Shady Lady

Page 46

“I can only hope.”
“So what’s the plan now?”
That was what I liked most about Chuch: Despite having all kinds of expertise and experience—stuff I couldn’t even conceive, most likely—he never flaunted it, or went overt alpha dog. He flowed right into any capacity in which he was needed.
“I call Escobar and tell him he has a traitor in his ranks.”
“And Dios have mercy on them all.”
“Maybe.” That couldn’t be my primary concern. “But it’s time to end this.”
When Montoya broke, when he sent me the e-mail asking for a meet, I had to be ready to move. I got out my phone and dialed.
Once Upon a Time in Mexico
Chuch made a few calls and we wound up at a trailer owned by a friend of his cousin Ramon. We drove past mounds of trash, rusted carburetors and engines up on blocks. Our hideyhole sat at the back of the RV park, where most residents didn’t have a phone and weren’t about to get involved in someone else’s business. The trailer across the way had an impressive array of license plates, and the one catty-cornered appeared to collect hubcaps.
There were few trees, but plenty of dry grass and broken pavement littered with glass and plastic wrappers. Chuch stopped in front of a single-wide, and after he parked, I slid out; in the distance, I heard cars on the highway, barking dogs, and a woman screaming at her kid. Squaring my shoulders, I surveyed the cracked vinyl underpinning as I came up to the front door. The gaps meant that scurrying sounds could be rats nesting underneath. As long as they hadn’t chewed their way in, I could handle it.
The trailer was to let, but since it smelled of old pot and cat piss, so far there hadn’t been any takers. Imagine my surprise. Inside, I encountered stained brown carpet, spilled coffee grounds, an upside-down trash can, and a dilapidated couch in blinding purple plaid. I couldn’t fathom why the prior tenants left it behind.
Chuch staked out bedroom territory. Since it stank even worse in there—of stale sweat, old cigarette smoke, and rancid massage oil—I didn’t dispute his claim. He carried in basic provisions, nothing fancy: bread, peanut butter, crackers, chips, and soda.
I sank down on the sofa and made a call. An unfamiliar male voice answered, one of Escobar’s thugs, most likely. “Tell your boss he’s got a leak,” I said in Spanish. “He might want to plug it.”
“¿Quién es?” Who’s this?
“Corine Solomon. And if I’d relied on his men to keep my whereabouts a secret, I’d be dead now. Tell him to handle it.”
After I cut the connection, Chuch shook his head at me. “You like living dangerously, don’t you?”
“Not so much, but sometimes it’s necessary.”
Too often for comfort, I found.
We spent the next forty-eight hours sleeping, waiting, and playing cards. It was a great place to lie low; nobody bothered us. Butch, at least, enjoyed the respite from car chases, flying bullets, and unquiet spirits. As time wore on, Chuch called Eva periodically to make sure she was all right.
“Told you I’m fine,” I heard his wife say, ending the conversation. “I swear I’ll let you know if that changes. I’m not going through this alone.”
That night, I had a hard time falling asleep; it wasn’t the lumpy couch or the undesirable location. I’d crashed in worse places. No, it was worry and regret tying me up in knots. I hoped Jesse and Shannon were all right. From there, my thoughts wandered to Kel, and I was still thinking about him—fallen angel, Nephilim, man who held me in the dark—when I drifted off.
But I didn’t dream of him. I wish I had.
Instead I stood in Min’s shop on the boardwalk in John’s Pass Village. I’d spent hours here with Chance. With a twinge of pain, I recollected the photo studio where they’d taken our first picture together, the restaurant where we’d eaten, and afterward, we walked down to the ice-cream parlor to share dessert. We’d passed a jewelry store and, looking in the window, I’d wondered if he would ever buy me a ring.
I don’t want to be here, I thought. I don’t have the mental energy for a stroll down memory lane.
The quaint location attracted a lot of foot traffic from the beach, but Min had loyal local clientele as well. I knew this place like the back of my hand, its shelves stocked with wicker baskets, each containing a unique tincture or poultice. She also sold fresh dry herbs and oil extracts, candles and soaps, all handmade and carefully formulated to promote holistic healing. Even the tourists took home something, which I’d always thought meant she had laid a mild prosperity charm on the place. Not that Min would ever admit it.
The store smelled of peppermint today, probably due to the candles flickering on the countertop. Sachets filled with healing herbs were arranged around the cash register. I stood and drank the place in. When I’d left, I didn’t think I would ever see it again, not even in my dreams. Here, I fell in love with customer service, working with Min. When I hadn’t been traveling with Chance, I helped out; her shop had been like a second home to me. It all looked so real, from the glass storefront to the wicker chairs in the corner where Min did consultations.
By the darkness, it was late, though. The CLOSED sign showed in the window, and so I went through into the back room that served as her office. Min had decorated it with her customary panache: delicate screens and several water fountains, no metal file cabinets or ugly desk for her. Chance sat beside his mother over a pot of green tea and maejakgwa, the ginger cookies he loved. It looked as if he hadn’t cut his hair in six months, the most disheveled I’d ever seen him.
“You should go before it’s too late.” She sighed and shook her head. Her expression was heart-wrenchingly familiar to me. . . . Min had never been one to take her son’s part blindly. “Might be already. Stubborn, foolish boy.”
I had the sense I’d entered a conversation at the midway point, but if I lingered, I might make sense of it. But the naked grief in his face astonished me.
“It’s not. I won’t let it be.”
“Some things, dear son, are not yours to control. That was always part of the problem, you know. You’re too like your father.”
His father? My ears perked, but they spoke no more of him. Chance bowed his head and she put her hand on it, as if in blessing.
“You’ll be all right?” he asked.
“Dae Hyun will watch out for me. Go with a clear conscience.”
“Very well. I’m leaving tonight.” Chance rose and kissed her cheek, and then strode out of her office.
Before I could follow, however, Chuch woke me with a friendly nudge. Dammit. Just when things started to get interesting. Then I got annoyed with myself for giving a damn what Chance was doing. I’d moved on. Jesse was my future. With some effort, I forced the unnerving dream from my mind.
“Wanna play some cards?”
With a moan, I sat up and invited him to deal me in. Five hands of Texas Hold ’Em later, I checked my e-mail. As Ramos had promised, my phone let me do so if I didn’t take too long about it, as Net access burned twice as many minutes. Unlike the other times, I found a curt message in my box. I’ll kill you myself. There was no signature, just a phone number, but my enemy had finally taken the bait.
Euphoria bubbled through me. Before I could rethink it, I dialed; I didn’t wait for the other party to speak. “You really brave enough to face me?”
Challenge his manhood. Finish the job.
“Tomorrow.” No preliminary chatter, no questions. Montoya named a set of coordinates and a time. “Across the border, past Nuevo Laredo.”
I’d driven through there, lonely stretch of road between Nuevo Laredo and Monterrey. No chance anyone would stumble into our business. Good enough.
“I’ll be there. And you’d better be, Diego, or I’ll keep burning your pretty houses down. I only had the one, see, and now it’s gone, so I’d like to level the playing field.” Without Escobar, I didn’t have the resources to do so, of course—I wouldn’t be taking any more chances on his men—but Montoya didn’t know that.
He sucked in an angry breath. “Buena suerte, bruja roja. La necesitarás.”
I disconnected before Montoya could.
Chuch sat watching me. He shook his head. “You’re really gonna do it.”
“It’s the best way.”
“If you say so.”
Setting his misgivings aside, I rang Escobar.
To my surprise, the big man himself answered this time. “What a pleasure to hear from you. I took care of the leak. Ordinarily, the allegiance of such a one would not merit my personal attention, but I ordered them to look after you. I cannot permit such lapses.” He paused. “It was Petrel, if you’re curious. He’ll trouble you no more.”
I should feel something now. The tall, lanky young man breathed no more, and I made it happen. But I could only muster impatience to finish this.
“Good to know. I’ve got a meeting with Montoya set for tomorrow.” Quickly I told him where and when. “Can you come up with a strategy so soon?”
“Of course,” he said, as if the question were ridiculous. “I’ll send Paolo to you.”
Montoya would likely show up with five trucks full of armed gunmen, Vicente the sorcerer, and God knew who else. He intended to send me in with a seventeen-year-old boy for backup? Dear God. Maybe Escobar wanted me dead.
I tried to point out as much. “I may need more help.”
“He is adequate to the task, I promise you.”
“Why?” I’d feel safer with a crew of gunmen at my back.
“He wants to prove himself to me. Therefore, he will fight with more dedication than any hundred hired soldiers. His skills are not in question.”
Arguing with him would offer the same benefit as banging my head against the trailer wall, so I just listened as Escobar told me where to meet Paolo. From there, we would travel together to the appointed location.
More waiting. I took Butch for a short walk around the trailer, and at midnight, Chuch got a call from Eva. He listened, spoke little, and hung up quickly.
“I’m sorry, prima. I meant to see this through with you—and she wanted me to, but the baby’s got other ideas.”
“She—or he—is coming?”
He already had one foot out the door. “Sí. Gotta go. Ramon will stop by in the morning and leave you something to drive. He just knows that you’re a friend I’m helping out.”
“My best to your family. Thanks, so . . .” But I was talking to empty air.
The night crept by. I lay on the couch because the bed still smelled sour, and I wouldn’t sleep much anyway. At dawn I showered, though I had nothing clean to wear, and ate the last of the peanut-butter crackers, the only thing left from our bare-bones grocery run.
A few hours later, Ramon dropped off a Chevelle, total piece of crap; I hoped it ran better than it looked. Another car pulled up behind him, his ride, I guessed. They didn’t knock. He left the keys in the ignition and I left the trailer as soon as they drove off.