T. Parker - The Jaguar

“Except that I won’t.”

“No. Sadly.” He ran a hand through his tangle of gray-black hair and looked at her with that beaten expression. But she caught the mischief in his eyes and she wanted to strike him.

They stepped into the great room. It had the high ceiling that Erin had sensed from the foyer, and a large open fireplace filled not with flames but with a display of cut tropical flowers. An enormous chandelier with electric candles hung from the center of a domed ceiling ringed with life-sized paintings of the Saints, each peering down from his or her own bower.

Erin felt observed. She saw that two of the walls were made of the same unattractive dull green bricks she’d seen in Nestra’s suite and she realized they were not walls at all but bundles of cash stacked against the walls. Ten feet high, she guessed. Twelve?

Next to the fireplace was a very large-screen television playing Mexican futbol. There were three men watching the game and when they sensed that visitors had entered the room they pulled their white balaclavas over their heads then turned to look at them. They rose crookedly and bowed to Armenta and he to them.

— How are our Red Wolves doing?

— It is tied at two, answered one of them.

— Please relax. I will be showing Mrs. McKenna some of what I have collected.

— Nice to meet you.

— It is my pleasure to meet you, she said.

— I am a fan of your music. I know no English. Can you write some songs in Spanish?

She sensed Armenta’s gaze but refused to return it.

— I have written in Spanish, but not recorded.

— Can you record them for us who do not understand English?

— Do not ask the artist to work, said Armenta. She came here on pleasure, not business. But perhaps she will consider to write in Spanish someday soon.

“Pleasure?” With this she gave Armenta the most withering look she owned, borne of the Celtic blood and passion that ran through her, a look that Bradley called “The Firing Squad.” It was utterly sincere. She thought, not for the first time in the last few minutes, of the Cowboy Defender taped uncomfortably on her upper left calf. So easily retrieved. So easily operated. Armenta’s moment of surprise would be the last moment of his life. Firing squad is right.

— Or perhaps not, said Armenta. Enjoy the game.

They walked along the stacks of cash. She could see that the bills were all American and the denominations ranged from five dollars to one hundred. Each brick was approximately three inches thick, neat, and bound by three rubber bands, left, right and center. Up this close she could smell the money through the bleach and lemons. Bradley liked the smell of cash and had more than once joked of making a cologne of it. A crazy wave of homesickness broke over her, because these bills had been printed and earned and spent in the place she so badly wanted to return to, and because she might not see again her deceitful, money-loving husband who so loved the smell of them.

From the periphery of her vision Erin caught the three lepers looking at them. One arranged his balaclava to more completely hide his face. The futbol announcer spoke in full-auto bursts and the TV crowd roared and the lepers turned back to the action.

“It is difficult to protect money in Mexico,” Armenta said. “For this you need the cooperation of banks and our banks are not trustworthy. In ten years, maybe. Twenty. I have friends in banking and when they become influential, things will change. Grand Cayman, yes, is good now. Switzerland, maybe. It is best to keep the money near you. In the names of others I have purchased land and homes and businesses. Farms and ranches, aircraft and boats. Government employees and many politicians, of course. But mostly, I keep it here. No one here in the Castillo has seen this except for you and the lepers. Everyone else thinks they can get leprosy just by breathing the air of the third floor. Mexicans are very superstitious. I can protect my money in banks, or with guns, or with superstition. So I use the most economical. In this room there are fourteen millions of American dollars. There are exactly eighty million more dollars throughout this level and buried beneath the tiger and lions in the zoo. And millions of pesos, of course, and Colombian currency and yen and euros and English pounds. I have other properties in Mexico with much more money hidden in them. It is best not to have all the eggs in the one basket.”

He studied the stacks of cash for a long moment. “They are not interesting or beautiful to look at.”

“But you’ll skin me alive for a million more?”

He looked at her with strangely distant eyes and she was suddenly frightened even more than before, more than she ever thought she could be. His tone of voice, which had always been resonant and heartfelt, even when endorsing ugliness and violence, now sounded detached, impersonal, fated. “The million dollars is a gesture of respect from your husband. We are all in this world together and he must know how to cooperate in it. The money is not what I want most. The money represents my power. And yes, I must let Saturnino skin you, as promised to you and your husband, or my power is false and my words are nothing. For the same reason the reporter must be given to the leopards. It is justice as a form of nature.”

“And the pain you cause?”

“I would pray that Charlie Bravo is successful.”

“You would pray, or I should?”

“You must. My prayers would be only an abomination. But I have made peace with this.”

“If you have so much power, fly me home. You don’t need the money from me. The rest of what you say is just macho bullshit.”

He looked at her and a smile brushed his face. “Do you know this courier? Charlie Bravo?”

“No.”

“I suspect that is not his name. I suspect also that he may be an agent of the ATF. I suspect that he might be one of the ATF agents who murdered Gustavo. I have very good sources, all over Mexico.”

Openly suspicious, he studied her reaction. Without taking his eyes off her he pulled a cell phone from his belt. He had to look away to push the buttons. He handed it to her, and she saw the poor resolution picture of Charlie Hood getting into a vehicle in what looked like a parking lot. She recognized the Tijuana Jai Alai Palace in the background. She handed it back to him.

“Nope. Sorry. This is the man my life depends upon now?”

“The courier. From your husband. You don’t know him?”

“I’ve never seen him before in my life. Answer me, Senor Armenta: are you going to fly me home?”

“If the money arrives on time I will fly you home. And if it does not, then all is as I promised.”

“If I asked for mercy would you give it to me?”

“I will accept the one million dollars and nothing else.”

Erin felt the gun taped to her leg. So be it, she thought. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“You were in your room only minutes ago.”

“Please?”

“Of course, Mrs. McKenna.”

Armenta walked her to a guest bath down the hall that Nestra had used. Erin turned on the light and locked the door and ran the tap and hiked her left foot onto the marble countertop. She unwrapped the Cowboy Defender and stood and thought: now you have to stand on your own two feet, girl. The gun was small and heavy and the rounded butt fit easily in her hand. She pushed it halfway into a shallow pocket in her dress, draped the shawl to cover it, and pulled it out and worked it back in again and wiggled it back and forth to make sure it would stay put as she walked. If the hammer was caught snug up under the pocket hem then it seemed okay. But what if it cocked itself and went off? She made sure the shawl covered it. Just barely. Where should she aim? Head if you can, heart if you can’t.