Sarah glanced over the top of her reading glasses at Carlos. She liked the boy and admired his intensity. He was her husband’s twenty-eight year-old nephew, and one of several bright family members she retained after Enriqué Guzman had died three years ago. Short at under five-foot-seven, Carlos had pockmarked and oily skin but a lean, strong body. Because of his looks, he became her husband’s least favorite relative—another reason for her deep affection.
Sarah sat behind a hand-carved mesquite desk. In a corner, an arched adobe fireplace showcased a bonfire that roasted every corner of her thousand square foot office. Fur area rugs—glass-eyed brown bear and mountain lion—warmed the Spanish tiles beneath an umbrella of oak beams crisscrossing a peeked ceiling. She noted the raised tissue zippering across Carlos’ right temple and down his cheek, chin, and neck—the result of a knife-fight at the age of twelve. The boy received a disfigurement, but his two attackers had landed in paupers’ graves. Since that day, Carlos had no annoying second thoughts when doing whatever she found necessary to maintain order.
He removed his aviator sunglasses and slid them into a breast pocket.
Once she hung up, Sarah said, “That was Howard Muller. We have moved another four hundred from our Tijuana friends to our investment partners.”
Carlos only nodded. Sarah understood he disliked Muller. So did she, but, to her, likes and dislikes had nothing to do with business. She hoped the tension between these men never boiled over. It would be such an unfortunate mess.
“I understand that the aftermath of the Cannodine and Drucker affair has been satisfactory,” she said.
“Si, señora. We have laid those matters to rest.”
“Good.” The only thing Sarah regretted about that unfortunate affair had been the necessity of sacrificing the man calling himself Zerets. On several occasions in the past, he had proven an asset. But, better than anyone, she understood unpleasant choices sometimes had to be made for the long-run good. Still, she grew angry when slip-ups demanded such sacrifice.
“Now,” she continued, shaking free of these thoughts, “you indicated another matter required my attention.”
“Regretfully, yes. Fernando Guzman.”
“My husband’s brother? He is causing problems again?”
“Si. He tells the family he is tired of your ascendancy. He calls you a gringa who married his brother and stole the family business. He says we should never have forsaken the old ways. That you need to be replaced.”
“He wishes to go back to the dangers of brokering drugs when we can broker money, safely, more profitably? He is a dangerous fool.”
“I agree. What would you have me do?”
Against Sarah’s snowy skin and white hair, rage appeared like a red mask, flaming her cheeks. She considered the situation for a moment. “You will get a large, wooden box. It will have enough space to fit Fernando Guzman and three days’ water and food. You will put a hole in that box. You will attach an eight-foot pipe—a hollow pole—to that hole. Air will flow through, just enough to keep the traitor from suffocating. You will bury that box, with Fernando in it, six feet deep, in a cool, shaded spot that no person will pass by. Like our Lord Jesus, on the third day—that is, after three complete days and nights—you will take several of the family members on a picnic near that shady grave. You will comment on that pole, poking from the ground. You will organize the men and dig until you solve this mystery. When you uncover the box, with my dead husband’s stupid brother, you will open it. Before you raise Fernando from the dead, you will tell him: ‘It is a lucky thing Sarah Guzman suggested this picnic.’ He will understand.”
“This is a good plan, Tía. I believe we cannot kill the fool, lest we create additional dissension. Some do not believe your husband, Enriqué, committed suicide—that such a devout Catholic would allow his soul to be damned.”
“They believe a man, such as my husband, would buy and sell drugs, and have men murdered for stealing a gram of cocaina, but would not commit suicide?”
“Indeed. It is loquera. Still, you make a wise and merciful solution to the problem of Fernando.”
“You will have no trouble completing this task?”
“None. I will use people unknown to the family.”
The rumble of thunder gave a gentle shake to the house, while the scent of ozone filtered through the window.
“That is good, Carlos,” Sarah said. “Since we have now completed our business, feel free to help yourself to food—the cook has put out fruit, breads, an ample bounty in the sitting room. If you wish to avoid the approaching storm, stay here today and tonight. My home is, as always, your home.”
“Muchas gracias.” Carlos bowed and backed away.
As did most of their conversations, this one ended with many unspoken understandings.
CHAPTER SIX
FROM THE AGE OF THIRTEEN, PETER HAD WORKED AT LEAST TEN FIRST-days on the job. His various occupations had included construction, gardening, motel clerk, camp counselor, and a host of other non-memorables whose only attraction was the paycheck that kept him marginally solvent. But this represented more than simply a new job. It was a high-paying job for which he had little grounding. It was also something he sorely needed.
For six hours, Peter spun in his bed, filled with the anticipation of a runner, waiting endlessly for the starter’s pistol to fire. His mind, reviewing and re-reviewing future roads he might travel down, allowed little more than a snippet of sleep. He didn’t mind, though. He had almost enjoyed the agony of the long night, filled with the anticipation of the upcoming day. If this were any normal day, he would have been exhausted from a night of tossing and turning. Instead, he now felt like he could put his feet together and vibrate his way to Stenman’s offices. A gallon of adrenaline guaranteed that fatigue would not be part of today’s agenda.
Instructed to arrive at half past five, Peter didn’t mind the predawn start. He knew the New York Stock Exchange closed at one in the afternoon on the West Coast, so that meant early in, early out. Maybe leave by three or at the latest four and still be able to put in ten or eleven hours’ work. After turning off North Torrey Pines Road onto a two-lane private road, he encountered an automatic gate-arm beside an enclosed guard post. Once he stopped, a floodlight beamed through his window. Cupping his hands over his brow, Peter rolled his window down. Appearing, rather than arriving, a lanky man—looking like a drill sergeant—asked, “You are . . . ?”
“Peter Neil. A new employee.”
The man produced a clipboard, ran an index finger down the page, then said, “I need to see a picture I. D.”
Peter caught a glimpse of a holstered pistol, looking so natural on the man’s erect body that it might have been a piece of bone. Peter fumbled to find his driver’s license before handing it over.
“Credit card, please.”
“What’s this all—”
“Credit card. Please.”
“Sure, but why all the security?”
The guard ignored the question.
“You may retrieve these at the end of the day. We will run a check concurrent with your other tests.”
The guard shoved a form and pen under Peter’s nose. Peter signed and continued on. He drove past pine trees towering over yucca and cactus, all groomed to look natural. Etched into an overhanging copper-coated roof, the letters S. P. were the only indication Stenman Partners owned the building. Having grown up a few miles east, Peter thought he knew this area. He was wrong. He never imagined such a fortress existing off the main road leading past Torrey Pines State Park and Golf Course. The building exterior—beautifully crafted in natural stone—looked sturdy enough to qualify as a bomb shelter, or, more accurately, a West Coast version of Fort Knox. The image of his pockets full of gold coins flashed through Peter’s hyper-kinetic brain. Despite arriving thirty minutes earlier than he’d been told to, the parking lot was already half-full. Peter’s VW looked ridiculous beside six-figure works of automotive art.