John Lutz - Bloodfire

Desoto was dressed in white today except for a pale blue tie: tropical white suit, white-on-white shirt. He sat relaxed behind his desk and smiled with very white teeth.

Carver limped over to the chair near the desk and sat down. Desoto swiveled in his chair and turned down the volume of his Sony; a forlorn Reuben Blades song continued its soft and syncopated Latin beat. The office was cool and smelled pungently like an office, as if somebody had just sharpened a dozen pencils and left the shavings lying about.

Carver crossed his good leg over his bad and said, “The Roberto Gomez thing’s getting complicated.”

Desoto arched his dark eyebrows, still smiling like a Hollywood Golden Era matinee idol. “How so, amigo ?”

“The wife wants me to protect her from him.”

“No complication there,” Desoto said. “Don’t do it.”

“That’s what I told her the first time she asked. Roberto thinks their baby died just after childbirth because the wife was carrying a secret heroin addiction. That’s why he’s got his troops out searching for her. Why one of them pumped a bullet into her sister, thinking she was Beth.”

“Beth, huh?”

“Elizabeth Gomez.”

“So what’s the problem? She’s hooked that hard on horse, she’ll be dead soon enough. Why doesn’t he just forget her and let her waste away on her own?”

“He’d rather waste her himself. He’s that type.”

“Yeah, he would be. But I tell you, amigo, I don’t feel sorry for her, only for the dead kid. Lie down with dogs, rise up with fleas. She got down with rats that carry death, but it was the kid that paid the price. Now let her pay. Sorta justice the police don’t necessarily get involved in, but justice nonetheless.”

“The kid didn’t die. I’ve seen him.”

Desoto leaned forward and rested an elbow on his desk, cupping his chin in his hand. “What you trying to tell me, eh?”

“Beth Gomez lied to Roberto and used drug money to bribe her doctor to back her up.”

“Why’d she do that?”

“She wants out of the drug life, for her baby and for herself. She thought Roberto’d think the baby was dead, and that she’d be dead soon enough, so he wouldn’t look for either of them. She didn’t realize how much he’d want revenge. Now she figures if she can manage to stay out of his way for a year or so, he’ll cool off and stop searching. He’ll think she’s probably dead or worse off than dead.”

“Won’t she be?”

“No. She’s not on heroin; he only thinks she is. She’s got no kinda drug habit.”

Desoto sat back and considered. He took his chin out of his hand. “Hey, she’s gotta be shitting you, amigo .”

“Why?”

“If she isn’t hooked on drugs, she’s addicted to the money that flows from them, and that’s almost as powerful an addiction. It’s in the blood just as surely. It’s a lust that can’t be denied. This woman was the whore of the scum of south Florida, my friend; do yourself a favor and see her as she is. Don’t trust her.”

Carver said, “She’s not what you’d expect.”

Desoto stared at him, as if comprehending something that was beyond Carver. “Christ!”

“I’m thinking mainly of the kid,” Carver said.

“Gomez won’t hurt the kid.”

“Only raise him as a son.”

“True, amigo , there is that.”

“There’s also McGregor. He read about my involvement with Gomez and he wants the lion’s share of the action. Has plans to run for mayor of Del Moray.”

Desoto said, “ Sacro Dios ! He’ll be the head of the rotting fish.”

Carver said, “He told me to keep him tuned in, or he’ll make life hard for me.”

“He can do that,” Desoto said.

“I know. Strait came to see me, too. He wants me to share all my secrets with the DEA.”

“Strait might be a pain in the ass, but he’s not like McGregor.”

Is anyone?

“Maybe Roberto Gomez, only not so devious.”

“McGregor wouldn’t mind the comparison. He thinks being a cop’s the flip side of being a crook.”

“Sometimes that’s the truth. He’s proof of it.” Desoto tilted back his head and seemed to be listening to the music. Voices were raised outside the office; a couple of detectives in an argument about a stakeout. “You came to me for advice,” Desoto said. “I gave it to you. Let the drug woman and her child run the risks she’s created.”

“That what you’d do?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll do as you please, regardless of what I’d do.”

Someone yelled for the arguing detectives to shut up, and they did. There was no noise from outside now except the relentless, ratchety whine of a dot-matrix printer. Song of the Orient.

Carver said, “I wanted you to know what’s happening.”

“So I might cover your ass if at all possible, eh?”

“Yes. And I’d like you not to mention the child’s alive. Give him a chance.”

“And the woman?”

“Give her a chance, too.”

“I’ll say nothing unless I have to. But the Belinda Jackson homicide investigation’s still in progress, you know.”

“You’ll never be able to hang it on Gomez.”

“Not yet, no,” Desoto admitted. “But you’re right, the child deserves a chance in the world.”

“We all deserve that,” Carver said. “Gives us the opportunity to fuck up on our own.”

“Which is what you’re doing if you cross people like Gomez and his friend Hirsh. They’re the worst of the bad. A sadist, and one beyond sadism who’d cut on you as dispassionately as if you were filet mignon.”

Carver uncrossed his legs and stood up with difficulty; his good leg had fallen asleep. He leaned propped on his cane. “I was sure you’d agree with me on the kid.”

“I don’t agree on the woman,” Desoto said. “The high-rolling life she’s led, the millions in drug money, it’s like an unquenchable fire in the blood, even if she’s not addicted to heroin. She’d have to be unusual indeed in order to change.”

Carver said, “She’s unusual.”

Desoto half closed his eyes and said, “Are you really going to do this, amigo? Play the protector for a drug lord’s wife and child?”

“I don’t know.”

Desoto shook his head sadly. He reached behind him and turned the Sony’s volume back up. A mariachi band was strumming and shouting enthusiastically.

Carver left the office, limping with unmistakable Latin rhythm.

By the time Carver drove down the narrow road to his beach cottage, the Olds was running hot. He could smell the sweet scent given off by boiled coolant. The radiator was rusty and leaking, he was sure. He made a mental note to have it repaired before the old car left him stranded.

He parked alongside the cottage and switched off the engine. A few seconds passed, then steam billowed from beneath the hood, and the windshield fogged. Great. He hoped he hadn’t pushed the car too hard and harmed the engine.

He climbed out and limped around to the front of the Olds. Worked the double latch and raised the long hood.

Heat rushed up and hit him in the face, He stepped back and watched more steam rise and dissipate in the already hot air. The motor was ticking loudly and something was hissing like an angry snake. Oh-oh!

He edged close and peered beneath the hood. A thread of water was angling from a break in the top radiator hose and spattering steamily on the inside of the fender well. Carver was relieved. He’d been lucky; replacing the faulty rubber hose was easier and cheaper than having the radiator repaired. It was a job he could handle himself in fifteen minutes.