Dr. Mendoza found a seat at the bar next to a pinch-faced, middle-aged businessman type, hunch-shouldered, in a navy blue golf shirt and khakis. The man was alone, drinking a Scotch and soda and staring into space.
“How’s the game?” Dr. Mendoza said, indicating with a wag of his head the football game on the TV.
The man turned to him and shrugged. “I have zero interest in football.”
“Nor I.” Dr. Mendoza was relieved, since he knew almost nothing about American football and had no interest in learning anything about it. “If only my investments gave me time to watch sports.”
He let that hang for a few seconds until the man next to him replied, as Dr. Mendoza knew he would. “What sort of investments?” he said, trying to sound casual.
“Oh, mostly for myself and my family,” he said airily, glancing up at the TV set as if he’d suddenly developed an appreciation for football.
They chatted for a while. Dr. Mendoza remained tantalizingly vague about the nature of his fortune while letting it be known that it was substantial. He was more interested in learning about the real estate market in and around the Bay Area. The businessman had gotten a lot more talkative. Dr. Mendoza had been transformed, in his eyes, from an annoyance to a potential client. Of course, the man didn’t say why he was staying at the hotel, and Dr. Mendoza was careful not to ask.
When the man got up from his stool and excused himself to use the restroom, Dr. Mendoza said, “Please allow me to buy you a drink.”
“I think I’ve had all the Scotch I need for the night, but thanks anyway.”
“Just one more drink? I need to pick your brain a little more about real estate in this area.”
“Well… I suppose just one more drink. After all, I don’t have to drive home.”
The businessman returned a few minutes later, settled himself on the bar stool, and saw the fresh drink in front of him. “Thank you kindly,” he said. He raised his glass to Dr. Mendoza’s.
“To a long life,” Dr. Mendoza said.
They each took a drink. “Your accent,” the businessman said after a while. I can’t place it…”
“Argentina,” Dr. Mendoza said, beaming. “And after all these years in Portola Valley, I thought I’d lost it.”
“I knew it was Spanish or Mexican or something.” He made a tiny grimace as he swallowed, and Dr. Mendoza worried that the Scotch wasn’t adequately masking the acrid taste. But then the man took another sip, and Dr. Mendoza was able to relax. “Argentines speak Spanish, huh?”
“Indeed,” said Dr. Mendoza. “Of course there are differences between the way we speak and the way the Spaniards speak. Just as there are differences between the way they speak in, say, Oaxaca and the way they speak in, say…”-he paused to let the name slide into place with a satisfying click-“Sinaloa.”
The banker stiffened, just as Dr. Mendoza expected. He was an emotionally volatile man. The cartel’s dossier indicated that he took medication for a heart condition. A volatile temperament like his would not long withstand the DEA’s pressure. With trembling hand he set down his tumbler.
But he had drunk more than enough of the chemical.
Panicked, he said, “Who the hell are you?”
“I am the angel of mercy, Mr. Toth.”
Toth closed his eyes for a moment. “Oh, dear God in heaven, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I haven’t said anything to anybody.”
Dr. Mendoza nodded patiently. “Of course not.”
“How-how did you find me here?”
Dr. Mendoza shrugged. The banker had gotten sloppy. The DEA had stashed him under a false name at this hotel, and then he’d used his credit card to order out for Chinese food.
“I told them there was no point trying to hide me. I told them you people could find me anywhere. But you need to understand something.” He wielded a stern index finger. “I told them nothing. Nothing, do you understand?”
Dr. Mendoza shrugged.
“The ‘angel of mercy,’ you said-”
“You are a drowning man and I am your life raft.”
“I never said a word, not-not a goddamned word!”
“Of course not.”
“They-they came to me!”
“Of course they did.”
Dr. Mendoza’s placid unconcern rattled Toth more than any explicit threat might have done. “Never-I never gave them-didn’t say a goddamned word! They moved me here”-he looked around with distaste-“said I needed protection. I never made-never cooperated-I didn’t-say anything! You have to-believe me!”
“I’m sure you haven’t.”
“And I won’t-won’t say anything.” He masked his pleading tone in steely emphasis.
“I believe you.”
“You-your employers have made me a lot of money and-I mean, why the hell-I wouldn’t turn myself in to the DEA! Why would I?”
“Perhaps because you fear them less than you fear us,” Dr. Mendoza suggested gently.
“I’m not an idiot!” Toth was beginning to gather his wits, to speak in an aggrieved tone. “I know you people can get to me anywhere-I mean, the fact that I’m here doesn’t indicate anything. They threatened me. I don’t know how the hell they knew about me, but I never told them a thing. Why would I? That would be insane.”
“It would indeed.”
“Why-why are you here?”
Dr. Mendoza shrugged again. “Just for a friendly chat.”
“Well, let me make it absolutely clear to your-” Something suddenly occurred to him. Toth smiled, lifted his head, eyes wide with desperate enthusiasm. “I hope you’ve considered the possibilities here. I hope your… your employers realize that we can use this situation to our advantage. To plant disinformation. To mislead the DEA, do you understand? This could be a brilliant strategy. The DEA will think they have a cooperating defendant, but what they won’t know…” He closed his eyes. “I need to lie down for a… I think I overdid… the Scotch. Feeling a little light-headed…”
“This is because your blood pressure is dropping,” Dr. Mendoza explained. “You take a vasodilator for your heart condition, do you not?”
Toth looked surprised. “What does that have to do with…?”
“No one who takes a vasodilator should ever take Viagra,” Dr. Mendoza explained. “It is quite dangerous. Your blood pressure will drop to zero.”
Toth could barely keep his eyes open. “Viagra? I’ve never taken-” The tumbler of Scotch slipped from his grasp and thudded on the bar.
He looked down at it, and he knew.
“This will not be painful, not at all,” said Dr. Mendoza. “This will go quite easily.” Dr. Mendoza rose from the stool and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I told you, I am the angel of mercy.”
There were far, far more painful ways to die than to imbibe thirty milliliters of sildenafil citrate suspension mixed with whiskey. Even if he had drunk no more than half, that was still, for him, a lethal dose. No one would ever suspect foul play. It would look like he’d foolishly got hold of some Viagra and didn’t know how dangerous it was for him to take any of the stuff.
It was quite clever, actually.
“Good evening,” Dr. Mendoza said. He left the bar without turning back once. He didn’t need to. He heard the banker slump to the floor as he lost consciousness.
To die in such a painless manner was indeed a mercy.