Martin was feeling no pain. He’d answered a shitload of questions and now had an equal amount of Demerol coursing through his bloodstream. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Besides, it was annoying when they were open. The lights were too bright. What were they thinking? Were they shining them at him on purpose? When he did open his eyes the left one would drift off one way and the right one would drift another. It caused him to feel seasick. Or was that the drug?
If he tried really hard he could focus. Sometimes he’d focus on the question being asked. For example: How much cocaine was carried across the border each week? Martin didn’t like that question. He tried to tell the detective about the coyotes. It was difficult at first. The lawyer with the massive knockers kept talking about Griffith Park. Martin had to be rude. He had to tell her to shut up and take off her top. She didn’t like that. But Martin didn’t care, he wanted to see her breasts. She gave him a snarly look instead and sat down on the other side of the room.
Martin grimaced, swallowed, and explained that people called coyotes, because coyotes are allegedly fast and wily, carried the stuff over the border. So the question, if it really was a question, should be rephrased. What the detective should ask is: How much coke can a coyote tote if a coyote could tote coke?
Say that fast five times.
He made the detective say it. As the detective was struggling with the tongue-twister, things got kind of weird. Martin had just given himself a generous blast of the drip, the big dripper he’d nicknamed it, when Esteban and that fucking Bob, sorry… Roberto, entered the room. Martin saw the detective and Maura both look like they’d just shit their pants. But no one was yelling, and it didn’t seem like any guns were drawn. Martin couldn’t understand how they got in. Wasn’t that fat fuck standing guard?
Martin saw Esteban looking at him. He heard the detective rattling on about something. It was getting tense in the room. Maura was saying something to that fucker, Roberto. Everybody was trying to say something. They were all a bunch of fucking tough guys.
It was killing his buzz.
Martin rolled his hand over and wedged the Demerol drip dial between the strap on his arm and the raised metal thingy on the bed. He jammed it in there good, so it would stay open. He immediately felt warm and fuzzy all over. The waves began crashing in on his brain more frequently. Like there was a hurricane somewhere near Hawaii and the waves in California were picking up the beat. The slow and steady drip of the Demerol turned into a drizzle, then a shower, then a torrential thunderstorm. Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain. His buzz was back with a stinger.
Martin reminded himself to breathe.
He heard a loud crack. Maybe someone shot someone. Then another. Oh, yeah. Someone shot someone. Martin thought about opening his eyes, but it just didn’t seem worth the effort.
And then he experienced something he’d never experienced before. He’d been close. He’d walked the razor’s edge. But he’d never gone over until now.
He was too high.
Don was happy. He’d just loaded in a third microcassette. The guy was delirious, half of what he said was just bizarre, unusable, the other half was great stuff. Details about shipments, bank accounts, and the infrastructure of the crew’s operations. If even a tenth of this information panned out, Esteban would be spending a long time behind bars and Don might get to run a task force or something. There’s lots of overtime in task force operations. Overtime pay plus a raise.
Don looked over at Maura. She had been pouting ever since the guy had asked her to take off her shirt. Don couldn’t blame her, it was rude of the guy, but Don didn’t have time to comfort her. He wanted to get as much out of the guy as he could, and if that meant humoring him, repeating tongue-twisters or taking off your shirt… well? What’s the harm in that? The end justifies the means.
Don heard the door open, he assumed it would be the sheriff, but when he looked up he was shocked to see Esteban Sola in the flesh. Esteban muttered something about being a lawyer and handed Don a business card as he asked for a consult with his client. Don had to admit it was convincing and if the sheriff were sitting in this room instead of him, he’d probably have left the guy alone with Esteban. Of course when he came back, the guy would be dead. But he wasn’t the sheriff. He wasn’t some flunky sent out to write a report. He was the lead detective on this particular case. A member of the LAPD’s Criminal Intelligence Division. He had looked at surveillance photos of Esteban for two years, had listened to hours of wiretaps, and had debriefed dozens of informants. He knew that Esteban was not a lawyer.
But then Don noticed that Maura’s ex-boyfriend, Bob, was with Esteban. He’d remembered feeling that there was something hinky about Bob when he had him down at Parker Center. Now he knew why. There was a connection. Larga, Maura, Bob, Esteban, this guy here in the hospital… it was all starting to make sense. Not make sense in the way of actually understanding what had happened or how these people were all connected. That would come later. But the fact that they were connected, that was a victory for Don.
He felt good.
Then he heard the gunshots.
Bob watched as Esteban, smooth and suave, asked the nurse for directions to Martin’s room. She pointed toward the elevators and Esteban thanked her. Esteban didn’t say a word to Bob. He was in character and Bob didn’t want to break his concentration. He just wanted to watch the master at work.
They got off the elevator and walked down the corridor toward Martin’s room. It was the last one. It was easy to see which room it was; a fat sheriff sat on a folding metal chair next to the door. The sheriff was reading People magazine. He looked up when he saw Esteban and Bob coming toward him.
“Can I help you folks?”
Esteban handed him a business card.
“I’ve been retained by the parents.”
The sheriff looked him up and down.
“This is my associate.”
Bob stuck his hand out and shook the sheriff’s.
“Hi.”
The sheriff seemed reassured by Bob’s presence.
“They’re interviewing him now.”
“Who?”
“The LAPD.”
Esteban put on a sad, resigned expression.
“He was read his rights?”
The sheriff smiled.
“You betcha. Did it myself.”
“Perhaps I should go in and consult with him in private. It’s his constitutional right.”
The sheriff nodded. He hated lawyers.
“Well, we wouldn’t want to upset the founding fathers, would we?”
The sheriff opened the door.
Bob followed Esteban into the room. He saw Martin lying on the bed looking pale and sweaty with a big bandage on his head where Bob had whacked him with the shovel. Bob jumped a little when he saw the detective from Parker Center there. What a coincidence.
But what really knocked the wind out of him was when he saw Maura sitting in the corner.
“Bob?”
“Maura?”
No one said anything for what seemed like a week. Martin mumbled something.
“Fuckin’ Roberto.”
That’s what it sounded like. But it was hard to tell.
Bob could feel his tie getting extremely tight, like he was choking. But Esteban didn’t miss a beat.
“I’ve been hired to represent that man there.”
He pointed to Martin.
“I would like to speak to him in private.”
Maura stood up.
“Bob? What are you doing here?”