This man had no appreciation of the work Liquida had done. Now he had sent two of his minions to set him up. Liquida would teach him a lesson he would not soon forget. He hurried toward the front door and the open gate while there was still time.
I am still at the corner catching my breath, trying to guess the distance to the lodge from here, perhaps a mile, maybe more, when I hear the slam of the metal gate.
I sneak a look. The guy is back outside, down on one knee at the gate. On the sidewalk next to him are some items. At this distance I can’t make out what they are.
He doesn’t have a key. He is working the lock the same way Herman had, and seems to be talking to himself as he does it. I can almost hear his voice. It is as if he’s arguing with someone. He was no FBI agent, that was certain. And his chances of being a social guest diminish considerably as I watch him pick the lock on the gate to close up. I don’t know if he is more skilled than Herman, but I have to admit he is faster, which probably means that he’s had more practice.
He is finishing up, putting the pick back in a container. I start to look around for places to hide. If he walks this way, I am in trouble. There is a car parked at the curb, maybe forty feet behind me; some thin, straggly bushes; and a long-abandoned, rusted set of railroad tracks across the street.
I stand up, and when I peer around the corner again he has finished and is on his feet. He gathers the objects from the sidewalk and, just when I think I might have to run, he turns away and walks in the opposite direction, down the street and away from me. I step away from the corner, take a deep breath, and hold my chest. Harry was right. I should have stayed home.
Then it strikes me that maybe he is going after Herman. If he is, he is taking his time. Just when I think I have it knocked, I hear a car door slam and then an engine start, and before I look around the corner, the screech of tires. The beam of the headlights nearly catches me looking around the edge of the building. He is screaming up the street directly at me.
I turn and run as fast as I can for the car at the curb. I know I have no chance.
When I turn back and look, he is stopped at the corner, gunning the engine and hitting the brake, inching forward in jumps, looking the other way. I glimpse the back of his head as I dive for the gutter behind the parked car.
The few seconds as he looked the wrong way were the difference. By the time he turned to look toward me, I was already in the deep gully where the paved road dipped down to meet the high curb of the sidewalk. As I lie hiding in the shadows, looking through the slight gap between the rear tire and the curb, I see his face. He scans the sidewalk in my direction as far as he can, and then turns his eyes on the car I am hiding behind. He studies the windshield for a long moment, takes out a small flashlight, and shoots the beam toward the front of the car. I duck down as best I can, trying to make myself smaller to hide behind the rear wheel.
I can’t see him any longer, but I can see the tires of his car as they move out into the intersection and turn this way. The wheels inch forward as pieces of loose gravel pop under the weight and the friction of his tires. I can hear the muted sounds of salsa as it plays on the radio inside his car. I slide forward on my stomach under the car as his wheels roll slowly this way. He edges in close, along the side of the car.
I glance back. My feet have just passed under the rear bumper as I continue to wiggle forward. I hear the slight hum of the electric motor and whish of the glass as the driver’s side window rolls down. The brassy sound and beat of salsa spills out all over the street. The music drowns out any noise I might make as I inch forward under the car.
I know what he is doing. He is peering through the side windows with his flashlight, checking the car’s interior, making sure there is no one inside. If I could only get him to move a few blocks away and try it again, he might be greeted by the flash of nine-millimeter muzzles and the FBI. Something tells me there is a connection here if I could only figure it out.
He rolls forward a few inches. A second later the sound of the music diminishes as the window closes. If he keeps going forward and looks in his mirror, or drives to the corner and turns around, I am dead. He would see me silhouetted under the car, backlit by the overhead lights down the street.
As this thought enters my brain, he guns the engine. His rear wheels squeal. My nostrils fill with the acrid odor of burnt rubber as his car chatters sideways for half a beat before it shoots back down the street in reverse. He throws the rear end into the opening at Katia’s street and in a single fluid motion makes a three-point turn and speeds off in the other direction. I watch as his brake lights flare at the next intersection. He slows for a few seconds and looks in both directions, down to the right toward the Sportsmens Lodge, and up to the left toward the hospital.
The brake lights dim and he shoots straight ahead, down the hill. The road curves to the right and he disappears around the bend.
I crawl out from under the car. I don’t stop to brush off my clothes. Instead I begin to run faster and faster into the darkness under the trees near the fence at the zoo. My heart is pounding. I turn and fall against the chain link, leaning with all of my weight as I catch my breath. Then I make my way slowly in the dark along the twisting lane. I can’t run, though I want to. In the pitch-black under the shadows of the trees, I would break my neck.
I am passing the first intersection when suddenly I see the lights of a vehicle winding its way along the lane, coming toward me. I look for somewhere to hide. There are some scrub bushes along the fence near the gnarled trunk of a eucalyptus tree. I make my way to the tree and position myself between the trunk and the fence and watch the headlights, trying to keep the tree between myself and the twin beams of light as the car approaches.
It isn’t until the flare of the bright light is past me that I can see the windows of the taxi and Herman in the backseat with the window down and looking out the other side.
“Herman! Here.” I step out into the street.
“Alto. Aquí,” says Herman.
The taxi driver throws on the brakes.
I run up along the right side of the car and get in the front seat. “Go,” I tell him. A second later we are moving.
“I waited for ya at the top of the stairs,” says Herman. “I saw the guy come outside. Then when he went in I saw you run across the street. But I wasn’t sure how to get to you. I figured the best way was to get a cab. Is he still at the house?”
“No.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you see?”
“A visitation from the angel of death,” I tell him.
“What do you mean?”
“I saw him up close for only an instant. He was behind a car window. But it was a face I won’t forget. It was pockmarked, one side of it, not the usual adolescent acne. It was something more sinister. Maybe smallpox or fire scarred, I couldn’t tell.”
“Funny you should say that. When I was at the gate working on the lock, I had a real edgy feeling, like somebody or something was lookin’ at me, and not just lookin’, if you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean.” I don’t tell Herman, but the reason I couldn’t look more closely at his face was because my focus was drawn to something in the eyes. It is hard to explain, something you have to see to understand, a kind of reflection of evil.