“I call someone. I tell them to come to me. And what happens? They disappear. What’s that?”
“We all need to communicate better.”
Esteban scoffed.
“It’s beyond that. It’s fuckin’ disrespectful.”
Martin nodded.
“But if we had digital cell phones — ”
Esteban cut him off.
“I’m thinking we should make an example of him.”
“What good would that do?”
Esteban lit a cigarette.
“Part of the job is keeping people afraid of you.”
Martin nodded.
“A branding strategy.”
Esteban blew smoke out across the room. Christ, this kid was smart. He didn’t know what a “branding strategy” was… but this kid, with his brains… he could go places. If he would only listen to Esteban and learn from his experience.
Esteban understood the difference between book smart and street smart. The high-tech, fast-track, polished-chrome-and-glass world of brokerage firms and high-rise office towers with young secretaries in tight little suits versus the low-tech, testosterone-fueled, down-and-dirty world of cheap motels, panel vans, and arbitration by firing squad.
Martin was white bread. Groomed to be a corporate lawyer. He didn’t quite comprehend the subtle nuances of running an organized crime crew for La Eme. He didn’t understand that 90 percent of being El Jefe was showing you had huevos to spare. Fucking computers and cell phones wouldn’t do it. Esteban didn’t want his men to call him up, he wanted them to crawl naked through a cactus field if he asked. That’s respect. Respect for El Jefe and respect for his huevos.
Esteban looked at Martin.
“Exacto. We take the maricón and we brand his ass.”
“We need to find him first.”
Esteban stood up.
“Then we find him. Vamos.”
Six
NORBERTO RETURNED TO his house to find the door wide open.
“Fuck, man.”
He walked in, closed the door, and bolted it shut. He turned and yelled toward the bathroom door.
“I told you to shut the fucking door, man.”
There was no answer from the bathroom. Norberto turned and walked toward it.
“You dead?”
He paused. There was no answer.
“I hope you saved me some Herradura, man.”
Norberto entered the bathroom. Amado was gone. The tequila was gone. Only a sick-looking streak of drying blood remained. Norberto turned on the water and started cleaning the tub. Blood is hard to clean. Especially if it’s dried.
I need some scrubbing fucking bubbles, man. This is a tough stain.
Norberto reached under the sink and pulled out a can of Comet and a scrubby sponge. He shook the Comet out all over the tub. A green dusting of caustic powder fell over the blood. He began to vigorously attack the stain.
Norberto, engrossed in trying to clean the tub, didn’t hear Esteban and Martin as they entered the bathroom.
“You having your period, maricón?”
Norberto wheeled around. Upon seeing Esteban his first instinct was to run for his life. But he knew that was pointless, since Esteban would eventually find him, and there was only one way out of the bathroom anyhow. Thinking quickly, Norberto decided, despite the rapidly spreading stain in his underwear, to play it cool. He affected a casual tone.
“Hey, Esteban. You want me to come clean your tub? No charge, man.”
Esteban turned the water off.
“I got a maid.”
“Whatever, cabrón, you need me, I’m there.”
Norberto realized that he was acting a little too easy to please. But by then it was too late. Esteban turned to Martin.
“See this? This pendejo’s got no huevos. He’s wants to lick my asshole.”
“No, man. Fuck, no. I don’t wanna do that.”
Esteban continued, not looking at Norberto.
“I think he’s got something to hide.”
Norberto knew that pain was on its way.
“What? I’m not hiding nothing, nada.”
Martin closed the lid on the toilet and sat down. He opened a small black leather pouch he was carrying in his jacket pocket. It looked like a cigar holder.
“We’ll see about that.”
Martin took a syringe and a vial of clear liquid out of the pouch. Norberto looked at Esteban.
“What the fuck is that, man?”
Esteban just grinned.
“Don’t you wanna ask me something? I got nothing to hide, man. You don’t have to do this, man.”
Norberto was beginning to freak. Martin held the vial upside down and, just like he’d seen on television, filled the syringe with the clear fluid. He put the vial back in the bag and tapped the air bubble to the top of the syringe.
“What is that shit, man?”
Esteban looked at Norberto. He liked this. This was fun. Watching Norberto shit his pants, beg for his life. This was gonna be good.
“Where’s Amado?”
Norberto told the truth.
“He was here, man. I went out to get something and when I came back he was gone.”
“What’s with the tub?”
Norberto looked at the bloodstain, the Comet, and the scrubby sponge he still clutched tightly in his fist.
“Blood, man. It’s just blood.”
“Whose blood is it?”
“Amado’s.”
“Did you kill Amado?”
“No, man.”
Esteban laughed.
“He cut himself shaving?”
Norberto looked at Esteban. Then he looked over at Martin. Martin gave the syringe a little squirt. That shit looked evil.
“Look, Esteban, I didn’t have nothing to do with this, man.”
“Dígame.”
“Amado hurt his arm.”
“He go to the hospital?”
“No, man, it’s more fucked up than that.”
Esteban hated to lose his temper. All his heroes, the bad guys in the movies, Marlon Brando as the Godfather or anything with Christopher Walken in it, those guys never lost their temper until they were pushed too far. Esteban admired that. He wanted to be cool like that. But Brando didn’t have to put up with wetback fuckups like he did. Esteban slapped Norberto across the face. Slapped him hard. Norberto reeled, hitting his head against the side of the tub, breaking open a nasty gash. Norberto’s blood oozed down into the Comet.
“What happened? What happened to Amado’s arm?”
Not wanting to get hit again, Norberto blurted it out.
“It got cut off, man.”
The look that crossed Esteban’s face was unusual. A mixture of mirth, disgust, and genuine shock.
“Bullshit.”
“Es a verdad.”
Esteban smacked Norberto again.
“Amado killed Carlos Vila, but somehow he got his arm cut off.”
Esteban was surprised by this.
“He killed Carlos? ¿Por qué?”
“I don’t know nothing about it, man. But they had some kind of deal and Carlos was cheating Amado. So, you know Amado, he whacked him.”
Martin and Esteban exchanged a look. Martin spoke first.
“They can reattach that arm.”
Norberto shook his head.
“No, they can’t, man.”
“With advancements in microsurgery all kinds of things are possible. He may not have full range of motion again, but — ”
Norberto interrupted Martin.
“He left his fucking arm there, man. He don’t got it.”
Esteban leaned in close to Norberto. Norberto squirmed, squinted, and waited for the violence.