“I’m sorry to hear this,” Kolya said, forcing himself to sound fully subservient, “What can I do to make things better for you?”
“The little package from Moscow, Veronika Kolpacolva, you have her in your possession, yes?”
“Arrived yesterday, with three other fresh ones.”
“And how is the training proceeding, no problems?”
“None.” Kolya was suddenly worried that someone had told the old man of the trouble the little girl was causing. “They will all be housebroken and eating out of my hand before I ship them north.”
“Marvelous, I expect no less from you, Kolya Antonivich, no less and no more.” The insult sailed over Kolya’s head.
“Thank you, sir, was there anything else you needed?”
“Has there been anyone investigating or inquiring after our Ensenada enterprise?”
“Investigating?” Damn him, how had he heard of this crazy killer Santiago had been whining about? If Santiago had climbed over his head and spoken to the old man, Kolya would have to kill the sleazy greaser. “We own the police, who would investigate us?”
“Possibly no one, but I want you to keep both eyes open for the time being. Is that crystalline?”
“Sure, I’ll spread the word to my men, both eyes open.”
“And Kolya, if you lose the little girl, Veronika? It will cost you your skin.”
“Sir?” With a click, the connection was cut. Kolya knew this was no idle threat. Years back, when Kolya was still working for the KGB and the old man was a minor gang leader, Dimitri Petravich had skinned a thieving gypsy and nailed his bloody corpse to the door of his wagon. The barbaric act had won the old man his bones with the local mob, and taught Kolya never to cross him.
Flicking on a monitor, Kolya punched up the camera in the girls’ dormitory. The girls were all awake, sitting quietly, staring into the unseen distance, all except this Veronika. She lay curled like an infant, clutching her knees to her chest. Her lips were dry and cracked, and what little body fat she had come in with was dissolving away, her small stomach was starting to pooch from distention.
Svetlana had shown him that if they could get the girls to submit willingly, it made them complicit in the act. Their guilt and shame mixed with a healthy dose of fear made them compliant. But Svetlana was wrong about this one, this one would starve before she submitted. And he couldn’t have that, not with the old man watching her progress. No, if she didn’t come to her senses by the time his men returned from Ensenada, he would have her taken by force. Sometimes all a girl like this needed was a good rough tumble to see the light. It was too bad she wasn’t better behaved, if he could have controlled her, she would have brought top dollar from the man who got her cherry.
“Ok, muchacho, it’s set,” Teyo said.
“Give me the address and I’m gone.” I passed him another twenty.
“No, it’s close, I’ll take you.”
“Not necessary.”
“These street are dangerous after dark, be a shame for you to get cut up.”
“Do I look like the kind of man who gets cut up?”
“No,” he let out a nervous laugh, “but the cigar store owner, he knows me, not you, it’s close, come on.” There was no shaking him, so I had to follow.
We had gone a few blocks when I heard someone calling out my name. Peter pushed his way through the young tourists clogging the street. Teyo didn’t look too happy to be joined by a stranger, but he quickly recovered and shook Peter’s hand like they were old amigos.
Peter struck out with finding the Vodka, but his researcher would keep on it. It was a long shot, but something might show up in the morning. Turning down a small side street, we walked deeper into Ensenada.
The Americans. One big, dangerous. One small, weak. A stripper told me the big one was looking for Russian whores. I have followed him all day. He is good. Aware. I blend in. Moving deeper into the city we go. My hand is on my blade. Trust no one.
Leaving the tourist district, it wasn’t long before we were the only pale faces. Through a taqueria’s grease-streaked window, I saw the place was filled with mariachi. An older man in a dusty black suit sat on the curb plucking out a tune on a large bodied guitarron. A young man sat beside him, watching the older player’s hands and trying to follow the melody on his fiddle.
Away from the tourist area street lights were nonexistent. Dense clouds drifted across the moon, blocking out what little light there was. Peter started to look worried as we ventured down darker and poorer streets. “Who the hell would put a cigar shop this far from the main drag? Does this guy think we’re complete idiots? Does this look like the kind of place people go to buy fine cigars?” His mouth was in overdrive, while his mind ground gears. Stopping to tie my boots, I nodded for Peter to hold up. The sidewalk under my foot was split with gaping cracks.
I let Teyo get some distance before I spoke. “Shut the fuck up,” I hissed, “when this deal blows its main bearing, stay behind me and keep your fucking mouth shut.” Shoving my buck knife deeper into the top of my boot, I stood and hurried to catch up with our tip boy.
Stone faced Mexican men watched from the front of a pool hall as we passed. With my hand in the pocket of my jacket, I felt the reassuring diamond cut wood grip of my snubby. A.38 won’t stop a bear, but it will make most men think twice about pushing their luck with you. Were we being set up? Oh hell yes, but the only way to find out by who was to let the little punk play out his hand and hope we were holding enough cards to take the pot when he did.
“I knew you’d want to see this.” Porfiro, a middle-aged cop, held several jobs. The first was to protect the gringos who fed the local economy, the second, to protect the locals from the gringos and each other. His third and best paying job was to keep Santiago informed, and his people out of jail. This job allowed his wife to have a nice house on Gringo Hill, not inside the gate, but Gringo Hill nonetheless, it also afforded his daughter college tuition in Mexico City.
He and Santiago were behind a crime scene tape, the flashlight in Porfiro’s hand illuminated a blood-soaked body. Red slashes had been sliced up and down and the dead man’s clothes hung in tatters. It was as if he had been attacked by a thousand razor-toothed animals. The light’s beam rested on the corpse’s chest, where a blood spattered tarot card had been placed.
“The last thing I need is this getting out.” Santiago knelt and carefully plucked the card from the dead man. “Pimps act afraid and their girls stop obeying, this happens and the order breaks down. Order breaks down and dinero stops flowing. You can see this would be bad for us both?”
“Si claro,” Porfiro said. Whatever was happening between Santiago and this pimp killer was none of his concern. It had nothing to do with the people he had sworn to protect. And if by some strange chance Santiago went down, it would be days before another stepped into his place. And the other would need a willing police officer.
The color drained from Peter’s face as we turned down a dark alley, his lips were white from the effort to keep from running his mouth. The meager light from the street was left behind, the skinny walkway smelled of piss and rot. Reaching out, I grabbed Teyo from behind, clamping a hand over his mouth, I pressed the.38 up under his chin.
“Squeak, mouse boy, give me an excuse to splatter you,” I whispered. He struggled briefly. “Game’s over,” I pressed the short barrel deeper into his soft flesh. “Who the fuck are you taking us to?” He mumbled into my hand, his wide eyes glittering in the dim light.
“He can’t answer with your hand over his mouth,” Peter said.
“Did I say you could speak?”
“No, but…”
“Then shut the fuck up, Petey. If I let this boy talk, he’s going to lie to me, and then do you know what I’m going to have to do? No? I’ll tell you, he lies and I’m going to have to blow the back of his head off. And I’m wearing my favorite jeans. Do you want to clean his brains off them, Petey?”