Xlmen was Santiago’s finest hunter. Sure, he was a sadist and crude in his personal habits, but when it came to making problems disappear, he had no equal. He would have Xlmen watch the hacienda.
Earlier in the day, Santiago dropped a burlap sack on the table between them. Lifting the cloth he exposed the decaying severed head of Gaspar, Xlmen’s cousin. Xlmen didn’t blink. He looked from the head up to Santiago’s eyes. “Who?”
Santiago lay the blood stained tarot card on the table.
“Gaspar was family. I want the kill.”
“You have earned that right.”
Xlmen killed his first human when he was ten years old. The boy was much bigger than Xlmen’s stunted size, he was also richer. Xlmen knew this because the boy had new boots, a backpack and Levi jeans. With a primitive garrote made from baling wire and two short pieces of a broomstick, Xlmen had strangled the boy. His only feeling at the time was disgust that the boy had soiled himself and rendered the jeans unwearable. A mountain lion felt no guilt when a goat stumbled across his path, why should Xlmen? Life was an endless food chain, and Xlmen stood at the top. Who knew how many men or beasts he had dropped in the fifty years after that first boy, who cared? He took no pride nor had shame in any of it. It just was. And now the tarot killer had entered his sights. It would only end one way.
From where he was hidden, he could see up the slope to the Russian’s hacienda, he could also watch the only road leading in or out. He was comfortable in the deep leather seat of the luxury SUV Santiago had bought him. He respected Santiago, he was a man of his word, and he understood how life worked. The strong fed off the weak. Xlmen had no illusions about his patron, if Xlmen grew soft or failed, Santiago would have him killed. And Xlmen would kill Santiago if he failed to keep his word, or grew ineffectual.
On the passenger seat sat a satellite phone. If it rang it would be Santiago, no others had the number. Beside the phone was a Ruger Redhawk.44 Magnum with a six-inch barrel. Years in a holster had worn some of the blueing off, but it shot true. In the cargo compartment was his scoped Remington 700 hunting rifle and a cut down 12 gauge. Xlmen had no worry about being arrested on weapons charges, Santiago owned policemen, judges and even one mayor. He had procured Xlmen a license as a guide and professional hunter, even the army would let him pass without trouble.
Through his network of pimps and putos, street kids and business men, Santiago had Baja wired up tight. Sooner or later, the tarot killer would surface. Then the satellite phone would ring and Xlmen would go to work.
Gregor’s mother spoke very little English. After lots of stumbling, she finally handed the phone to my friend. He told me Uncle Manny had left several messages on his cell asking Gregor to call the club.
“Manny’s just sweating because he’s down two bouncers,” I told him. Doc, the third bouncer, had an expensive girl and two kids with an ex so I knew he could always use the extra shifts. Truth was, Manny was probably worried about us and wanted an update.
“I rolled past my crib,” Gregor said. “That King Kong jumbo Ruski had the place staked out.”
“He spot you?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re a fucking ghost when you want to be.” I filled him in on what little I had found out south of the border and then had him put Anya on.
“Have you found Nika?” Anya asked as soon as she picked up the phone.
“No, but I’m close.” I couldn’t stand to tell her the truth, I was miles from anything that looked like close.
“You will find her, you are my strong good man.”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“You make fun of me?”
“No.”
“Yes, but I’m serious. You are a good man.”
“If you say so.” Getting my mind back on track, I asked her about the Russians who had held her. What did they like, what were their particular vices? I was looking for any handle I could get a grip on.
“Vodka, of course, with every meal many bottles.”
“What brand?”
“Vodka is vodka… wait, I remember the old man was yelling at his cook one night because they ran out of Zyr, it is from Moscow, very expensive.”
“What else do they like?”
“Russian caviar and, oh yes, those fucking Cuban cigars. Must always be Cuban. Will that help?”
“Yeah, you did good. How is my boy treating you?” It was out of my mouth before I could stop the words.
“Gregor,” she hesitated for just a moment and I filled the silence with jealous worry. “He is very good to me, but he isn’t you,” she whispered the last part, keeping it from Gregor, I was sure.
I dropped twenty dollars on the motel’s manager for the phone call and went to wake Peter. At a little after seven, I hoped it was still early enough for him to reach a researcher at the Times. I had him looking for stores that sold Zyr vodka in Ensenada. It was a scarce enough brand, I was betting not many places in Mexico carried it. While Peter worked the phone, I hit the Avenue.
“Prima de Fumar,” Teyo, my tip boy, told me. He had explained that if I wanted a bullshit tourist Cuban cigar, I could find them on any corner, but they were crap, some counterfeit Mexican tobacco, others from Cuba but stale from being poorly stored. “No, for the real deal Cuban, Prima de Fumar is the only shop. They closed, but I’ll find the owner and I hook you up.” Before I could say anything, he had his cell phone out and was rattling away in Spanish. After a rapid fire conversation, he dropped his phone into his pocket.
“We on?” I asked.
“Man, you always in a hurry, you in the land of manana now.”
“Twenty bucks US speed this up?” I dropped a Jackson into his palm.
“You got it, dude, twenty minutes come here and I’ll have you smoking one fine cigar.” I wasn’t sure if he would come through, but this was a fishing expedition and cash was our chum.
Xlmen pushed back his hat, raising the binoculars to his eyes. A black Mercedes came down the mountain from the hacienda, Xlmen could make out at least three men in the car. He wondered if he should follow them, his orders had been to watch the house, but these men may have been going to find the killer. And if they found the killer, what would they do? They would bring the killer back to their boss. Back up the road Xlmen was watching. Dropping the glasses, he closed his eyes.
The white haired old man in the white room hung up the phone and let out a dry breath. He had kept his temper in check through his entire conversation with the Israelis, but he wondered as he often had if they were worth the trouble. Yes, they inarguably had been a benefit in the growth of his empire, but their constant worrying was like dealing with old ladies, deadly old ladies for sure, but old ladies nonetheless. Now they were panicking over this nightclub bouncer and one girl gone missing. They had given him forty-eight hours to straighten it out, find the bouncer and bring back the woman, breathing or not. It was the insolence of it that galled him most; the implication that he and his men couldn’t handle this. Yes, they had failed in the first attempt, but that would not happen twice. Picking up a prepaid cell phone he dialed an equally disposable line in Mexico.
Kolya felt the phone vibrate in his pocket. There were many things he had the power to decide on, but answering his master’s call was not one of them. Stepping into the den that had become his office, he locked the door before speaking into the phone, “Dimitri Petravich, I hope all is well with you and Gallina.” Gallina was the old man’s sour-faced shrew of a wife and although Kolya cared little to nothing for her, not to ask after her wellbeing would be a social misstep that would not be lost on the old man.
“We survive, but are we well? No, Kolya Antonivich, we most definitely are the very antithesis of well.” His voice was like two dry sticks being rubbed together.