– This is half, he said. Seventy-five thousand.
– I'm surprised you can count that high. Here's for the ammunition.
Ozburn pulled a wad of twenties from the back pocket of his jeans and tossed it onto the bed. The ammo was still in the factory box,.32 ACP, ten cartons of fifty. He pulled open the box and removed one carton and flipped it open. The new loads were packaged bullets up, their copper domes like bald men seated in church pews.
– Maybe you sell these to the Gulf Cartel, said Mateo, his voice a soft rasp as always. So they can kill us in L.A.
– Maybe that's what I'll do.
– I told Carlos don't sell them to you. I told him, where else will Gravas get the money to buy one hundred of the Loves? He needs the money of an organization but he is not part of an organization. Or is he? Is he just one of Benjamin Armenta's pendejos?
– Careful, now. I've been in a good mood for almost five minutes.
– You have no weapons but a useless dog. I have three men waiting to kill you if I tell them to. I think you killed our sicarios in Buenavista and San Ysidro. It happened in your houses. El Tigre blames Armenta but I blame you.
– Kill my own renters? Mateo, my friend, you are free to imagine anything you want.
Ozburn, angry now, watched Mateo weigh the money again. Ozburn's desire for violence had become sudden and strong. And like many of the unusual feelings he'd experienced in the last few weeks, this new desire actually felt very old and inbred in him, as if remembered from another age. The Sinaloan was wearing his swanky GPS unit clipped to his belt up near the outlandish buckle. Ozburn realized how easy it would be to strangle the man, load a few rounds into one of the gleaming new weapons and cancel the door guard, then take the GPS unit and scroll his way into the waypoints. Where, of course, he would certainly find El Dorado. Then he could load up a couple of Love 32s and whack the bodyguards waiting for Mateo out at the Denali. Take five minutes, he thought. He'd have the money and the weapons and he could either fly or drive out to Herredia's compound and blow him into the next world. Perform good acts. Defeat evil.
– I'd love to do that, he said.
– Do what?
But then, as Father Joe had pointed out, a dead Carlos Herredia would only make room for another one of his type to fill the void. That was law enforcement strategy, to cut off the head of the snake and foment bloodshed between possible replacements. But Herredia's organization was well run and El Tigre was much feared outside of it and much loved within in. No, thought Ozburn, the change of guard would take place practically overnight. So the best way to defeat El Tigre and his organization was to use his own guns against him: Complete the sale to Armenta's people and sit back and enjoy the fireworks show in L.A. That way, both teams were beating up on each other and the good guys could do better things with their time. Start not with the head of the snake but with the tail. Such a war would go on for months. Ruin his business, said Joe, and the man will follow. The final goal is not to kill him but to make him wish he were dead. Wasn't that the greatest punishment a human could receive? To be made to regret his own life?
Ozburn went to the window and looked out at the gray-green Pacific. Even with his sunglasses on the scene was punishingly bright. Surfers rode a small rolling break and two boys sat their horses bare-back and swayed slowly down the beach. Ozburn could see the door guard's boots dark in the long sunlit sliver between the door and the paver tiles. The guard and Mateo had checked him for guns and knives before allowing him into the room, which Ozburn had found funny, considering he was carrying seventy-five thousand dollars to give to Mateo for his boss. It was half the money for the hundred guns, the other half due upon delivery of the finished product.
– You smell sick.
– I've been feeling really good, Mateo. Good enough to fight a bull.
– Gringos don't have the balls to fight bulls.
– A man can learn plenty of things in his life. There's no reason I can't fight a bull.
– You should fight your dog. That would be a fair fight.
Ozburn looked at Daisy, then at Mateo. He growled lightly and saw the sleepiness return to the man's expression. Mateo pulled a handgun from the rear waistband of his Wranglers, slid it back into the pants right up front where he could get to fast. Ozburn laughed at him.
– When will the other ninety weapons be finished?
– Friday. Four days from today. Delivery will be in Los Angeles.
Strange, thought Ozburn. But a lucky break for me and the Blowdown team. I'll take luck. I have no problem with luck. The North Baja Cartel's skill at crossing the border must be highly developed by now. What were ninety guns, considering how many tons of dope they smuggled north?
– Why Los Angeles?
Mateo smiled joylessly.
– Because it is safer. Because there are not thousands of soldiers and federales searching for us in California. I joke to El Tigre. I said you would like it in California because you would be near to Armenta's Maras in L.A. Easy for you to sell the Loves to our enemies.
– You have a wild imagination, Mateo.
– I have no imagination at all. Four days. Friday. You need to be in Buenavista at the Gran Sueno Hotel and we will call you and tell you what is next.
– I'll need to see them.
– I'll need to see the money. The remaining half.
– Next time, I deal with Herredia, not you.
– He will never deal with you. Ozburn packed the guns and ammunition in his duffel and whistled up Daisy and they walked down the colonnade through slats of shadow and light to the far side of the parking lot where his car was waiting. It was a loaner from Father Joe, just a humble Crown Victoria, but the registration was up-to-date and the air conditioner blew cold and Daisy could lie down on the bench seat beside him and rest her muzzle on his thigh and there was plenty of room for both of them.
He drove back toward the Estero Beach Hotel feeling in control of himself and of the things around him. Things were finally lining up. He'd cleaned out the Augean stables-both the Buenavista and San Ysidro safe houses-five fewer murderers living in the United States as guests of the ATF. He'd talked to Hood and brought Blowdown in on the act. He was surprised that Hood had given up on him so quickly, that Charlie just wanted to bring him in and charge him with the safe house killings. Shortsighted. Ye of little faith, thought Oz. Moreover, he'd gotten half the money from Paco and passed it-minus his two hundred fifty per unit-to Mateo. He'd just received his first ten weapons. He had overcome the temptation to whack Mateo and Herredia and some bodyguards, taking a longer view of his mission. He'd been feeling better the last few days, too, likely due to increased vitamins and supplements and plenty of rest. It was nice to be less prone to cramps and spasms and even convulsions. And he loved his otherworldy physical strength.
Ozburn sped along. Then he spotted some vendors and their wares outside a beachfront hotel, and pulled over. He needed something. Daisy waited in the car while he examined the crafts and curios, asking questions about manufacture and price. There were paintings, ironwood carvings, pottery, silver and turquoise, boot-leg CDs, wristwatches, lacquered-wood posters of Jesus, the Virgin Mary, Elvis, Mick. He settled on a bouquet of large paper flowers and a beautifully glazed and fired vase to hold them. The flowers were purple and orange and red and yellow and the vase was black with molten red runners, like something melting down it, like Arenal, he thought.
A young woman was selling Chiclets and cigarettes. Her small son had a baby opossum tethered by the neck with a string of old shoelaces to a big iron birdcage containing a red macaw. The opossum looked at Ozburn as he approached, and when he knelt down in front of the animal it hissed at him. There were small bubbles on its chin whiskers and Ozburn could hear it wheezing and see the straining in its flanks.