T
he idea would never have crossed my mind if old Manolo hadn’t suggested it. When he’d first given me his advice, his breath smelling of anisette and secrets he couldn’t or wouldn’t reveal, I’d thought he was just politely telling me to go to hell. But now I knew better. Old Manolo understood things better than I did. He’d known what this case might cost me in the end.
The bare idea turned my guts to water. El Señor could sink a drunk like me without so much as making ripples. He didn’t like Anglos, and he didn’t like private
chotas.
All he had to do was raise one aristocratic eyebrow, and I’d find myself holding cement together in the foundation of some new building. Or bits and handfuls of Axbrewder-burger would fertilize apples up in the North Valley.
Oh, el Señor was a gentleman—sort of. He didn’t bother people who didn’t bother him. But offhand I’d say the easiest way to commit suicide in Puerta del Sol is to go ask el Señor questions about his business. Some of the cops who tried it haven’t been found yet.
Of course, I didn’t have anything as threatening and maybe pointless as “law enforcement” in mind. All I wanted was to protect Alathea. Do something for Lona and Ted. Rescue Mittie. Nail the sonofabitch who was responsible.
But I was an Anglo and a private investigator. I was scared. El Señor had more reasons to kill me than talk to me.
And I was alone. That was the real crusher. I’ve done worse things with Ginny either backing me up or leading the way, and they weren’t this bad. Because she was there. Now she wasn’t. And the bastard who crippled her was going to try one of two things to protect himself—destroy the
evidence, or kill the people on his trail. I was the only one left who could even take a crack at stopping him. If el Señor decided to stir me into a ton of concrete or feed me to the apples, then somebody else would die tonight, too. Somebody I cared about.
But the things that had me so scared were the same things that made me put the Olds in gear and drive away from Encantada Square. For a while, I doddered along down the road, driving like an old man—but I drove. And after a few blocks the cold air and the night helped me pull myself together. Night was something I understood. At night people did things for reasons that made sense to me. I didn’t rush the drive—I needed time to recover—but I went where I had to go.
El Señor’s headquarters is an old movie theater not far from where I live. Or it used to be before he had it completely rebuilt inside. All he left was the facade, the marquee, and the ticket window. Now the place fronts as a nightclub called El Machismo. It’s one of those places where people go—mostly Anglos, but certain kinds of Chicanos and Indians show up, too—when they have too much money and not enough sense to know that the man who feeds them their kicks has nothing but contempt for them.
Considering that el Señor mostly makes himself rich off the pains and weaknesses of his own people, you might think his headquarters would be down in the old part of town, an area that would help shield him from things like the law. But his location suits him. From his converted theater he can go fishing for rich Anglos as easily as he can run numbers, extort loans, sell drugs or bodies for his own people. Puerta del Sol is full of society dudes and broads, money-punks of all flavors, who think going to El Machismo at night is “exciting” but who wouldn’t be caught dead going into the center of town.
I parked the Olds in the lot across the street, gave the attendant a couple of bucks so that he wouldn’t lose my keys, then spent a minute standing on the sidewalk. Hesitating. The marquee was lit, proclaiming “El Machismo” in big letters the color of cheap lipstick. On a good night, going
in there was like meeting an old whore. This time I felt like I was on my way to arrange for me and a few other people to become cadavers.
But I did it anyway. Crossed the street. Paid my cover charge at the ticket window. Pulled open the blackout doors and went in.
After wading a few yards along a carpet as deep and rich as lava, I reached the Club host. He looked like a matador in a tuxedo. His eyes flicked over me, and he pigeonholed me somewhere down around not-worth-the-trouble. When he asked, “Table for one?” he sounded so bored he was almost snoring.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I don’t want food. I want action.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “Action?”
He was part of the screening process. He was supposed to distinguish between people who just wanted dinner and entertainment and people who were after something spicier. And he had to be able to spot
chotas.
Either way, I didn’t look good to him.
But I was in no mood to argue the point. I glared down at him and said, “I want to see el Señor.”
At that, he actually blinked. Both eyes. “El Señor?” he asked evenly. “Who is el Senor?”
I grimaced. “Call the manager. I’ll talk to him.”
He couldn’t hold back a grin. “As you wish.” He picked up the phone on his desk, dialed. When he got an answer, he spoke Spanish, thinking I wouldn’t understand. “With me,” he said, “I have an Anglo who wishes to speak with el Señor. Possibly he is from the police. I think you wish to learn about him a little before you throw him out.”
He listened briefly, then hung up and turned back to me. “One moment,” he said in English.
A moment was all it took. Then a door beyond him opened, and a man came out.
From my point of view, he wasn’t tall. But he was built like an armored car. His arms were so heavy they made his sleeves look like sausage casings, and he couldn’t have buttoned his jacket across that chest with a steam winch. He didn’t even make an effort to hide the gun tucked into his
waistband. Under his nose, he had a hairline mustache, and his eyes bulged like a frog’s.
I recognized him by reputation. Muy Estobal. Rumor had it that he was el Señor’s bodyguard.
He looked toward me. “Will you accompany me, Señor?” He sounded like a piranha inviting me to lunch.
I shrugged and followed him.
We went through the door he’d come out of, and he led me down a long hall to a small office with a door so heavy I half expected to see a combination lock on it. When he closed it behind us, it made a permanent-sounding little
thunk
. It wasn’t the only entrance to the room, but that didn’t make me feel much better.
Muy Estobal didn’t sit down. Didn’t offer me a seat. Moving so fast that I couldn’t stop him, he spun around and hit me in the stomach.
I doubled over, reeled back against the wall. For a long minute I couldn’t breathe. Little suns danced around the air in front of me. My guts felt like I’d been shot with a howitzer.
While I was helpless, he checked my empty shoulder holster.
“Now, he said, “you will tell me your name.”
With a gasp, I got my lungs working again. “Axbrewder,” I panted. Staying doubled over.
“What are you?”
“Private. Investigator.”
“What do you wish with el Señor?”
“None of your business.”
His right fist jumped at my head like a cannonball. But this time I was ready.
I slipped his fist past my left ear and straightened up hard. With all the strength of my legs and back and shoulder, I hit him an uppercut that flipped him over the desk behind him.
I vaulted after him, landed practically the same time he did. Before he could move, I clamped one foot down on the back of his neck. I held him that way while I helped myself
to his gun, a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38. Then I let him up.
When he reached his feet, glaring as if he couldn’t decide how to kill me first, I said, “Now it’s my turn,
pendejo
. I want to talk to el Señor. Ask him a couple of questions. I’m not here to cause trouble. No hassle,
comprende
, Estobal? I have a problem of my own, and I think he might give me a little help. One or two answers. If I don’t get to talk to him,
then
I’m going to cause trouble.
“For a start, I’ll break your neck.” He didn’t so much as swallow. “Are you listening,
pendejo
?”
He spat. “Yes.”
“Good.” I took a deep breath, but I couldn’t hold it. My stomach hurt too bad. I broke open his .38, took out the cylinder and dropped it in my pocket. Then I put the gun down on the desk. “Take me to el Señor.”
Giving up the gun probably helped convince him that I didn’t want to cause trouble. He picked up his .38 without taking his eyes off me, shoved it back into his waistband. Then he opened the other door to the office and stalked out.
I followed him. Close enough so that he couldn’t break away, far enough back so that he couldn’t turn and hit me again.
But he didn’t try any tricks. He led me down another hall and out into a large room where the people approved by the host did their gambling. The air was thick with smoke, the steady clash of coins and chips, and the noises people make when they’re throwing their money down a drain and calling it a good time, Roulette, craps, blackjack—all illegal as hell in this state, and every one of them nothing but a cheap shot disguised as magic, a chance to make something out of nothing.
There were house players scattered around the room—hookers, really—handsome studs and luscious broads daring the customers to believe the obvious fact that el Señor wouldn’t be in this kind of business if he could ever lose. But most of these fine folks couldn’t see the dare. The magic already had them by the throat. If you told them that putting their money in the toilet was gambling, you wouldn’t have
been able to stop them from emptying their pockets and flushing the stuff away themselves.
But that wasn’t the only thing going on. Estobal moved quickly across the room, but I still had time to spot at least one man and two women who didn’t have the vaguest idea that they were tossing away every cent they had. They were so stoned that you could’ve hit them over the head with a brick and they wouldn’t have known the difference.
The really screwy thing about it all was that if you’d taken a poll in the room, most of those suckers would’ve told you they were more
alive
right then than under any other circumstances.
But it was none of my business, and I didn’t have time to get up on my white horse about it. Estobal was holding a door open for me. When he closed it, we were in a short little hallway, maybe ten feet between doors, and there were two other goons with us. They didn’t look at me, didn’t wave guns, didn’t even talk to Estobal. They didn’t have to. We all knew what they were there for.
Estobal opened the next door, and I followed him with the two goons on my heels. Into an office that made Ginny’s look like a phone booth. It sported a full bar complete with bartender, a couple of Olympic-size sofas, and a desk you could’ve played tennis on. The carpet was like a trampoline. I half expected to see potted sequoias in the corners.
Aside from the bartender, the only man in the room sat behind the desk. From his manicured fingertips to the ends of his vandyke beard and mustache, he was the perfect dapper grandee. He couldn’t have been more than five six. That desk should’ve made him look like a dwarf, but it didn’t. Instead it reinforced his commanding presence, his air of possession. Somehow he fit in that office. It was his, and he liked it the way it was.
El Señor.
Estobal marched up to the desk. Without speaking, he took his gun out of his pants and put it down on the blotter so el Señor could see that the cylinder was missing.
In Spanish el Señor asked, “What is the explanation of this?”
I answered for him. “I am the explanation. I am named Axbrewder. I do the work of a private investigator. I wish to speak with el Señor.”
I was hardly finished when I heard pistol hammers cocking. I didn’t need mirrors to know that the goons behind me were ready to blow me in half.
“Chota!”
Estobal spat.
Trying not to sound desperate—or even in a hurry—I said, “I wish to speak with Hector Jesus Fría de la Sancha.”
El Señor’s eyes narrowed. For a moment he studied me. Then he leaned back in his chair. “Please to be seated, Señor Axbrewder.”
His fingers made a delicate gesture at the goons, and suddenly they were standing back against the wall. As I sat down, Estobal stamped out of the room.
After half a minute, el Señor asked quietly, “How does it transpire that you know my name, Señor Axbrewder?”
I answered him in English. Trying to shore up my position by exerting at least that much control over the conversation. “What difference does it make? The people who told me don’t have anything against you. And I don’t want to give you any trouble. I’m here for myself. Leave it at that.”
He steepled his fingers, gazed closely at the way the pink tips touched each other. “Already you have given me trouble. You have humiliated my Estobal. Now he will be unsure of himself. Also he will be very angry. His value has been made less.”
“He’ll recover,” I muttered.
“Nevertheless.” El Señor was not accustomed to being contradicted. His English had a mechanical precision more threatening than any amount of rage or screaming. “Your presence casts doubt upon my Estobal. It casts doubt upon my personal safety. Now you say that you are here for yourself. You presume a great deal upon my benevolence, Señor Axbrewder.”