‘Because it’s a blatantly racist game.’
‘You mean like hockey? I haven’t seen a black player yet.’
‘No, I’m talking about the game’s hidden meaning.’
Jones shook his head, trying to ignore Payne. ‘You are so predictable. As soon as I start to win, you start yapping. Yap, yap, yap. Like a little dog. It’s pathetic.’
Payne remained silent, patiently letting his remark fester. He knew the comment about race would eventually be addressed, and when it did, it would mess with his friend’s mind.
Jones studied the table. ‘Four ball, side pocket … No, wait. Scratch that. Two ball, far corner. I think I can squeeze it in past the twelve …’
‘What’s wrong?’ Payne asked.
Jones repositioned himself for the shot. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’
‘Are you sure? Because it
looks
like something’s wrong.’
He ignored the question and attempted the shot, which he missed by a few inches. Not because he was distracted, but because it was a difficult shot. ‘Shit.’
Payne fought the urge to smile as he snatched the cue back. ‘Wow! That was
really
close. You must be heartbroken. I’ll tell you what: if you want, we can move the balls back and I’ll let you try again. That’s what my dad used to do … when I was three.’
‘Screw you.’
‘I can even pick you up so you can see over the edge of the table a little better. For a short guy like you that’s a pretty big disadvantage.’
Jones sneered as he returned to their corner table. He took a long swig of beer before he spoke again. ‘What were you talking about before?’
‘When?’
‘Earlier.’
‘Yeah, that really narrows it down.’
Jones growled softly. ‘That bullshit about eight-ball.’
‘Oh,
that
. I was wondering when we’d get back to that. I heard some sociologist talking about it on TV. He claims eight-ball is a racist game that should be boycotted by everyone.’
‘Really? Why’s that?’
Payne explained the theory. ‘The cue ball, which is
white
, is used to knock around all the coloured balls. The balls that are solid in colour have the lowest numbers on them. In other words, they have the lowest value according to society. Meanwhile, the striped balls, which are half white, have higher numbers, giving them a greater intrinsic value.’
Jones grunted. ‘I never thought of it like that.’
‘But that’s not the worst part.’
‘It’s not?’
Payne shook his head. ‘The object of the game is to knock the eight-ball, which is
black
, off the table. Nobody wins until the black ball gets eliminated. Once it does, we celebrate.’
‘Son of a bitch! We’re playing a racist game.’
‘Just say the word and we can quit.’
From his seat in the corner, Jones eyed the playing surface. He had a three-ball lead in their current game. ‘Not right now. I’m winning.’
‘Are you sure? Because I’m more than willing to quit—’
Jones interrupted him. ‘Not a chance in hell! It’s funny how you didn’t mention this racism thing when you were kicking my ass in the last game.’
‘I didn’t think of it then.’
‘I wonder why.’
‘Wait! What are you suggesting? That I’d stoop so low as to use race issues to my personal advantage.’
Jones nodded. ‘Just like a whitey.’
Payne faked indignation. More like brothers than friends, they constantly joked about race without offending one another. It had been that way for as long as they could remember. ‘How dare you call me whitey! I’m an honorary black guy. You said so yourself.’
‘You
were
until you made up that bullshit about a sociologist.’
‘Bullshit? What bullshit?’
Jones called his bluff. ‘Sociologist, my ass! That eight-ball-is-racist skit is one of the oldest jokes in the world. I’ve heard everyone from Martin Lawrence to Chris Rock talk about it. If you’re gonna distract me, you need to come up with fresher material.’
Before Payne could respond, he heard his phone ring above the din of the bar. It was sitting on their table, right next to Jones. ‘Can you grab that for me?’
‘Not a chance. You’ll use it as an excuse to quit.’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Yes, you will.’
‘At least tell me who’s calling. I won’t pick up unless it’s important.’
Jones sighed and grabbed the phone. He did a double take when he read the caller ID. The name on the screen was a blast from the past. Not Payne’s past. His
own
past. For a moment, it took his breath away, like a sucker punch to the gut. Why in the hell was she calling Payne in the middle of the night? The two of them didn’t talk – or did they? If so, his best friend had been keeping it from him.
Suddenly his world was filled with doubt.
Payne searched for his next shot. ‘Who is it?’
‘Maria,’ he said softly.
‘Who?’
Jones cleared his throat and spoke louder. ‘Maria.’
‘Maria who? I don’t know any Marias.’
He glared at his friend. ‘Maria Pelati.’
Payne stopped what he was doing and focused on Jones. From the look in his eyes, it was obvious he wasn’t happy about the call. ‘Really? Why’s she calling me?’
He continued to glare. ‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’
Angel Ramirez was second-in-command within Hector’s organization. Pronounced ‘AHN-hell’ in Spanish, Angel was phoned a few hours after Hector received the proof-of-life call from the kidnappers. Hector wouldn’t tell him what was going on. He just told him to get his ass to the mansion as soon as possible. He would explain everything when Angel arrived.
Hector was waiting for him in the library. As he paced back and forth, the look on his face was one of rage. Not anger, but all-out fury. Unaware of the crisis, Angel assumed that he had done something to upset his boss. He racked his brains, trying to remember any mistakes he’d made in the last few days, but he came up empty. Nevertheless, Angel was so concerned about Hector’s wrath that he glanced at the floor to make sure plastic hadn’t been laid down to protect the wood. On more than one occasion, Hector had fired an employee by
literally
firing at him.
Angel breathed a sigh of relief when he saw floor.
Still pacing, Hector blurted out, ‘They have my kids.’
‘What?’ he said in Spanish.
‘They have my fucking kids.’
‘Who does?’
‘How should I fucking know? If I did, I would get them!’
Angel shook his head in confusion. His boss wasn’t making sense. ‘Hector, what are you talking about? Someone stole your children?’
‘Yes!’ he screamed. ‘They got my kids!’
‘When did this happen?’
Hector paused in thought. For him, the last thirty-six hours had been a long nightmare. At some point, one day had run into the next. ‘Yesterday. While we were sleeping.’
‘They took your kids from here?’
‘Yes!’
‘How did they get in?’
Hector glared at him. ‘I have no fucking idea! I’m not a detective!’
He picked up an antique globe and flung it across the room. Solidly constructed from a single piece of metal, the globe struck a series of Aztec masks that were displayed on the far wall. One of the masks was obliterated on impact, and another was damaged when it fell and bounced across the floor. Hector immediately regretted his outburst.
Other than his kids, those artefacts were his pride and joy.
Growing up in Mexico City, Hector was fascinated by the history of the Aztecs, an indigenous group that had ruled the region through power and fear. Even as a small boy, when most of his friends were focused on baseball and soccer, he preferred the local museums to the neighbourhood parks. He simply couldn’t get enough of Aztec culture. Eventually, once he reached a point in his life where he had more money than he could possibly spend, he returned to his childhood passion, buying Aztec artefacts by the dozen. The shelves and walls of his library were lined with the relics he had collected in recent years.
Angel urged him to settle down. ‘Hector, listen to me. I know you’re upset. You have every right to be. I can’t even imagine the terror you’re feeling. But I need you to tell me everything. Not a little. Not a lot. But
everything
. It’s the only way I can help.’
A few seconds passed before Hector nodded. Slightly at first, and then a full nod, as if it took that long to finally give in. For a man like Hector, it took a lot to admit that he needed help from anyone, even his best friend. Normally, he had the world by the balls, not the other way around. ‘OK, I’ll tell you. But it doesn’t leave this room.’
‘Of course not. This is between us.’
‘I’m serious,’ he growled. ‘If this gets out, our enemies will pounce. I can’t afford to show weakness.’
Angel nodded in agreement. He knew what was at stake.
Over the next few minutes, Hector filled him in on everything. The phone calls. The threats. The initial request. And worst of all, the silence. Twelve hours had passed since Hector had received a proof-of-life. One from his daughter, but not from his son. Both men had been in the kidnapping game long enough to know that it was probably just a ploy. Nothing more than a scare tactic to speed up negotiations. On the other hand, they had also seen the alternative. Maybe something had happened and the boy was dead.
Hector tried not to think about it.
Angel asked, ‘What does your gut tell you?’
‘About what?’
‘The kidnappers. Why did they target you? For money? For power? For revenge?’
He shrugged. ‘Probably all three.’
‘Maybe. Or maybe not.’
He wasn’t in the mood for games. ‘Explain.’
‘If this was about power, why did they go after your kids? They were already in your house. They got past your guards and your security system without detection. If they cared about power, why didn’t they just creep down the hall and shoot you in the head? That would have made a much bigger statement than a kidnapping.’
Hector glared at him. ‘Are you trying to make me feel better?’
‘As a matter of fact, I am. In our business, the only way to get power is to take it. They had their chance to steal your crown, but they passed on the opportunity. Why would they do that if they cared about power? The truth is they wouldn’t.’
Hector shrugged. He wasn’t in the mood to think.
Angel continued. ‘I think revenge is the most likely reason. You make your living from kidnapping, and someone abducted your kids. I think that’s too coincidental to ignore.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘I’m sure money will come into play at some point, but so far they haven’t asked for cash. Or have they?’
‘No money. Just the medallion.’
Angel shook his head. It didn’t make sense to him. Hector had millions upon millions of dollars, but so far the only thing the kidnappers had requested was a relic Hector had bought at a private auction for less than 20,000 dollars. Why would they do that?
‘I don’t get it. What’s so special about this medallion?’
Hector sighed. ‘Everything.’
Payne had nothing to hide. He truly didn’t know why Maria was calling. The last he’d heard, she had earned her doctorate in archaeology and was living in Italy. Or somewhere near there. He honestly didn’t know because he wasn’t that close to her. Other than a work-related adventure a few years back, the only connection they shared was his pissed-off best friend, who had dated her briefly before things fizzled out. To this day, Payne still didn’t know what had happened between the two of them, because Jones refused to talk about it, but the glare on his friend’s face proved he wasn’t over it. Or her.
With that in mind, Payne decided to tread cautiously.
He answered the phone in front of Jones. ‘Hello.’
‘Jon, is that you?’
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘It’s Maria Pelati. Do you remember me?’
‘Of course I remember you.’ He pointed towards the exit and urged Jones to follow. ‘Hang on just a minute. It’s really loud in here. Let me walk outside so I can hear you better.’
‘Please hurry. I think I’m in trouble.’
Noticing the tension in her voice, Payne pushed his way through the crowd while Jones hustled to keep up. ‘Almost there. Give me two more seconds …’
Payne opened the door and stepped into the bitter cold. His clothes and hair were quickly coated in snow. Except for two smokers huddled near the doorway for warmth, the sidewalk was completely deserted. On a night like this, even hookers stayed inside. Searching for privacy, Payne glanced in both directions and spotted an empty bus shelter about twenty feet to his left. Although it wasn’t heated, it was better than nothing. Not only would it protect him from the gusting wind, it would save his lungs from the second-hand smoke.
Payne ignored the elements and headed that way.
Jones, who was slowed by the crowd and the bouncer, emerged a moment later without his coat or gloves. This time, he didn’t shiver or complain about the weather. His emotions were keeping him warm. A little too warm.
‘Where in the hell are you going?’ he shouted.
‘In here,’ Payne replied as he ducked into the shelter. Made of tempered safety glass, the walls were covered with ads for local businesses. A wooden bench was bolted to the ground. A fluorescent light glowed overhead.
‘Jon, are you there?’ she asked.
‘I’m here,’ he assured her as Jones joined him inside the shelter. ‘If it’s OK with you, I’m going to put you on speakerphone, so DJ can listen in.’
She took a deep breath. ‘David’s there?’
‘Yes. Is that a problem?’
She paused. ‘Maybe.’
‘Great,’ Payne said, completely ignoring her response. He didn’t care how many problems it caused Maria. There was no way he was going to keep this conversation from Jones. Not with the anger in his best friend’s eyes. Instead of condensation, Payne half expected to see flames coming out of Jones’s nostrils. He was
that
pissed.
Payne turned on his speakerphone. ‘You’re on with both of us.’
She remained silent for the next few seconds, unsure of what to say.
The moment lingered a little too long for Jones.
‘Are you there?’ Jones blurted.