Jones studied the table. ‘Four ball, side pocket … No, wait. Scratch that. Two ball, far corner. I think I can squeeze it in past the twelve …’
‘What’s wrong?’ Payne asked.
Jones repositioned himself for the shot. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’
‘Are you sure? Because it looks like something’s wrong.’
He ignored the question and attempted the shot, which he missed by a few inches. Not because he was distracted, but because it was a difficult shot. ‘Shit.’
Payne fought the urge to smile as he snatched the cue back. ‘Wow! That was really close. You must be heartbroken. I’ll tell you what: if you want, we can move the balls back and I’ll let you try again. That’s what my dad used to do … when I was three.’
‘Screw you.’
‘I can even pick you up so you can see over the edge of the table a little better. For a short guy like you that’s a pretty big disadvantage.’
Jones sneered as he returned to their corner table. He took a long swig of beer before he spoke again. ‘What were you talking about before?’
‘When?’
‘Earlier.’
‘Yeah, that really narrows it down.’
Jones growled softly. ‘That bullshit about eight-ball.’
‘Oh, that. I was wondering when we’d get back to that. I heard some sociologist talking about it on TV. He claims eight-ball is a racist game that should be boycotted by everyone.’
‘Really? Why’s that?’
Payne explained the theory. ‘The cue ball, which is white, is used to knock around all the coloured balls. The balls that are solid in colour have the lowest numbers on them. In other words, they have the lowest value according to society. Meanwhile, the striped balls, which are half white, have higher numbers, giving them a greater intrinsic value.’
Jones grunted. ‘I never thought of it like that.’
‘But that’s not the worst part.’
‘It’s not?’
Payne shook his head. ‘The object of the game is to knock the eight-ball, which is black, off the table. Nobody wins until the black ball gets eliminated. Once it does, we celebrate.’
‘Son of a bitch! We’re playing a racist game.’
‘Just say the word and we can quit.’
From his seat in the corner, Jones eyed the playing surface. He had a three-ball lead in their current game. ‘Not right now. I’m winning.’
‘Are you sure? Because I’m more than willing to quit—’
Jones interrupted him. ‘Not a chance in hell! It’s funny how you didn’t mention this racism thing when you were kicking my ass in the last game.’
‘I didn’t think of it then.’
‘I wonder why.’
‘Wait! What are you suggesting? That I’d stoop so low as to use race issues to my personal advantage.’
Jones nodded. ‘Just like a whitey.’
Payne faked indignation. More like brothers than friends, they constantly joked about race without offending one another. It had been that way for as long as they could remember. ‘How dare you call me whitey! I’m an honorary black guy. You said so yourself.’
‘You were until you made up that bullshit about a sociologist.’
‘Bullshit? What bullshit?’
Jones called his bluff. ‘Sociologist, my ass! That eight-ball-is-racist skit is one of the oldest jokes in the world. I’ve heard everyone from Martin Lawrence to Chris Rock talk about it. If you’re gonna distract me, you need to come up with fresher material.’
Before Payne could respond, he heard his phone ring above the din of the bar. It was sitting on their table, right next to Jones. ‘Can you grab that for me?’
‘Not a chance. You’ll use it as an excuse to quit.’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Yes, you will.’
‘At least tell me who’s calling. I won’t pick up unless it’s important.’
Jones sighed and grabbed the phone. He did a double take when he read the caller ID. The name on the screen was a blast from the past. Not Payne’s past. His own past. For a moment, it took his breath away, like a sucker punch to the gut. Why in the hell was she calling Payne in the middle of the night? The two of them didn’t talk — or did they? If so, his best friend had been keeping it from him.
Suddenly his world was filled with doubt.
Payne searched for his next shot. ‘Who is it?’
‘Maria,’ he said softly.
‘Who?’
Jones cleared his throat and spoke louder. ‘Maria.’
‘Maria who? I don’t know any Marias.’
He glared at his friend. ‘Maria Pelati.’
Payne stopped what he was doing and focused on Jones. From the look in his eyes, it was obvious he wasn’t happy about the call. ‘Really? Why’s she calling me?’
He continued to glare. ‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’
13
Angel Ramirez was second-in-command within Hector’s organization. Pronounced ‘AHN-hell’ in Spanish, Angel was phoned a few hours after Hector received the proof-of-life call from the kidnappers. Hector wouldn’t tell him what was going on. He just told him to get his ass to the mansion as soon as possible. He would explain everything when Angel arrived.
Hector was waiting for him in the library. As he paced back and forth, the look on his face was one of rage. Not anger, but all-out fury. Unaware of the crisis, Angel assumed that he had done something to upset his boss. He racked his brains, trying to remember any mistakes he’d made in the last few days, but he came up empty. Nevertheless, Angel was so concerned about Hector’s wrath that he glanced at the floor to make sure plastic hadn’t been laid down to protect the wood. On more than one occasion, Hector had fired an employee by literally firing at him.
Angel breathed a sigh of relief when he saw floor.
Still pacing, Hector blurted out, ‘They have my kids.’
‘What?’ he said in Spanish.
‘They have my fucking kids.’
‘Who does?’
‘How should I fucking know? If I did, I would get them!’
Angel shook his head in confusion. His boss wasn’t making sense. ‘Hector, what are you talking about? Someone stole your children?’
‘Yes!’ he screamed. ‘They got my kids!’
‘When did this happen?’
Hector paused in thought. For him, the last thirty-six hours had been a long nightmare. At some point, one day had run into the next. ‘Yesterday. While we were sleeping.’
‘They took your kids from here?’
‘Yes!’
‘How did they get in?’
Hector glared at him. ‘I have no fucking idea! I’m not a detective!’
He picked up an antique globe and flung it across the room. Solidly constructed from a single piece of metal, the globe struck a series of Aztec masks that were displayed on the far wall. One of the masks was obliterated on impact, and another was damaged when it fell and bounced across the floor. Hector immediately regretted his outburst.
Other than his kids, those artefacts were his pride and joy.
Growing up in Mexico City, Hector was fascinated by the history of the Aztecs, an indigenous group that had ruled the region through power and fear. Even as a small boy, when most of his friends were focused on baseball and soccer, he preferred the local museums to the neighbourhood parks. He simply couldn’t get enough of Aztec culture. Eventually, once he reached a point in his life where he had more money than he could possibly spend, he returned to his childhood passion, buying Aztec artefacts by the dozen. The shelves and walls of his library were lined with the relics he had collected in recent years.