Sidling up to him, I became Slayer’s biggest confidante. “Hey. I wonder if I could talk you into taking joint credit for the hit. You know? Who is it you work for now?”
Slayer drew himself up proudly. “The Bare Bones motorcycle club, but that is no secret. Ford Illuminati would never tell me to curtail my social refreshments. I do not miss out on assignments. I am very punctual, and always report back promptly.”
“Yeah, speaking of that, have you reported in to Mr. Illuminati tonight?”
“Not yet. It is three in the morning. I would never be so rude.”
“Exactly. You strike me as a very polite, well-mannered man. According to the internet, your reputation that has soared far and wide rings in the streets.”
Slayer looked pleased and modest at the same time. “Well. I cannot deny it. I have been sometimes labeled with the moniker ‘The Kindly Sicario.’ I have a gentlemanly way of not strewing the body parts all over the place as some messy people do. Once I even pulled up some flowers nearby—”
“Wait. Hang on.”
Fuck me dry. It was Ortelio Jones, already harassing me about the evening’s activities. I couldn’t very well pretend I was asleep and avoid the call, so I put my finger to my lips to tell Slayer to shut the fuck up, and answered.
“Isherwood here.”
“Fox,” said Jones grandly. Contrary to his name, Ortelio Jones was Mexican, with roots deeply intertwined with the Sinaloan drug trade. His compound was in Los Mochis. I could tell by his tone that it was too late to take credit for Slayer’s kill. “I have heard you had a little help tonight.”
“Well, yes. Ah, that is true.”
His tone didn’t stay grand for long. It only took a few seconds for it to rise to an irate level. “Just the idea you’d need the help of that clown, Santiago Slayer, is a stain on the Jones name!”
“Well, ah, just so you know, I didn’t exactly ask for his help. I didn’t even know he was in the area.”
It was as though Jones didn’t even hear me. “Joder! Now everyone knows it was that cabrón who buried El Ba?o, not us! You are going to have to get El Pozolero, his right hand man.”
“The Soup Maker.” El Pozolero was so named due to his penchant for dissolving the bodies of his rivals in big soup pots. “Just tell me when and where.”
Jones’ pause chilled me to the bone. “You will have to cross into New Mexico.”
I didn’t want to tell him no. Lord knows, I didn’t want to say no. I had just been called on the carpet for messing up. This was not something I was accustomed to. But New Mexico? Jones knew to set foot there spelled my doom. “Ah, you must have other guys who can go there. What about Armando Grillo, or El Ostión?” He was called “The Oyster” because he rarely talked.
Jones let up on me. “There is one way you can avoid New Mexico, my friend.”
My heart jumped. Anything, anything. Being a sicario was my entire world, my whole identity. It was the only possible occupation for me after being forced to flee Taos. Sure, I could’ve become a FedEx driver, a plumber, a waiter. Anything was possible in this world. But being a sicario was the only occupation that gave me the same salary and finesse as my old one.
“This will involve rubbing out a woman.”
“Fine, fine.” I shouldn’t have been surprised I could kill a woman with no compunction. Women had gotten me into this predicament to begin with. “Who, where?”
“Her name is Flavia Brooks. We’ve had word she’s living somewhere near Flagstaff working in a tuxedo rental store.”
That was oddly specific information for someone who had no known address. “Nothing more on her location, then?”
“Nothing. I will text you a photo shortly. I want you to go up there and look around tuxedo rental places.”
“Sure thing, jefe.”
I had a reprieve. After hanging up, I opened the photo of Flavia Brooks. Dear Lord, she was savage beautiful. Even a cold-hearted guy like myself had to admit that her caramel skin and bright electric blue eyes ringed in soot were straight out of a magazine’s pages.
Instantly I had second thoughts about burying this girl. What the fuck could she have done? Yet Jones didn’t make a name for himself randomly running around hitting people. Briefly, I wondered if she was a reporter. Then why was she working in a tux rental store? Like me, maybe she was under deep cover.
Then something occurred to me. “Hey. The Bare Bones MC—they’re up near Flagstaff, aren’t they?”
Slayer nodded. “Their mother charter is in Pure and Easy to the south, to be exact. But they have a Flagstaff chapter. They recently moved out of the Tucson area after their clubhouse blew up, so they no longer have a real presence down here.”
I thought fast. “Jones just told me to take a vacation. To get my mojo back. There are nice spots up there, aren’t there?”