The kid tilts his head. "Why are you looking for him?"
So young to be so suspicious. But maybe that's what comes from living in a dump under a bridge.
When I don't answer right away, he pantomimes taking a hit on a joint, and then slaps the crook of his right arm with his left hand. "Weed or smack?"
The gestures and the question coming from this angel-faced kid remind me that this is not a game. My cavalier attitude undergoes immediate adjustment. I have to get the hell away from these kids and find Guzman.
I stand up abruptly. "You going to show me where the guy is or not?"
The chatty kid's face droops into a sullen mask. "He's in the last tent. Down there."
He and his silent companion start to follow me, but I whirl on them. "Get out of here. Playtime's over."
The glare, the heat in my voice roots them to the spot. But I want them gone. I sense the approach. When they still don't make a move to leave, I flail my arms at them. They turn tail and run.
I keep my back turned. I know someone is right behind me.
"Those kids bothering you?"
The words come from over my shoulder, a soft male voice.
I pretend to be startled, flinch and turn on my heels. One of Guzman's companions from a few minutes ago is now standing right in front of me.
I make a quick mental calculation. David should be around here somewhere by now.
The guy is doing some calculating of his own. His eyes sweep the length of my body. He has the look of a predator. "Didn't I just see you up on the street? With a big guy? You got him good. Big slap for such a little lady."
I draw myself up. "He deserved it, the asshole. Thinks he's such a big shit. Thinks he can treat me like dirt and I'm going to take it. I don't need the fucker. I don't need anybody."
I let a hint of desperation seep into the tirade. He picks up on it just the way I knew he would. His kind always look for weakness. It doesn't matter if it's man or vampire, the wiring is the same.
His face takes on a solicitous expression—you have to look closely to read the truth behind the mask. The eyes remain hard and cold but the voice is like a caress. "What can I do for you, pretty lady? You didn't come down here by accident. How can I help you?"
I start to fidget. "I heard I could buy what I need here."
He tilts his head, narrows his eyes. "Why here?"
I let my temper flare. "Why here? Gloria." I spit the name. “The cops know me in my neighborhood. They watch me all the time. I think David's bitch, Gloria, ratted on me. She's trying to get rid of me." I shove a hand into my pocket. "Look, I have money. Can you help me or not?"
He reaches out a hand of his own and stops me from going any further. Glancing around, he says, "Easy, chica. I can help you. Come with me to my tent. It's not safe for a girl to flash money. There are others here who would take advantage."
I haven't seen another soul except for those two kids. Still, I let my shoulders slump. "Thank you. I've never had to do this before. Not like this anyway."
He puts a hand on my arm and rubs my wrist, tugging gently until I follow him toward the tent at the end of the row. I pretend to stumble, and he helps me regain my balance with an arm around my shoulders. When he pulls me against him, I feel the gun tucked into his waistband under the oversized Western shirt.
A big gun.
His arm remains across my shoulders until we get to the tent. The second guy we saw walking with Guzman stands like a sentinel in front. My guy sweeps back the canvas covering that serves as a door, leans forward and says something in Spanish.
Great. Is he alerting Guzman that he's bringing someone in or telling him to start shooting?
He steps aside. If I balk now, it's over. I steel myself to take a defensive posture if needed and duck into the tent.
The air in the small tent reeks of dope and unwashed male. To make matters worse, it's muggy as a steam room and just about as hot. My skin prickles in revolt.
Guzman is seated cross-legged on the cardboard covering the floor of the tent. I needn't have worried about being greeted by a hail of bullets. He doesn't show the least bit of interest in me. He has a cell phone in his hand, and he keeps looking at it as if waiting for a call.
My drug-dealing friend has to bend low as he creeps to the back. He reaches into a knapsack, asking over his shoulder, "What's your pleasure?"
I fidget and scratch at my arms and chest. Junkie itch is what I'm going for but the fetid atmosphere inside the tent makes it more a shudder of disgust.
He watches and smiles knowingly. "Ah, la chiva then."
Heroin. That word I know.
He turns his back to me again as if not wanting me to see his stash but it's obvious he's shaking something into a baggie. "You got your works?" he says over his shoulder. "I can sell you a needle, too."
He's pinched the baggie closed and shoved the rest back into the knapsack. When he turns around again, I shake my head. "I'm good." I dig my hand into my pocket. "How much?"
The cell phone in Guzman's hand trills loudly. He motions for us to be quiet and snaps it open. He listens for a couple of seconds then, "Estas seguro." Another moment of silence. Then he speaks again.
He looks up at me and barks a command, voice harsh. His eyes burn.
The few words I recognize make me wonder if Guzman's cousin isn't in for a surprise. The rest seems to be an order for the dealer to hurry. Pronto translates in many languages. His expression makes ice form along my spine. I wonder if he's about to pull a gun and start blasting. One way to make things go faster.
I take a step back as he climbs to his feet, every cell in my body prepares for attack. But he pushes past me without another word.
"Two hundred."
The words pull me back. The dealer's eyes have gone as stone-cold as his boss's. Come on David, I think, make your move. My pockets are empty. How long can I stall?
"Two hundred," I whine. "What ever happened to dime bags?"
He smiles. "Supply and demand," he says. "Do you want it or do you want to take your chances with Gloria?"
The dealer's expression hardens, his hands move to the waistband of his jeans. I know I can make quick work of him but not without noise. The last thing I want to do is alert Guzman that something is wrong.
Damn it. I shift to another pocket. "No. I just forgot where I put the money."
He is neither amused nor indulgent. He doesn't drop his hand. "Rapido."
The word is a threat. If David doesn't show up soon, I'll have to come up with something besides money to offer him. Since he hasn't already suggested exchanging bodily fluids for the drugs, my options are limited.
Outside, there's an exclamation of surprise, a thump as a body hits the ground, and David's voice. "Anna?"
Finally.
My guy doesn't look to see what's going on before reacting. He goes for his gun.
I'm quicker. Once the constraint of keeping silent is removed, I tackle him. I hit him low on his body, chopping at his gun hand. He yelps and the gun falls free. But I've hit him too hard. There's a support pole in the middle of the tent and he falls against it. The pole cracks, the tent shudders, and we're wrapped in a canvas cocoon. He manages to land one good solid punch to my cheek before I pin his arms down. The punch hurt. My teeth are about to retaliate when the canvas is pulled away.
David peers down at us. He's got a cuffed Guzman lying on his stomach, his face pressed to the ground. David has one foot on the small of his back. Guzman is quiet, not struggling.
"You okay?" David asks.
I haul the dealer to his feet. "Peachy. What took you so long?"
David stares at a spot on my face. He smiles. "He got you, didn't he?"