Russell Blake - Revenge of the Assassin

At first he’d pretended surprise and shock, but the old man had been relentless. Ultimately, Antonio had agreed to do as Gustavo wanted after being assured that nobody else knew what he’d discovered. He had done his level best to appear amenable. It sounded like child’s play, actually, to terminate the chieftains who were skimming from Gustavo’s take. The only real problem was that he didn’t respond well to blackmail, or to anyone knowing his identity, even if Gustavo was an outwardly gentle soul who was just trying to get his needs met. And so El Rey had palmed the letter opener when Gustavo had sealed the arrangement with a proposal of a glass of rare Cobos Reserve Malbec and had leapt across his desk and skewered his brain when he’d swiveled around from the credenza to the desk with the bottle — which he’d caught with his free hand and had taken home with him, to be savored as an after-dinner treat.

He’d made short work of wiping Gustavo’s computer of any incriminating files and had painstakingly cleaned the handle of the letter opener, still protruding from the old crook’s chin, his eyes open in shocked surprise, staring off into oblivion as if regretting his ultimate misjudgment.

El Rey ’s pulse hadn’t increased from the effort, nor had he been particularly upset over having to terminate his friendship so abruptly. It was nothing personal, just as the uncle’s researching his past hadn’t been personal. He’d done what he’d felt compelled to do, and El Rey had responded in kind. That was how the world worked. If you played with vipers, you shouldn’t be surprised when one bit you. It was the law of the jungle El Rey lived by, and the incident only served to reinforce why it was a good idea to never get too close to anyone, or too attached to any place or thing. Relative peace and safety could turn dangerous in a heartbeat, and it was foolishness to drop your guard.

Gustavo had been working on his project for over a week — he’d seen from the e-mail dates. Which meant that if he’d been telling the truth, he’d known, or suspected, for almost that long. El Rey could only hope that he’d kept the information to himself, which he believed was strongly likely. Anyone else knowing would have compromised the old man’s hoped-for hold over El Rey , and he was sure that Gustavo had leveled with him about his problem in Buenos Aires. His only miscalculation had been in believing that he could control the assassin and force him to do his bidding.

It was a pity — it was hard to find friends these days. But it was also unavoidable.

El Rey had two choices. He could disappear, hoping to elude any pursuit, or he could stay put and see what happened. But he didn’t want to trip any alarms and a sudden departure immediately after the murder of his chess partner might trigger the exact sort of manhunt he was hoping to avoid. After much thought, he decided to wait and see rather than running. He liked Mendoza more than anyplace else he’d been, and he wasn’t anxious to leave if he didn’t have to. So he’d gathered up his passports and double-checked his escape kit, which he’d stowed in the large safe behind a paneled section of his home study, and resigned himself to being patient and waiting it out. Nothing was ever gained by making rash moves.

Jania had sounded genuinely surprised and shocked, so Gustavo hadn’t told her anything. That was good. He would have hated to have to kill her over that sort of indiscretion. On balance, then, it wasn’t a bad start to the day. She would get to live.

He hummed to himself as he walked to the glass front entry, silently debating not opening, and then dismissing the idea. Better to go about his business as though nothing had happened — which in a way, it hadn’t. His shopkeeper’s uncle had been the victim of a failed burglary attempt, or alternatively, had been killed by some of the unsavory elements from his murky past. Either way the police looked, they’d encounter a dead end. There was no trail to him, or the shop, to follow.

He flipped the sign over from closed to open and unlocked the door. If today was like any other weekday, he’d be lucky to see five customers before dinner time.

El Rey brought his notebook computer from out of the back office and settled in behind the counter on the high padded stool where Jania spent most of her time. Peering at his watch, he mentally calculated how many hours he’d be on this lonely duty and sighed resignedly as he moved the cursor to his favorite web browser to surf the web.

El Rey closed at two o’clock for the customary two hour lunch break that all of Argentina took. Sometimes it was extended to three hours on slow days, which today, given the two customers so far, he felt qualified as such. He walked a block to his favorite lunchtime restaurant, a small Italian place on one of the main streets, and ordered a salad and some duck ravioli. Following his meal, he opted for an hour and a half at the gym.

Refreshed from the exercise, he stowed his gear in the locker he rented by the month and made his way back to the shop. The usual sprawl of students was lounging around, carousing on the promenade in front, but other than that, he saw nothing of note. He grudgingly opened the door, propping it open to lure tourists in, and remounted the stool, waiting for closing time to come.

At six, two men in trench coats entered, removing their fedoras, and Antonio instinctively stiffened, their bearings unmistakable. The taller of the pair approached him — a rough-looking man in his early fifties whose baby face had long ago succumbed to the effects of wine and gravity, and whose day-old stubble was laced with gray.

“ Senor Balardi? Antonio Balardi?” he asked officiously.

“Yes. How can I help you?” Antonio answered in a modulated, quiet voice.

“I’m Detective Rufio Starone, and this is Detective Franko Lombardetti. We’d like to ask you a few questions,” the taller man responded.

“Certainly. Would you mind showing me some identification?” Antonio asked reasonably.

The request seemed to annoy the two men, but they flipped out their badges, which Antonio studied over the rims of his glasses and then nodded.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“We’re investigating the murder of Gustavo Peralta Malagro. We got your name from his niece, Jania.”

“Yes. She called this morning. A shocking crime. He was a wonderful man. But I’m not sure how I can help you…”

“We’re following up with everyone he knew, to see if there was anything suspicious or worrisome about him in his last days. Let’s begin with you telling us how well you knew him,” Starone said.

“Not particularly well. He and I would play chess a few times a month. I’ve only known him for maybe four months, through Jania. He’d come by, we got to talking, and it became somewhat of a ritual — a way to kill time,” Antonio explained.

“When did you last see him?” Detective Lombardetti asked.

“Oh, it must have been four days ago. We sat over at the little French bakery and played a game of chess, as was our custom.”

“Did he seem preoccupied or concerned? Did he mention anything worrying him?” Starone inquired.

“No. Not unusually so. I mean, he would complain about things sometimes, but just routine stuff, nothing dramatic. Why? I thought Jania said that this was a burglary? Isn’t that the case?”

Starone ignored the question. “What kind of routine stuff? Give me some examples.”

“Well, let’s see. He griped about the cost of gas and energy a lot, and about international banks robbing the country blind, and about how the economy sucked and the government was incompetent…”