J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

Ford turns to introduce his companions, looking slightly unsettled. Perhaps I misinterpreted the old man’s remark. He must have said something that got under Ford’s skin. As the seconds pass, his expression goes from concern to panic, then shuts down completely.

For his part, the silver-haired man seems disinterested. He uses the opportunity of each proffered hand to edge closer toward the cantina door. Once the niceties are concluded, he motions them down two shallow steps and into the bar, waiting to have a word with his entourage before following. They disperse to take up positions against the wall, staring down passersby. The boss pauses in the doorway, removes a plated case from his pocket, and withdraws a slim cigar. He puffs a few times, the light of the flame revealing a dark mole on his weathered face.

César.

The words reverberating in my head are my own, spoken years ago to Nesbitt when I only knew him by the nickname Magnum. I plan on slapping the cuffs on César, too . And there he is, surrounded by minions, smoking a cigar in the warm evening. Whenever I’m tempted to congratulate myself on being a good cop, a careful gatherer and logical analyst of concrete evidence, something like this happens to remind me all I am is an instrument. A blunt instrument of fate.

César disappears down the steps. I wait and watch, wondering whether his men will let me pass. After a frozen moment, several people approach and enter the cantina without being molested. I follow their lead, doing my best impression of a hapless tourist. Their eyes bore through me, but the gang proves as lax as the border agents, making no move to stop me.

I step down, grasp the door in my hand, and pull. A blast of muggy air hits my face, accompanied by a woman’s laughter and the strumming of guitars.

From a spot I’ve elbowed my way into at the far end of the long bar, I watch the round table where César holds court, flanked on his right by Brandon Ford and on his left by a tall and shapely blonde with big eyes and a tiny dress. Either she arrived early or she came with the table. Apart from the old man, no one at the table takes much notice of her. They can’t afford to. This is business, pure and simple.

Did César somehow rise through the ranks of the cartel, or did Nesbitt plant him here? I suspect the latter. Whether all the pieces fit or not, I can’t tell, but a theory rumbles like thunder through the back of my head. Nesbitt uses César to infiltrate the cartel, then César decides he doesn’t need Nesbitt anymore and uses Magnum’s own people to take him out.

At the table, Ford does most of the talking, leaning in and gesturing emphatically with one hand. Insisting on something. César dismisses all this with a slight shake of the head, as indifferent to Ford as a horse is to a fly. He steals glances at the blonde beside him, takes drags on his cigar and sips of tequila neatly from a glass at his elbow.

Increasingly desperate, Ford turns to his men for confirmation of whatever it is he’s saying. They have their backs to me, but I can see their heads nodding. One of their voices carries over the hum of conversation and music.

“We left it where they told us to. If it’s not there, how is that our problem? Is this his city or isn’t it?”

So that’s the problem. César has already discovered the absence of the van. Now the deal is falling through before my eyes.

Sweating cerveza in hand, I notch out a new position for myself down the bar, close enough to hear what’s happening at the table without being too obvious an eavesdropper. César hasn’t aged well, but he has retained the graceful manner I recall from our encounter more than twenty years ago. He studies the cherry of his cigar, letting Ford’s words bounce off him, then raises his hand as if to summon someone from across the room. I follow the motion with my eyes. He looks at me. Looks away. Then his eyes cut back to me. The hand lowers.

“Gentlemen, excuse me,” he says to the table. He rises and makes for the rear exit, the blonde bouncing her way behind him.

Ford and his men exchange glances, dumbfounded.

“You’d better go after him,” one of them says.

“Fine. You sit tight.”

Ford peels away. The others make no move to follow him. Before he reaches the exit, they’re already calling for drinks, content to let the boss sort everything out. I scan the crowd for any of the gangbangers César brought in with him, but I’m not sure who’s who anymore.

Ford disappears behind a black-painted door.

Over the din I hear an electronic chirp and feel the vibration against my leg. I reach for my phone. The number on-screen is Jeff’s. His voice crackles, but it’s no use. I press the phone tight against my head and clamp my free hand over the opposite ear.

“Say that again.”

“Out back,” he says. “They came out back. They’re leaving. I have to go.”

The volume climbs as I move forward. Maybe it’s the thumping of the pulse in my head. I hear something crash on the floor and look down in time to see my beer bottle rolling around just as I kick it. The bottle spins, gurgling foam, but I keep pressing toward the door. I pull it open and duck through, down a dimly lit hallway, dodging a waitress with a tray of empties over her shoulder. I reach a door with a scarred kickplate and a grimy push bar.

SALIDA.

The breeze on the street is cool in comparison to where I’ve come from. There’s a lonely sidewalk and a few parked cars and at the end of the road-which is so narrow it must be one-way-I spot the brake lights of the white van.

I run. In contrast to the din inside the cantina, out here there is nothing but the sound of my feet on the pavement and the hum of traffic out on the thoroughfare beyond the van. I reach the back bumper as the van rolls forward.

“Wait!” I yell, slamming my hand against the side.

The van lurches and halts. I wrench open the passenger door, only pausing an instant to confirm that it’s Jeff behind the wheel. He motions me inside with an impatient curse, then mashes his foot down on the gas. I fall heavily against the back of the seat, the force pulling the door shut.

“Thanks for the ride,” I gasp.

“We’re cutting this too close. I told you to stay with him. You better put your seat belt on.”

“Yes, sir.”

According to the clock on the dashboard, it’s already a quarter past eight. The fact that he’s here, and that he managed to take the van, fills me with wonder. Behind me, a mountain of long canvas duffels lie one on top of the other like a stack of body bags. I slip through the seats, steadying myself against the side of the van, and stagger toward the nearest one, pulling the zipper open. Inside there are smaller nylon cases, the same kind I saw in the icebox inside the storage unit, with pouches on the side for 30-round magazines.

Jeff yells at me to sit down, then yells again for me to hold on as he turns.

“You got them,” I say. “You got all the guns.”

“Do you have your gun?” he asks.

“It’s still under the car.”

“Great. In that case, you can make yourself useful and see if there’s any ammo back there. Otherwise we’re taking a knife to a gunfight-assuming you have a knife.”

“Who says anything about a gunfight?” I ask, crouching between the seats.

“When they came outside, there were guys waiting. They grabbed Ford and stuffed him into the trunk of the car. Whatever we’re heading into, I’d just as soon be ready.”

“They kidnapped Ford? The old man was with him?”

“The old man was in charge,” he says.

I slump to the floor, feeling the hum of the wheels underneath me.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Jeff says.