blood spurted out over Juan’s lips.
Juan had been so caught off guard he was knocked out of his chair, but the shackles hooked to the table’s cross bar kept him from falling all the way over. Juan groaned as the cuffs dug into his wrists from the weight of his leveraged position. A fall would have hurt less.
Art rounded the table and glared down at him. “I don’t have time for your jokes or anything else you find funny, but I’ll show you what I think is funny.” He kicked the chair out of his way. It skidded against the floor with an ear piercing squeal before bumping to a stop against the wall. He brought up his foot and let it hover a moment before pressing it down on Juan’s chest. Art continued, “When little piss ant gang bangers get royally screwed by the strong arm of the law, that’s what I think is fucking hilarious. How are you going to defend yourself inside the pen without the use of your goddamn hands?”
Juan looked terror-stricken. Art knew the worm had dodged the judge’s gavel about as many times as he’d seen the inside of a cell. He gave Juan a look that promised there would be no skipping by on this one; Art would find some way to bring down the swift hammer of justice and seal Juan’s fate if answers weren’t forthcoming.
When Bracamontes took a second too long to respond, Art applied more pressure to the man’s chest and collar bone. Juan’s face contorted in agony as the motion intensified the wrenching in his arms, but Art didn’t care anymore. He’d break this piece of shit’s arm and change the report later if he had to. It would be easy enough to say Juan broke it during their foot chase earlier. Even if the claim could be medically disproven, there weren’t likely to be many questions asked, given this dirtbag’s reputation.
Juan grunted against the pain and then screamed until audible words formed. “Okay, okay man — fuck! — I’ll talk!” Art removed his foot, ending its wrath on Juan’s body. Bracamontes panted and struggled to get up. “You nearly broke my wrist!” he choked on a held-back sob. “What you wanna’ know?”
Art bent down and seized Juan by the collar of his shirt, the fabric tearing just a little more as he was hefted to his feet. He retrieved the chair he’d kicked against the wall and set it behind Juan, who sat down obediently.
“I need to know why my partner feels there’s a suspicious amount of Russian activity on the streets of New York. He’s puzzled, so I’m inclined to be puzzled with him.” He moved around the table and leaned against the edge. “At any point during this conversation if I feel you’re fucking with me or holding anything back, I promise you, I’ll finish what I started.”
Somehow, the tape deck had managed to stay on the table during the scuffle. Art pressed the record button.
“Start talking, Bracamontes.”
16
The Seven Year Snitch
Art walked in slow circles around the room as the tattooed man began talking. He’d become extra skittish after Art’s unveiled threat. Of course, Art moving like a predatory shark around its next meal was a heavy contributor to Juan’s anxiety. He’d been speaking long enough for the dried blood on his nose to flake off each time he swiped at it with his hands.
“So you’re certain there’s a group of Russians in New York, and not just the Mafioso type?”
Juan threw him on incredulous look. “Man, ain’t you been listenin’? I done told ya — these cabrones are dif’rent. They ain’t bringin’ in weapons and they ain’t slingin’ no drugs — not even coke.”
“And they’re definitely just looking for someone?” Art continued his pacing, deep in thought.
“Simón,” Juan nodded vigorously, all cooperation now. “My cuz’ Smiley — he know all the players in town. Word I heard was, they was lookin’ for him too.”
“And what’s so important about Smiles?”
“It’s Smiley, ese.”
Art scowled. “Cut the shit. When I ask a question, just answer it. You punks give Latinos a bad name, thinking you’re all Scarface and shit. News flash, asshole: that movie was crap, and Pacino had some sick-ass incest fascination with his sis. So you can drop the tough guy act.” He stopped for breath before finishing, “And I ain’t your ese.”
“Look homes, Smiley can find people, even ones who don’t wanna be found.” Juan shrugged. “Es what he does. I don’t know all the fools he does, but he’s the one who can track a fucker down.”
Art stopped and faced the shackled man. “So how can I find your cousin?”
“I talk with him every couple days, man. He usually swings by.”
“Moving drugs for you? That’s odd, isn’t he with Siete Reyes? How is it he still associates with you after what you did? Whatever happened to ‘Kings for Life’?”
“He keeps it on the low,” Juan said. “Blood is thicker than water.”
“Uh-huh. So where is he? I want to have a little talk with him.” Art loosened his tie for effect.
He had Bracamontes backed into a corner. If he told where his cousin was, there would be nowhere he could run. Juan’s allegiances were coming up on their expiration date, but if he didn’t spill the beans he was bound to die on the inside in a few short hours. Art could smell it in the air like a thick musk. Any second Juan was going to make a choice, and just like before it was going to be for self-preservation, however temporary.