Michael McGarrity - Tularosa

"I would be grateful."

"But I am reluctant," Posada added. "You have come to me in a most unusual way."

"I am new to my profession, senor," Kerney replied.

"It is difficult to find one's way without assistance." Posada rubbed his mustache with a twisted knuckle.

"How much is your merchandise worth?"

"It has been appraised at four million dollars." The figure didn't startle Posada at all.

"If you agree to a two percent commission, plus my standard fee, I would be inclined to accept you as a client."

"What is your standard fee?" Kerney asked.

"Five thousand dollars." The whole wad, Kerney thought. "I'll go one percent payable after delivery with the five thousand up front," he said.

"Agreed," Posada replied. He gestured to the houseboy, who stepped quickly to his side. The boy helped Posada to his feet.

"Seek out Enrique De Leon at the Little Turtle gambling house. I am sure he would be interested in your desire to do business in Mexico."

"Will you speak to Senor De Leon on my behalf?" Kerney asked, as he stood up.

"Of course. Do you wish me to pass along a message?"

"No. I would like you to keep the details of our discussion confidential, if that is possible." Posada nodded in agreement.

"All my client conversations are privileged. Senor De Leon will be satisfied with the knowledge that I have accepted you as a client."

"Excellent."

"Please pay Juan before you leave." He smiled lovingly at the young man.

"Thank you, Senor Posada," Kerney replied with a slight bow of his head. Posada bowed back.

"It is a pleasure to meet a norteamericano who speaks our language, admires our art, and knows how to conduct business. I look forward to seeing you again." *** Greg Benton hung up the phone in disgust. He dug out the portable printer, hooked it up, disconnected the phone jack, plugged in the laptop computer, and accessed the fax modern program. The motel room phone had been rewired at the junction box the night Benton checked in. It was secure, direct, and untraceable.

He paced the room waiting for the fax. The whole fucking scheme had started to go haywire from the day he whacked the Indian soldier up on the mesa. And unexpected events kept floating in, like shit from a plugged-up toilet: the burglary at the old lady's house, Gutierrez's failure to make the final delivery, the tossed apartment in Santa Fe-all signs that the plan wasn't neat and tidy anymore. Benton walked to the window and looked out.

The motel was a dump; the whores kept him awake at night, and the air conditioner barely worked. He looked at his watch. Meehan wanted him to meet with De Leon and tell him the delivery might be delayed. Damn right it would be delayed, with Gutierrez dead and the last shipment missing. De Leon would be pissed but probably wouldn't cancel the deal. Not with the amount of money that was at stake. He would have to come up with a good story for De Leon.

Benton looked at his watch again. It was too early to catch De Leon at the Little Turtle. He was never available until evening. There was time for a workout at Kike's Gym and a good steak before crossing the border. He hated Mexican food. In the bathroom, Benton stripped down and examined himself in the mirror. He liked what he saw. His body was fit and hard, and his gray eyes under curly black hair drew a fair share of attention from the ladies. The small scar on his chin made his face interesting. He smiled at himself and put on his sweats.

Then he pulled the fax off the printer, put the computer away, grabbed his gym bag, and walked out into the hot west Texas sun. The garbage blowing down the street didn't bother him anymore, and the graffiti-adorned car wash, the boarded-up gas station, and the junked cars in the vacant lot were now just part of the normal barrio landscape. The street ended at a concrete abutment where the freeway cut off through traffic. The fat hooker in front of the Caballito Bar saw him and waved as he got into his car. He waved back. Each time he went to buy lunch at the bar, she showed him a different tattoo and offered to fuck him for ten dollars-the going rate for locals. With all the low-riders, addicts, pimps, and whores in the neighborhood there was no difference between the barrio and Juarez. Benton thought it would be a good idea to give El Paso back to the Mexicans.

He drove toward the freeway on-ramp, looking at the fax picture. So this was the cop Meehan wanted him to find and kill. No problem, Benton thought to himself. After all, damage control was his specialty. It gave him something to look forward to. *** The painkillers the doctor had given Eddie made him woozy. He had spent the afternoon either chained to the cot or throwing up in the bathroom. Now Carlos stood over him, a clean white cook's uniform in his hand.

"So, you are going to live, Eddie," Carlos predicted. There was a hint of friendliness in his voice.

"Have you finished puking?"

"It would seem so," Eddie agreed, "although my stomach now thinks I am starving."

"There will be food for you." Carlos picked his nose with his forefinger while he pushed his upper plate into place with his thumb.

"Are you well enough to work tonight?"

"Of course. I must. I gave my word to the patron." Carlos bent over and unshackled Eddie's leg.

"Friday night is very busy. Many of Don Enrique's friends come early before leaving for their homes in the country. Clean yourself. Can you do it with one arm?"

"I can manage," Eddie answered, swinging his legs off the bed.

"And your wound?" Carlos asked. Eddie stood and wiggled the fingers that protruded from the sling around his arm.

"I must thank the doctor when I see him. The arm feels much better."

"Tomorrow he will stitch you," Carlos reminded him. "Thank him then."

"I will," Eddie replied, determined that in the morning, at the latest, he would be at the Fort Bliss military hospital being treated by an Army doctor who wasn't on De Leon pad. Carlos walked him to the dressing room and told him not to be long, as others might have need for the toilet.

He would be outside, waiting. Eddie bathed quickly, keeping the wound dry as he sponged himself, washed his hair, and used his left hand to shave with a razor Carlos gave him, nicking himself several times. He dressed in the clean clothes-a much better fit than yesterday's apparel-dried his hair, and adjusted the sling and the hump. He felt good enough to think about escaping. His plan was simple: given enough of a distraction he would run away. Carlos knocked at the door. Eddie opened it, and one of the cooks brushed by him on the way to the urinal, unbuttoning his fly as he went.

"Time for your meal, jorobado," Carlos noted, "and then to work."

"I am ready." Eddie smiled at the ugly man as he handed back the razor. *** Kerney stood inside the Little Turtle and looked around the room. The gambling house was filled with well-dressed men and women busy placing bets, socializing, and milling about the casino. It had a party atmosphere to it, and from the way people mixed, it was not a gathering of strangers. Kerney picked out a bodyguard hovering near a man with a slick-looking woman draped on his arm, and another close by an older gentleman betting at a monte table. He counted six more bodyguards in the room before switching his attention to the bar. More muscle, Kerney thought to himself, as he sized up the man standing directly behind a table at the corner of the bar. A thug with acne scars and a bushy mustache, the bodyguard carefully scanned the room with watchful eyes.

At the table the goon guarded, a man and a young woman were talking. On a bar stool to one side sat a hunchback dressed in a cook's uniform, smiling stupidly at everybody. Kerney walked toward the table, and the bodyguard cut him off.

"What do you want?" Carlos asked in heavy English, looking the gringo up and down. The man wore an expensive suit with an Italian cut that accentuated his square shoulders. He was tall and deeply tanned, with blue eyes that crinkled at the corners. He's a big son of a bitch, Carlos thought to himself. Kerney smiled.