We were pulling our arrows from the hay bales out back of Smoky Mountain. My next task was to see if the first room the men had taped yesterday was dry enough for painting, and I was working my arm up to it. We were standing fairly close as we yanked arrows, so there’d never be a better time. “I’m in the WITSEC program.”
Slushy paused. Even doing something as casual as archery, he still wore a loud red shirt with a clashing chartreuse tie. Sitting in his office behind the indoor range, even if he knew he’d never see a client other than a Bare Boner all day, he got dressed up. “Part and parcel of the job,” he said.
“I see. I knew something was up. Your story about the abusive ex just didn’t ring true.”
“It didn’t? You doubt a woman who says she’s been abused?”
“Not at all. It was your description of San Francisco. With its sunny summers waterskiing on San Francisco Bay, I knew something was up. As Mark Twain said. ‘The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.’ So what’s your question?”
He didn’t ask me what I’d done to enter WITSEC. “Well, I’m afraid it’s the Joneses I’m testifying against. And they’re pretty much not going to rest until I’m dead. They know I’m in P and E. They sent that monster with the rotting jaw to kill me.”
Slushy squinted against the sun. “Yeah. Krokodil’ll do that to you every time. Haven’t seen that guy around since the Citadel archery range. Is he…off the grid now?”
I was glad Slushy had picked up on that. “Yeah,” I said with relief. “He won’t be bothering anyone anymore. Fox saw to that. Problem is, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know? The Joneses aren’t going to be put off because one of their sicarios wound up splattered. They’re going to keep coming and coming until they get me.”
“When’s testimony?”
“Right now it’s set for September.”
Slushy stroked a nonexistent beard. “September, September…” He snapped his fingers. “We give the Joneses a different body! A woman, of course, but someone fucked up beyond recognition.”
I frowned and recoiled from the lawyer who had always seemed pretty benign—cuddly, even. “Slushy! Do you know what you’re saying?”
He erased my thoughts with his hand. “Well, of course, we wouldn’t go out of our way to obtain a body like that. But if one happened to show up, we wouldn’t be averse to shipping her over to Jones with a note attached to her toe saying it’s you. Hey, who the fuck is that?”
I looked to the parking lot overlay job. No one was supposed to be parking there for obvious reasons, but a few motorcycles—not Harleys—and a couple of muscle cars had pulled onto it. This didn’t bode well, and I dropped my bow and started jogging for the motel only forty yards away. No one was out on any of the back decks, but some muscle cars and bikes drove around that way anyway and parked.
“Hide!” Slushy called out as I sprinted in the back lobby door.
I stepped behind a Coke machine just as a couple of heavy-booted baby gangsters stormed the lobby, the bell on the door tinkling harmlessly in contrast to their stomping and shuffling, the clicking of military grade weapons.
“Mamá, ven aquí,” said the one in authority. Mama, get over here. “You, cabróna, you’ll do. Where are all the men?”
I could view the front door but not the lobby where the women were. I could hear the tremor in Tracy’s voice a mile off. I didn’t hear the rustle of anyone else, so the men must’ve gone back to their work in the units. I didn’t dare peek out from behind the vending machine, but I presumed they had Maddie. I should’ve been armed. I should’ve gotten Fox to take me to the gun range and teach me. Why wasn’t I walking around armed? These must be Jones men, coming to find me.
“I don’t know,” Tracy said in a feeble attempt at cover-up. They must be looking for Fox.
A harsh crack told me someone had slapped Tracy. “Cabróna! Me cago en tu puta madre!”
“I don’t know!” Tracy sobbed. “Look around!” At least two other women whimpered, and I presumed June and Emma had stayed in the lobby after polishing off the boob cake.
I had the feeling the baby gangster was about to slap Tracy again when more stomping boots came down the front walkway. This time the screen door was flung open violently, and Ford commanded,
“What the fuck is going on around here, Abel? Hey! Take your fucking hands off my wife!”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Abel poisonously. “Someone has murdered my father and I aim to find out who.”
Murdered my father. So this wasn’t about me at all. These guys weren’t even Joneses.
They were Ochoas.