Russell Blake - King of Swords

Briones was right.

He was in trouble

Mendoza was cold in late July — it had snowed two days earlier, typical of the Southern Hemisphere at this time of year. But today was one of those rare, crisp days when the sun warmed the sidewalks in the afternoon, making it practical to sit outside, admittedly with a sweater or jacket, and dine or sip coffee or wine at one of the myriad restaurants downtown.

El Rey didn’t drink alcohol, but he’d made an exception once he'd landed in Argentina, and he’d quickly incorporated a glass of wine with lunch and dinner — Malbec, of course. To drink anything else in Mendoza was close to sacrilegious. He still didn’t like the small loss of control it brought, but he had to admit that the taste was an experience, so now he wasn’t on high alert at all times, perhaps he could relax a little.

He’d leased a flat, two blocks from the Park Hyatt, and had already settled into a pace after only a month in town. Argentina was nothing like Mexico, and yet there were similarities; the language being the most obvious. The locals also appreciated the siesta , and the shops all closed between two and four, and in some cases from two to five, so that the workers and proprietors could enjoy a leisurely lunch, followed by a snooze.

The restaurants contrived fare fit for a gormandizer; he’d already found a few that rivaled the cream of Mexico and Europe, which he’d sampled while fulfilling contracts. The beef was incredible, the Italian food superb, which made sense; every other person in Mendoza had an Italian last name, a function of the wine industry that was the primary business in the region.

He’d stopped in Mendoza en route to Uruguay and decided to stay a few days, which had turned into a few weeks. Surprised that he wasn’t anxious to keep traveling, he’d taken a flat on a month-to-month basis, reasoning that if he got tired of Argentina he could just move on. Montevideo would still be there waiting for him.

The Los Cabos hit bothered him, but not so much that he was willing to return the money for the contract. Santiago was dead so he wasn’t going to need it, and Mexico was too hot for him to operate in until any manhunt died down. He hadn’t seen anything online or in the newspapers about the summit or the cop he’d shot, so the Mexican authorities had obviously clamped a lid on it, pretending that nothing had happened. That was easier to do than one might think — no bombs had detonated, no audible shots had been fired. A military helicopter had crashed, which was regrettable, but helicopters bit the dust all the time. It was not unexpected, and the papers paid mere lip-service to it all.

As far as the American and Mexican publics were concerned, nothing had happened except some boring meetings where a bunch of finance wonks had voiced the hackneyed tenet that the world was all screwed up, and getting worse. It had hardly rated a few column inches.

Ironically, the outrage over the Mexican cop terrorizing the protestor had been the most memorable part of the G-20 summit. Footage of the cop, murderous intent etched deep into his features as he drew his weapon on the unarmed (save a tomato) peace advocate, received heavy network television and internet play, and the disheveled man in the Rastafarian cap had become somewhat of a minor celebrity, landing a few talk show appearances, and even getting a book deal. Though who would write it wasn’t disclosed.

No news was forthcoming on the cop. El Rey figured he’d either survived, or the government had covered up the shooting. After all, Mexico got enough bad press without aggravating their image with reports of cop killings at the global financial summit.

The boat had gotten to him, right on time, and it had then taken forty-eight hours to make its way to Mazatlan, where he disembarked and waved goodbye to a life at sea. Once on the mainland, he’d bused it to Culiacan, where he had a condo with a safe containing half a million dollars in cash and gold. From there he’d driven one of his cars to Mexico City, where he’d sold it to a man he knew who could make things disappear, then boarded a flight to Santiago, Chile, using one of his four fake passports — this time, a Spanish one. In South America, a Spanish passport got you waved through customs without comment, a throwback to the times when Spain had been the conquering victors.

After a night in Chile, he’d taken the recommendation of the hotel concierge and decided to try Mendoza. The rest was history. He’d settled in, found a few strip clubs with world-class talent, and cultivated an appreciation for fine wine and great food. He didn’t know where he’d wind up settling permanently, but for now, Mendoza was as good as anywhere.

He swirled the deep purple liquid around the curve of the glass and savored the aroma as the waiter arrived with his entree: a medium rare filet over a bed of grilled tomatoes and onions, drizzled with a balsamic glaze and accompanied by roasted vegetables and grilled potatoes. Heaven. He made a mental note to increase his time at the gym so he wouldn’t pay the piper for his indulgences. It wouldn’t do to get soft. One never knew what the future might bring.

Carefully setting his glass down, he sliced into the perfectly cooked filet and took a bite, admiring the way the beef flavor melded with the complements.

El Rey caught sight of his reflection in the restaurant window and saw a bohemian world traveler smiling back at him, enjoying the experience of being at peace with the world. He supposed he was, for once. For now.

Life was good.