“Niggers and beaners ain’t comin’ after you and your paisans over it?” I asked. Incredibly, he totally missed the irony in my tone.
“Nah,” he answered. He was so proud of the work he’d done for his boss that he suddenly seemed to regain some strength as he explained, “No one knows we knew about the shipment, so each side thinks the other’s lying. We’re turnin’ them against each other, and then we just wait to pick up the pieces. Some beautiful, wicked shit my boss thought of. When it’s over with the niggers, our guy out here will be in charge of Zuniga’s old operations on the West Coast. And I get more trips out here to keep an eye on things.” He turned his head to try to look at me. “You wanna move out here with me? We could go out and party every night. Fuck ’n shit, and nobody would know.”
I wanted to slap this silly-ass fool. “Doesn’t seem like it’s gonna happen now, Martino, since Zuniga’s men came after you in the club. Remember? They shot at us.”
“Y-yeah, you’re right. Damn,” he said, his voice trailing off as either the blood loss or shock began to take over. “Our guy musta gave us up and told his boss everything. That’s how those Mexicans knew to follow me out tonight. Aw. Everything’s fucked now.”
“That bastard.”
“Yeah. As much money and * as we supplied him with. We should cut off his dick and feed it to the dogs. I... I really gotta call my boss, I think. He’s gonna be pissed.”
“What’s the guy’s name?”
“My boss? We call him Mr. Dash. Respect, y’know,” Martino rambled, his eyes barely open now. I couldn’t believe how much information he was giving up so easily. I figured he must be in shock.
“Noooo. The guy inside Zuniga’s organization. That double-crossin’ bastard who sent them to kill you. What’s his name? If I get out of this alive, I’m gonna kill him myself.”
“Oh. We call him Road Map.”
I mean, this was just too damn easy. I felt like a detective on some television drama the way I was getting this dumb ass to spill his guts—figuratively and literally.
“Road Map? What the fuck kinda name is that?”
“He got jacked-up skin,” Martino said with a groan as he tried to laugh. “Face look like a ...”
“Road map?” I said, completing his sentence for him.
“Yeeeeah, you got it. Now... hand me my phone. I‘ma send somebody to help get us outta here. Just won’t tell ’em about us or where I was at. I’ll say you were a Good Samaritan ’n shit.”
Yeah. A blond, gay brother in the hotel with the supposedly straight Martino. Like they wouldn’t kill my ass on sight if I let him send his boys over. Now it made sense to me why he was so loose with his tongue. He probably figured telling me wouldn’t hurt, because I wouldn’t be around to share it with anybody.
I took his phone, looking through numbers in the directory first. Then I placed a call of my own.
“Hey, O. It’s me.”
“Rio? Thank God. You need to get as far away from Alejandro and them as you can. Pop just had both his brothers killed. In retaliation for Uncle Lou’s death.”
“Uncle Lou’s dead?”
He hesitated, then said quietly, “Yeah, man. Lou’s dead.”
“Oh, shit. So I guess I’m next.”
“Not if I can help it. Now, I need to know exactly where the fuck you are, man. I got Paris on the ground, looking for you.”
“Hotel Beverly Terrace on North Doheny, room three forty-eight,” I said. “And tell her to hurry. The block is hot, O, and they’re out to get me.”
I hung up. Once I got out of immediate danger, I’d call Orlando again and tell him everything I’d just learned about the Italians setting us up.
“Who was that?” Martino asked, a surge of consciousness allowing him to raise his head.
“I just called your people for you and told them where we’re at. They said for you to lay still and they’re on their way.”
“Damn. I owe you my life. Still wish we coulda fucked tonight.”