Blood of the Assassin

CHAPTER 13





El Perro Bravo was quiet at just after five, the evening drinking crowd having not yet trickled in. From the outside, the bar looked like a trendy watering hole, all black leather and chrome and mirrors. The bartender was a small man in a highly starched white shirt and black vinyl apron, thinning hair trimmed close to his head, like his carefully groomed goatee. Lips permanently pursed in judgment, he was busily polishing the gleaming bar top with a rag as muted lounge music drifted from hidden speakers. In three hours the place would be standing room only, filled with young professionals with money to spend and time to kill, looking for that one special connection that would satisfy their desires for the night; but now, during rush hour, it was dead.

The stylish doors pushed open and a medium-sized man in his thirties with conservatively cut black hair and a mustache entered and looked around the dimly lit interior. The bartender eyed his understated rugby shirt and tan slacks without interest and returned to his chore, leaving the newcomer to find a place to sit and order something whenever he was ready.

He chose a booth in a far corner, facing the door, checking his watch as he sat down, and after tossing the jacket he’d been carrying on the seat next to him, pulled a smartphone from his pocket and checked his e-mail messages, peering at the tiny screen intently, seemingly unaware of the bartender. After a few minutes, another man entered – this one older, tall and thin, his movements measured, wearing a black leather jacket and jeans, the dome of his shaved head shining from the beams of the overhead can lights, the shadows accenting his cadaverous features.

The new arrival’s eyes scanned the bar and then settled on the only other patron, still fiddling with his phone. He took long, fluid strides across the black and white checkered floor and took a seat across from the younger man before glancing at the bartender, who stopped what he was doing and came around the long bar to their table.

“What’ll it be, gentlemen?”

The older man looked at the bottles standing sentry in back of the bar. “Chivas. Neat.”

The younger man put his phone on the table top and regarded the bartender. “Do you have Bohemia?” he asked.

“Yes. Regular or dark?”

“Regular, please.”

The two men didn’t speak until the drinks had been brought and paid for, and the bartender had moved out of earshot.

“What do you have for us?” the older man began in a surprisingly soft voice.

The younger man took a pull on his beer. “I put out the word to everyone I know, and I think I got a bite on the location you were asking about.”

The older man nodded, then took an appreciative sip of his drink. “Good. Were you able to get any details other than a location?”

“Only after a long night buying my source tequila shots and staying out till three in the morning.”

“Sounds like rough duty.”

“You don’t know the half of it. I feel like I was dragged behind a garbage truck for a few miles.”

“I’m sure it was terrible. Now what about the information?”

“It was harder to get than I imagined. Nobody else even had a hint of anything helpful. That’s almost unheard of. It should be worth more. A lot more.”

The older man sighed, weary of the game. “How much more?” He bit off each syllable.

The younger man reclined and took another drink of beer. It was promising that the older man hadn’t just gotten up and left, confirming his instinct that the information was valuable.

“I was thinking double.”

The older man’s eyes narrowed to slits. “In every relationship, there comes a point where one of the two parties involved realizes that he’s not getting adequate value from the other to continue.”

“Which wouldn’t be the case here, as this is the most hotly sought info I can recall, and a bargain at four times the price. Besides which, if anything happens once I give it to you, I’ll be under substantial scrutiny, as will everyone else who had access. That additional risk needs to be compensated for. It’s not unfair.”

The older man sat back and contemplated killing the younger one, right there, and then calmly walking out of the bar. He could do it. It wouldn’t be the first time.

The younger man seemed to understand the internal struggle. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I have a pistol pointed at you under the table,” he announced in a flat voice.

The older man offered up a wan smile that never reached his eyes. “That’s not really in the spirit of friendship, is it?”

“No. But I don’t want to wind up another Los Zetas casualty. Just in case you were so offended by my explanation that you were considering terminating our relationship. Not that I think you would. Purely precautionary.”

“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” the older man replied easily. “You can put your gun away. It’s unnecessary.”

The younger man nodded and eased his weapon back under the jacket next to him. “So where do we go from here? Are you prepared to meet my price, or do we enjoy our drinks and agree that this isn’t a good exchange?” he asked.

The older man removed a bulging yellow envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table, watching the bartender to ensure he wasn’t paying any attention.

“This is the amount we agreed to. I don’t have any more with me. If the information vets, I’ll get you another envelope with the balance within twenty-four hours. But I won’t wait. You know I’m good for it. Now it’s your turn.”

The younger man hefted the envelope and then pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket and passed it to the older one, who unfolded it and read the few details with interest.

“What about security precautions?”

“Two men in the lobby at all times. Armed.”

“That’s it?”

“A driver. But from what I understand, they vary the pick-up times, so there are no set patterns. All very clandestine and hush-hush.”

“Any chance of turning the driver?”

“Zero. His daughter was killed in a cartel gun battle. Collateral damage at a plaza in Michoacán. It’s personal for him.”

“Ah. Well, then, no point in dreaming about what might have been.” The older man finished his Chivas and slid out of the booth. “I’ll be in touch with the rest of the money. I think if I were you, I’d consider a long vacation at the beach. Soon. You probably don’t want to be around. You have any time due?”

“I haven’t had a break in two years.”

“Then it’s your big chance. I’ll arrange another meet so you can get paid.” He turned to go.

“No hard feelings?” the younger man asked, the hint of concern in his voice betraying his anxiety.

“It’s just business. Don’t sweat it.”

He watched as the older man strode to the door and swung it open, then stepped out into the waning light and was gone.