Standoff: A Vin Cooper Novel (20 page)

“Two and a half percent,” Apostles replied. “Correct?”

I nodded.

“So we put twenty million dollars’ worth of cocaine in a plane with him and he flies off into the sunset,” said Perez. “Twenty million dollars and a plane worth whatever it’s worth. That’s a better return than two and a half percent. And he just has to do it once. With that kind of money, he can disappear. What’s to stop him?”

Apostles turned to his pal. “We put some reliable people on board. If there’s trouble, they bring him back and I give him to you. Fair?”

Perez nodded. He liked the sound of that. He showed me his teeth, small, sharp and yellow like rat incisors.

The twins appeared, their high heels clattering on the stonework like four sticks on a snare drum. I had no idea who was who. Daniela, or maybe it was Lina, wore a skin-tight burgundy dress that came to just below the knees and several carats of solitaire diamond around her throat. Lina, or maybe it was Daniela, wore the same outfit in a dark chocolate flavor, along with a similar-size rock at the base of her long neck. The makeup for both was smoldering, accentuating the lights in their eyes. Their hair was worn loose and a little wild.

“Can we go now?” asked the eye candy in burgundy.

Go? If Apostles and I could trade places I’d head straight for satin sheets and a bottle or two of chilled vintage French leg opener.

A man in his mid-twenties in a Bull’s T-shirt came in behind the twins and nodded at the boss – a signal.

“
Si,”
said Apostles, grunting the old-man-grunt as he pushed himself up off the couch.
“Vamos.”
We go. He turned to me and said, “Tomorrow, we will have work to do. Tonight, enjoy a little more of my hospitality.”

Waiting out front were two regular-size white Hummers with heavily tinted windows, accompanied by a pickup full of armed security bringing up the rear. Apostles and his twins got into the lead Hummer and closed the doors.

“There,” said Perez, motioning at the second Hummer for my benefit. I opened the door and climbed in. Perez entered from the other side and took the seat opposite.

The Hummers rolled, the pickup following.

“Where are we going?” I asked Perez.

He looked at me, said nothing.

“If it’s dancing, I’ll probably hang back,” I said. “I’m not a fan. How about you? You look like you could dance okay, being short and round and just a little chubby. I can see you doing the Chicken. You know that one?” I moved my arms like they were chicken wings.

No response from Perez.

“Yeah you do. Everyone knows the Chicken.”

“
Creo que me voy a matar,”
he growled – I think I’m going to kill you.

Maybe he disliked dancing more than I did.

The drive across town was uneventful. Perez stared at me. But maybe he was asleep and could do it with them open, like a horse. Whatever, I tried to ignore him and took in the passing view out the window. Juárez by night was mean and depressing. It was also largely deserted, odd for a city with around a million and a half people. I guessed the cartels and the gangs owned the hours between sunset and dawn.

We eventually arrived at a bustling parking lot managed by muscle-bound guys in suits with ponytails, directing arrivals. Our vehicles were ushered to the entrance where a VIP pit stop had been set up. This was some kind of event. The vehicle doors opened. Perez and I got out and together with Apostles and the twins were rushed by Apostles’ bodyguards through the crowded entrance. There was no wedge or protection diamond, which told me his security team had no real idea about how to provide close protection. Instead they kept behind our party, leaving us open to a frontal assault. Obviously Apostles had never been hit by pros. He was vulnerable.

And just then I bumped into a woman, part of the crowd heading in the opposite direction. For the briefest instant her heavily made-up eyes met mine as I felt something pressed into my hand. She was compact, wearing a micro mini that revealed smooth athletic legs. A black leather vest and push-up bra, a blond wig with large gold hoop earrings completed her look. I recognized the big brown eyes first. Claudia: Panda’s friend, former French CIA assassin, with the garrotte. With everyone distracted by the jostling crowd, I took a moment to glance into my hand to see what I’d been palmed: a small biscuit with the word
CHEST
burned onto it in capital letters. I crushed the biscuit to crumbs and let them scatter through my fingertips. Chest? What the hell was that about?

Inside, bright overhead lights illuminated a boxing ring and ear-splitting rock music boomed in the air. The seats, which tiered up to the roof, were filled with a shouting, beer-soaked crowd. Our seats were ringside, among cigar-smoking creeps accompanied by much younger women: nieces, the high-maintenance kind. Apostles and the twins fitted right in. I had no choice but to sit with Perez and hope nobody got the wrong idea.

I looked around, for all intents and purposes to take in the unfamiliar surroundings. In fact, I was looking for Claudia. It didn’t take long to find her, sitting close by, playing the role of a paid escort. I recognized her current employer without too much trouble, despite the ridiculous pin-striped suit, sunglasses and cigar – Panda.

A promoter jumped into the ring and welcomed the crowd, which went wild. A large banner dropped from the ceiling, unfurled and proclaimed that this was Death Match II. The announcer explained for the one person in the room who had no idea what was going on – namely, me – that this was an unsanctioned
lucha libra
match where two men would settle some score and literally fight to the death. But first, the preliminary bouts. The spotlight hit a door in the side of the venue and a guy in a gold cape and gold mask walked into it. Much of the crowd surged to its feet and the fighter raised his golden-gloved fist high. He walked toward the ring as the spotlight hit another doorway and a man in a black leotard with a black and white mask, the eyes outlined with circles so that the expression seemed permanently startled. His appearance was greeted with boos. He was a bigger build than the golden guy and he roared animal-like at the crowd, which didn’t appreciate it. The boos flooded back at him, louder. Goldie leaped agilely up and over the ropes and into the ring, full of confidence. The black guy started to walk toward the ring and then broke into a run while still some distance from it. And then he dived under the ropes, did a forward roll and carried the momentum into a high leap. Poised seemingly in midair above his quarry for a frozen second or two, he then came down with a vicious elbow on the crown of Goldie’s head. The blow took the guy completely by surprise. He stood there, not moving, and then collapsed onto the canvas as rigid as a tree, face first, apparently unconscious. The crowd, incensed, went berserk at this atrocity. Other wrestlers – all masked – surged from the doorways and charged the ring. The black guy pounded his chest and looked, well, startled. A costumed World War III was fought in the aisles by the wrestlers supporting the protagonists in the ring, while paramedics attended the downed fighter who was moving now, but as if his limbs were made from rubber.

I looked across at Apostles. He was shaking his head, as unhappy about the result as everyone else in the venue who were pretty much all baying for the blood pumping in the veins of the fighter in the black mask. The result had gone against the script. The golden guy was supposed to win – the triumph of good over evil and so forth. The guy in the black mask had caused the universe to tilt on its axis. Well, folks, not everything goes to plan. Or, in short, shit happens. I took it on board as an omen and wondered if Juan de Apostles was doing the same.

Several masked avengers went at each other over the next hour, leaping off turnbuckles, being slammed to the canvas, having shoulders pinned to the mat and then not pinned to the mat, back and forth. The fighters mostly danced rather than fought. It made me think that perhaps the opening fight had been staged too. The crowd enjoyed it but perhaps Panda and Claudia hadn’t; glancing over in their direction I saw that their seats were vacant.

Before the main event began, Perez got up from his chair and walked off, I presumed to the john. The twin in the chocolate dress beckoned me to close the gap. I moved across and took Perez’s seat.

“So, what do you think?” said the twin over the noise of the crowd.

“I think you’d go well with two shots of vodka in a martini glass,” I told her.

“What?”

She wasn’t sure she’d heard me right, over the racket, but then it clicked.

“No, not me,” she said, grinning. “This – the fights.”

“Is that what they’re doing?” I grinned back. “So which one are you? Daniela or Lina?”

“Guess.”

“I can’t,” I said. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“Daniela. We’re actually easy to tell apart, once you get to know us. In the meantime, I have a mole behind my ear and Lina doesn’t.” She showed me, sweeping her hair to one side and lifting the back of her ear. It was more of a freckle than a mole. “I’m the imperfect one.”

The announcer reached up and pulled the mike down as it descended from the ceiling. The place fell silent, the air crackling with electricity. The sound system boomed with the announcer’s voice. It was main event time. The crowd jumped to its feet and roared with expectation. The challenger’s legend came first. All I got was the name, “Blue Mystery”. Everyone cheered.
El Bruto
’s feats came next and everyone booed.

“Do you know what’s going on here?” Daniela asked.

“Someone’s making a lot of money,” I said.

“Aside from that.”

I shook my head. “No.”

The spotlight hit the door and a big man in a blue and white leotard appeared. The crowd welcomed him with boisterous enthusiasm. He held up his fist and walked toward the ring.

Daniela had to yell. “Technically speaking, this is an illegal bout. It’s un-sanctioned. No rules, anything goes.
El Bruto
is a
rudos
or bad guy and the Blue Mystery is a
técnico
– a good guy. The two have battled their whole careers with neither really getting the upper hand. They are both gods in Mexico. Then about a month ago, there was a
lucha de apuesta
or ‘match with wager’ between them. The winner got to unmask the loser, which is a huge insult.
El Bruto
won. Today is the rematch. It’s a
máscara contra cabellera
match or ‘mask versus hair’. Traditionally, in this kind of fight, if the hair loses, he must shave his head to display his humiliation. If the mask loses, he must remove his mask. But this is an unsanctioned event, so there’s a twist. If
El Bruto
loses the fight, he loses his mask. But if the Blue Mystery loses, then he must retire for good. Understand?”

“I’m a bit hazy on why
Blue
Mystery and not some other color.”

“It’s a mystery.” Daniela grinned again. “As I said, he’s a very popular fighter. It would be a national disaster if he loses.”

Perez returned and stood in front of me. He wanted his seat back and he wasn’t going to move. I shifted over, checking with Daniela as Perez’s bald head settled in between us. She shrugged.

The fight went on. And on. And on some more, every hold, leap and eye-gouge choreographed. But then, just when everyone thought the Blue Mystery was going to triumph over his old nemesis,
El Bruto
turned the tables on him – actually picking up a table from ringside and slamming it against the guy’s skull, which allowed him to pin the Mystery’s unconscious blue shoulders to the floor – and won. It was the end of the road for the blue guy. He had to hang up his leotard and cape. The crowd didn’t like it. Cans and empty Corona bottles were thrown from the back stalls toward the ring. I glanced at Apostles. He was smiling a private smile. The crowd might have lost, but
he’d
won. I wondered how much. Security materialized with umbrellas, defense against the rain of Corona, and held them over us as they jostled us toward the exit.

“Juan de Jesús del Los Apostles de Medellín!” I heard someone shout. There was a challenge in it, malice.

I turned around and saw … shit, it was Hector Gomez. He was standing side-on, maybe thirty feet away, dressed as a local in old jeans and stained Corona T-shirt. “Juan de Jesús del Los Apostles de Medellín!” he repeated. “
Usted es un asesino!
” You are a murderer, he said. And then a black pistol appeared in his hand.

Someone screamed. Realization dawned on Apostles and Perez, and on Apostles’ security. I froze along with everyone else, waiting for the shot.

And then Gomez shifted the angle of his gun from Apostles to me. I unfroze. My hand snapping back and finding the Sig. My reflexes weren’t going to hang around to get shot, even if the rest of me was. There had been the bump from Claudia. The small cookie in my hand –
Chest.
I fired twice. The shots went high, shattering glass panes above and behind Gomez. Dropping the sight, I fired again – twice. Hits. The rounds ripped into Gomez. The first caught him in the gut. The second in the rib cage, spinning him around. Blood sprayed across the concrete floor and Gomez fell to the ground. After a moment of silence like a collectively held breath, a couple of women screamed and the crowd broke into a stampede. Apostles’ security tried to get to Gomez but they couldn’t penetrate the masses surging out of the exits. So they did the next best thing and almost carried us to the Hummers.

I found myself in the vehicle with Apostles and the twins, all of whom were nervous and anxious. Shit. I’d just killed a buddy and that buddy was a Texas Ranger.

Apostles’ cell rang as we raced out of the car park and were waved on by frantic attendants. The caller’s name came up on screen: “Arturo”.

“Who was he?” I heard Apostles ask. He breathed once, in and out, when he got the answer.
“Luego, averigüe.”
Then find out. Apostles lifted his eyes to me and said,
“Si, él está conmigo.”
He’s with me.

Was Perez concerned about my wellbeing?

“I can tell you who the man was,” I said. “Hector Gomez. We were partners, briefly. He was a Texas Ranger, though who he’s working for now …” I let a shrug finish it off.

Apostles passed this information onto Perez, and ended the call. Putting his phone away, the boss looked at me earnestly and said, “Thank you.” He produced his hand for me to shake.

I obliged. “No problem.” We were at a fake fight. The least I could do was top it off with a fake shootout. Those first two rounds I fired, the wild, poor marksmanship on my part that took out the windows? That was intentional. No way was I going to hit Gomez with a hollow point at such close range, even though he had to have been wearing some kind of vest under that T-shirt, protecting his
chest
. The third and fourth rounds were blanks, the training cartridges Arlen had thoughtfully provided back in El Paso, loaded into the mag. Who knew Gomez was such a good actor with all that spinning and falling. There’d been plenty of blood and guts accompanying the action, maybe even a little too much. Pig’s blood, probably, with some hamburger mince thrown in for added realism. In all, a convincing show. And, I had to admit, something of a relief, if only because sometimes it’s reassuring to know you’re not swinging solo on the highwire without a net. And why would Panda, Claudia and Gomez go to all that trouble and risk so much to achieve, well, what exactly? Because me shooting Gomez and giving up his identity was something a man
El Santo
could trust would do. And Perez had contacts – Gomez’s identity wouldn’t remain secret for long. In fact, I suspected CIA would make the job easy, but not too easy.

I put my head back against the rest and closed my eyes, aware of Daniela’s bare leg rubbing against mine as the Hummer sped along Juárez’s streets, an obstacle course of potholes and disintegrating asphalt.

*

Arriving at the bunker in Campestre, Apostles made a beeline for the drinks cabinet, thereby demonstrating that at least some of his priorities were squared away. “Single malt, right?” he asked.

“When I can get it,” I replied.

The rest of Apostles’ entourage arrived nosily through the front door. Perez gave the boss a nod and disappeared down the hall with a couple of his henchmen to torture small fluffy animals or whatever. The rest of the crowd went suddenly quiet when Apostles gave them a look, and then made themselves scarce. All except Daniela and Lina. The twins came up to Apostles, wrapping their arms languidly through and around him like fast-growing vines. They said goodnight to him, and departed with a glance back that I interpreted as, “It’s on with both of us, Juan, so don’t be long. And tonight, we’re bringing toys.”

Okay, so my imagination can occasionally work overtime.

“You like them,” I heard Apostles say.

The comment made me realize my mouth was open and salivating as I watched the twins slink down a hallway, open a door and close it behind them. “You’re a lucky, lucky man,” I told him, finally getting that one off my chest.

“Yes, a certain amount of luck has been helpful,” he agreed as he handed me a glass of fifty-year-old Macallan and then poured himself one. He toasted me and my lips touched heaven. Fifty-year-old Macallan? Shit, just a sip of this stuff was probably worth around a hundred bucks. “You favor Glen Keith,” Apostles said, holding the contents of his glass up to the light to further appreciate the Highland malt’s rich honey color. “Lovely fruits, but Glen Keith doesn’t compare to this.”

He was right, it didn’t, but then neither did the price. He walked to a couple of lounge chairs in the large relatively bare open room and sat. I followed him and took the chair roughly opposite.

“What do you think of its sherry style?” he asked once he’d gotten comfortable.

“If sherry tasted like this I’d drink sherry.”

“Perhaps if things go okay for you here, you’ll be able to afford to develop a taste for it.”

We both sipped some more.

“Let’s talk more about luck,” he said. “Luck is being born into a rich family. Luck is having you beside me this evening. But Daniela and Lina are nothing to do with luck. They are the product of my determination to satisfy my desires. For that I have worked, and continue to work, long and hard. What do you desire, my friend? What do you burn for? Tell me, man to man.”

No one had ever asked me that question before, but I didn’t have to think about it long or hard. I burned for Anna Masters. But traveling back in time to stop a bullet tearing through her heart was something no amount of work would achieve. Beyond that, in terms of desires, I couldn’t say.

“Ah, you have experienced loss,” he said, reading something in my face that I wasn’t aware I displayed; an imperceptible drop of the head, a dilating of the pupils, the telltale deepening of a line in my forehead. “Show me a man who hasn’t experienced loss and I’ll show you a man going to his grave a pauper.”

The cheesy philosophy I could do without, but if that’s what it took to stand around belching occasionally while I drank a bottle of ten-thousand-dollar scotch, I could bear it.

“Then that is your life’s mission,” he went on, taking a gulp, maybe five-hundred bucks’ worth. “To figure out what you need to fill the void, eh?”

I nodded in agreement. Daniela and toys would be a good start.

“Thank you again for tonight.” He put his glass on the cabinet, Macallan shamefully still undrunk sloshing about in it. “Sleep well.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Tomorrow we will try to do it your way.”

I waited for him to walk out of sight down the hallway before I tipped the contents of his glass into mine and drank it. Sounded to me like I’d made the team.

*

It felt like the day had started a week ago, but there was too much on my mind to sleep. So I stood under the showerhead and went for full hot followed by a blast of cold. After the shock of the extremes, I mixed up a temperature somewhere in the middle. And that’s about when I felt fingertips caressing my shoulder. It wasn’t a sensation I was expecting.
Leave your door unlocked. El Santo doesn’t like locked doors.

“You’re a mess,” a woman’s voice cooed, not one I was familiar with, her fingers delicately tracing scar tissue.

“Do I know you?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder.

“You’re about to,” she said.

In fact, I did recognize her. She was one of the women I’d seen hanging around looking generally hot, on the payroll, in the column for entertainment. Her accent was mid-west American and she was tall and blond in the Marilyn Monroe fashion – darker eyebrows, strawberry hair and nipples.

“Mind if I ask what you’re doing here?” I asked.

“What does it look like?”

Ask a dumb question. “Let me rephrase,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“Why didn’t you ask? I’m keeping you company – orders from
El Santo
. Because of what you did tonight. He likes to reward people for a job well done.” She found a bar of soap in the holder and used it to lather up some circles on my back. “I joined you in the shower for a reason. We can talk in here.”

“We can’t talk out there?” She knew I meant the bedroom.

“We could, but the bugs don’t work so well in the bathroom.” Her hands worked their way around my waist and the soap circles continued on my chest. “What do you want to talk about?”

“They were going to kill you, you know. They were going to do it tomorrow, out in the desert. Cut you up and leave you for the ants. The Tears of Chihuahua doesn’t trust you.”

“And why should I trust you?”

“Because I saved your life. I got a message to mutual friends across the border.”

I turned around to face her. She was pretty. Slim, with large fake breasts done by someone who liked breasts almost as much as me. “What’s your name?”

“Do you need one? Okay, call me Bambi.”

“Really?”

“Or Fiona. Take your pick.”

I’d never showered with a Disney character before. “Are you CIA, Bambi?”

“You know that’s against the rules.”

“Don’t give me the rules bullshit. Who’s running you?”

“And I just give you that?” she asked.

“I need a name and it’s not Thumper.”

“You know everyone uses aliases in this business. If it helps, he was forty-something, a sleaze and walked with a limp.”

I relaxed. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“So we’re good?”

“His name is Bradley Chalmers.”

“He said it was Freddie. Saving Apostles’ life tonight saved yours. You know that, don’t you? I made that possible – that was my doing.”

Her hands washed between my legs, making sure everything down there was especially clean. “And now, because I was picked to keep you company and we’re in the shower, I get the chance to tell you about it.”

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” I told her. “We can just talk.”

Bambi laughed and took hold of me, and then worked her hand up and down while she nuzzled my neck. “The bugs don’t work in here, but the cameras don’t have a problem. I’ve got a job to do, and I have to be seen to be doing it. You going to make it difficult for me?”

Her lips found mine and I kissed her hard. Our wet tongues wrestled. I eventually tapped out and whispered in her ear, “I wasn’t aware we had someone on the inside. No one told me.”

“Need to know,” she whispered back as my soapy hands found her breasts and we exchanged suds.

“If you’re here, then I don’t need to be,” I said.

“No, I’m a woman.”

“You don’t say.”

“What I mean is, I don’t have access all areas. I’m an ornament. When they leave this place, they don’t take me with them. I just get a call when the entourage is in town. And I never get to hang out with Apostles or Perez. I take care of middle management and get the occasional VIP.”

“So you hear things,” I said.

“Mostly just rumors,” she replied. “Everyone’s pretty tight with the operational stuff. I can tell you that Daniela thinks you’re cute.”

“Only because she knows she can’t have me.”

Bambi laughed.

Yeah, that was pretty funny. “Have you heard any talk about the business at Horizon Airport?”

“Not a peep. If the Chihuahua Cartel had something to do with it, they’re better at keeping secrets than anyone thought.”

So far, that had been my experience, too. “What have you heard about Apostles and his Pancho Villa fixation?”

“What?” She was frowning. Apparently I’d stumped her with that one.

“There are portraits of Pancho Villa hanging in various places,” I said. “I’ve seen Apostles parading around like the Cisco Kid – at least I think it was Apostles; and Villa’s favorite horse has been stuffed and stands around in
El Santo
’s lounge room back at the Hacienda. What gives?”

“He’s got Villa’s horse? I’ve never been to the place in Colombia … Maybe he’s just trying to make an impression; you know, create an image. There are plenty of Mexican peasants working for him. Many of them don’t have a lot of education. If that’s what he’s doing it’s not such a dumb idea, you know. Villa is still a hero of the Mexican revolution. They’d probably go for that kind of symbolism.”

“Why would he need it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that’s why you’re here – to find out.”

“Next question: has Apostles got a couple of screws loose?”

“He’s a lot of things, but crazy isn’t one of them.”

“His daughter thinks he is.”

“I’ve never met her … Can we talk about something other than
El Santo
?”

I let it go. “So where are you from?” I asked her.

“That’s better.” She bit my shoulder blade – not too hard, just right. “I’m from Vegas. And, yes, I was a dancer. Now you want to know what’s a nice girl like me and so forth, right?”

“I don’t necessarily like nice girls.”

“Good, ’cause I ain’t one.”

Her hands certainly had an aptitude for badness. “Then I think we’re gonna get along just fine,” I told her.

She nibbled on my earlobe and whispered, “I discovered young that the two loves of my life were money and sex. So what I’m doing combines them. And I was never gonna be a brain surgeon, except that guys think with their dicks so maybe in a way, I kinda am. I’ve got two properties in Vegas and a timeshare in Palm Springs. By the time I retire, with a little help from our mutual friends over the border, I’ll have double that.”

I wondered who was getting screwed here.

“So you just close your eyes and think of Uncle Sam,” she suggested.

I suddenly had the image of a bearded guy wearing a Stars and Stripes top hat, standing in the shower with me. “Hey, you’re spoiling it.”

“Sorry.”

To make up for it, she did something that made my knees tremble.

“You know how some people can sneeze at will?” she whispered. “I can orgasm. So if I like who I’m with, I reward myself.”

That was a novel sales pitch. It took all the responsibility for her climax out of my hands. I was prepared to give it a go. Sensing my willingness pulsing against her bellybutton, Bambi turned away from me and leaned against the tiles, still holding me in her hand. She spread her legs and I pressed myself against her. My mouth found the nape of her neck while my hands cupped her breasts.

“And I’m about due for a … AH …” she said, gasping as I entered her, “… reward.”