“Am I going to see you again?”
Don sighed. He had been afraid to ask this question in case he got the answer he didn’t want to hear. But she just flat-out asked. She wasn’t afraid. This, Don realized, was one of the things that made her so attractive. She didn’t play games. If she wanted something, she asked for it. It was refreshing.
“I hope so.”
Maura smiled. Now it was Don’s turn.
“I’d like to see you tonight. If you’re not too busy.”
“Can I cook for you?”
Don reached out across the table and gently took her hand.
“Whatever you want to do.”
Maura smiled.
“Then I’ll cook.”
Don finished his coffee and stood up to go.
“I hate to bring up work, but if you hear from your ex-boyfriend would you call me?”
“Can I call you just to talk?”
Don smiled.
“Absolutely.”
Don patted himself, feeling for his gun, his badge, the tools of his trade. Reassured that they were all in place, he walked over and gave her a kiss. Maura held on to him, stroking his back, giving his ass a playful squeeze, her hand stopping and holding on his gun for a moment, and then she broke from the embrace.
“I’ll see you tonight.”
Norberto and Martin sat in a booth at Denny’s. Norberto was famished, exhausted, agotado, having just spent the night working like a fucking campesino. He wasn’t in the mood to talk, especially not in English. When he was tired, or really drunk, or sick, his ability to habla Inglés left him. It just vanished. He knew Martin was one of those gringos who thought they spoke Spanish. They would speak loudly and confidently with all the vocabulary and syntax of a first-grader. Norberto hadn’t gone to college, he couldn’t claim to be an expert or anything, but listening to gringos fracture grammar and mix tenses was just annoying.
So Norberto didn’t say anything. He dipped his paper napkin in his water glass and tried to wipe some of the grit off his face. He looked across the table at Martin, who was staring out the window with a stony grin plastered on his face. All Norberto could think of was what a maricón Martin was. At one point he had wanted to shoot Martin and dump him in the hole with the dead guy. But, typical, the hole was barely big enough for the dead guy by himself, and there was no fucking way he was going to dig it bigger.
Norberto realized that Martin might be smart but he was also lazy. Flojo. Lazy was dangerous. Lazy made mistakes. He would have to keep his eye on Martin. Make sure he didn’t get sloppy and leave loose ends. Loose ends were always followed, if not by las placas then by Esteban. He didn’t know how they did it, but somehow loose ends always unraveled whatever scam you were pulling. That’s why Carlos Vila was dead.
Norberto drank his coffee, then his water. He was dehydrated, grumpy, and really hungry.
Martin was hungry too. His appetite fueled more by the effects of copious quantities of marijuana than by physical effort. Still, he’d helped chuck the corpse into the hole. He’d helped cover it up. He wasn’t a laborer. He wasn’t a — Martin had to catch himself when he thought of this one — Mexican. He had a graduate degree. He worked with his mind, not with his back. Sorry, but that’s just the way it was.
Despite what Norberto thought, and Martin could tell he was annoyed, Martin was thinking. Planning. Being strategic. Maybe he didn’t help dig the hole, but he put his mind to work, doing his best to keep it from looking like a fresh grave in the middle of the desert. He’d had the great idea of building a campfire on top of the grave to make it look like it was some kind of campsite.
Norberto hadn’t appreciated the genius of that. He’d had to argue with Norberto about that for an hour while the sun slowly crept over the horizon. Martin hadn’t realized how stupid Norberto was until now. Maybe it’d been a mistake to bring him in on the plan. There were advantages, of course, to having Norberto be so dumb. It would keep him from plotting against him. Norberto would need Martin, not just to pull this off but to help run the business after Esteban and Amado were put away. Norberto’s stupidity gave Martin a kind of job security.
Martin sipped his chocolate malt, washing the dirt out of his throat with its cold icy granules, and watched as Norberto demolished a Grand Slam breakfast. A grand slam. Clear the bases. Bring it all home. That’s what Martin was going to do, and when he was done, then Norberto would appreciate his genius. It was like a game of chess. Anyone could move the pieces, that was just logistics, lifting, grunt work. It was strategy that won the game.
Don drove home to quickly shave and change his clothes. Today was going to be a good one. Whatever forces that propelled the universe — be they energies of coincidence or karma — had conspired to bless him. Not only did he have a break in his case but his search for Bob had led him to this incredible woman. Don had gotten lucky.
Esteban carried his copy of La Opinion into the kitchen. He opened a cupboard and took out a small glass. He took a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice out of the refrigerator, pausing for just a beat when he saw the two severed arms together on a cookie sheet on the bottom shelf. Esteban would be glad to get rid of those things. He never liked to have anything remotely resembling evidence around for long. He’d never store a shipment of drugs at his own home, always using warehouses, storage units, or, in an emergency, this safe house.
He sat at the kitchen table, sipped his orange juice, and read the paper. This new presidente in Mexico could be trouble. He was not part of the old guard that had kept Mexico in a kind of feudal society for centuries, with rich landowners, industrialists, and gangsters as kings and shoguns. He wasn’t a socialist, thank God, but he was a reformer. A reformer who made a lot of speeches about improving the lives of the Mexican working class. Part of that would be eliminating the drug trade and cracking down on corruption. Esteban chuckled. As if that would improve their lives.
Esteban relied on a time-honored tradition of bribes and corruption, giving officials their “little bites,” to move product through the country and over the border. How else could your average civil servant afford a satellite dish, a DVD player, or a Jeep Cherokee? But if this new guy was going to start cracking down, it could cause problems. Not that it would ever stop the flow of product into the States, there was just too much money to be made, but it could cause headaches, disruptions. Carajo, this new presidente was going to be a fucking pain in the ass.
Esteban looked up as he heard Bob and Amado pull into the driveway. He watched as the two men climbed out of the car, laughing and joking like they were old friends. As much as he liked Bob, Esteban was still a little unsure. It was a risk he wouldn’t normally take, but then this was not a normal situation. Still, there was something about him that seemed trustworthy. He was sincere. Not jaded like Martin and other anglos that Esteban knew. Anglos always seemed to think that they were entitled to everything. As if working was somehow beneath them. It was a kind of culturally inbred arrogance. It was not an attractive quality to someone who’d worked his way up from the strawberry fields.
Bob and Amado strolled into the kitchen. Bob was carrying a couple of cups from Starbucks. He handed one to Esteban.
“I didn’t know what you liked so I got you a cappuccino.”
Esteban took the coffee from Bob, touched by the gesture.
“Gracias, Roberto. I like cappuccino.”
Esteban and Bob locked eyes for a moment. Esteban was surprised and, he had to admit, pleased when Bob didn’t look away. Bob wasn’t threatened by him.