He blinks, and then shakes his head. “I’m afraid a…fuck load is not a quantity we deal in, Sam. Who do you work for?”
“A private individual. A businessman, who enjoys his anonymity in situations such as this.”
“Oh. Well I’m afraid we don’t deal narcotics with people we don’t know, Mr. Garrett. Anonymity breeds mistrust. Betrayal. I’m sure you understand.”
“As you wish. His name is Louis James Aubertin the third. He’s an investment banker in New York. He provides a service for other professional men and women in the city. They go to him when they need a little…stimulation.” This is a lie we’ve had to tell before, and Jamie’s already given me the go ahead to fall back on it if I need it. Jamie’s father, perhaps the biggest asshole on the face of the planet, still thinks Jamie is a banker in New York. There’s a pre-existing paper trail there—bank accounts, an apartment. A fake office, set up on the eighteenth floor of the Klein building on Wall Street.
Fernando rocks back on his heels, folding his arms across his chest. I feel like a teenager picking up my date for the first time, only to be accosted by her overprotective father on the doorstep. This is a lot more serious than that, given the amount of armed, naked guards close by, but still… I don’t feel as threatened as I probably should. On first inspection, Fernando seems like the introspective, brooding type. Intellectual. Stern. Very cold, of course. But not terrifying. Good thing he’s stayed low here in Ecuador, instead of trying to claim territory in the States; he wouldn’t last five seconds in a place like L.A. or Chicago.
“I usually only deal internally within Ecuador,” he says. “I have no relationship with the Ecuadorian border, or with any state officials. I can’t help you transport this…fuck load of my product you wish to buy out of the country. How are you intending to transfer the coca back into the States? Or do you intend on shoving it all up your nose, Mr. Garrett?”
“Ha! No. I love coke as much as the next guy, but not that much. We have a fleet of small aircraft at our disposal. We can fly it out personally without being discovered.”
“And how did you come across my coke?”
“I’m sorry?”
“How did you find my excellent cocaine and know where to come to buy more of it in bulk? You see, Sam, we do not sell to people we do not know. And the people we do sell to know better than to even breathe the name Villalobos when they are trafficking our product. So…I ask you again. How did you know to come here, to this place, to buy my drugs?”
Ahh. Shit. He does not look happy. The whole accountant vibe he had going on a second ago has morphed into something far less friendly. He has a glint in his eye, sharp and cruel, that hints at madness. “I beat it out of a very fat Mexican,” I tell him. “And then I killed him.”
Fernando’s expression is all ice. He studies me with cool disregard for a moment, and then pinches the bridge of his nose between his index finger and his thumb. “I may have heard something about that.”
“I used to go stay at his compound. He always had the best girls in his stables. And the best blow.”
“So you are interested in women, too?” he says.
I shrug, doing my best to look nonchalant. “I’m a guy, aren’t I?”
Fernando looks at the ground, brows banked together, as if he’s thinking furiously. Taking a step to the right, he holds out one hand, gesturing me into his office. “Come in. I need to make a phone call. You’ll excuse me for a moment, I think.” It’s not a request. He’s merely informing me of what’s about to happen, and I honestly don’t like the sound of it. A phone call to whom? I cut a sidelong look at Natalia. She seems to be locked in some kind of intense, silent communication with her father, and I can’t decide if that is a good or a bad thing. Bad, I’m sure.
“I have something for you, Sam,” she tells me. “My father will be back in a minute. I’m sure the two of you can discuss the matter of a purchase further then. In the meantime…” She gives me a tight-lipped smile and heads past her father, into the office.
I make a point of smiling warmly at Fernando as I enter his office. Better for me to pretend I’m completely oblivious to the danger of this situation than to break out into a sweat. Fernando nods slightly, and then he hurries off down the length of the floor, making a beeline for Ocho. His shoulders seem to have inched up some, like he’s bracing for something; why Fernando Villalobos would be worried about anything here, in his home, with all his men and their weapons around, is a mystery.
Fernando’s office is unassuming. No art on the walls. No frills of any kind. Bare tile floor. Regular desk. A small lamp, which is turned on, since there doesn’t actually appear to be an overhead light.