Steve Martini - Guardian of Lies

“That’s correct.”

Alim whispered to the interpreter, “Tell him we are going to send him a separate copy of the fax, that way he will have a reminder. We can afford to take no chances on this.”

If the documents did not arrive on time, Mexican customs would throw a blanket over the cargo and do a thorough search of the container, including the shielded warhead case inside. If that happened, Alim’s mission would be over, and the gamma radiation shriveling the testicles of the customs officers would assure that they would have no more children.

“Listen, the extra service at this end, cleaning up your Mexican’s mess, is going to cost quite a bit more,” said Goudaz. He had already figured in the thirty-thousand-dollar kickback he would be getting from the cargo broker at Puntarenas.

“Since you’re stopping payment on his services, you should have no difficulty paying the surcharge on mine.” He quoted them an additional seventy-five thousand dollars. After all it was only money, and who knew when an opportunity like this would come again. What he got was silence on the other end of the phone.

“Tell you what, let’s round up and make it an even hundred thousand,” said Goudaz. “By the way, I thought you’d like to know, I heard the lawyer and his friend talking. They were wondering just how big your bomb is, how much radioactive fallout something like that might produce. Given that I’m going to have to keep the lid on this until you’re done, I would think my fee is worth it.”

Ordinarily the nature of the cargo would be beyond the purview of the mayor. His business was simply providing municipal services. But in this case, Maricela and the lawyer had given him some extra leverage, and Goudaz was never one to ignore a gift.

“I knew you’d understand,” said Goudaz. “Yes, yes, you can send it by wire transfer to the same numbered account. I wouldn’t wait. I’d do it now, this afternoon. That will give me something to think about so I don’t forget to follow up with the broker. Good. Excellent. Well, listen, good luck. And take care now.” He hung up the phone, clapped his hands, and laughed as he did a little jig around his desk chair.

He carried the dance into the kitchen where he punched the button on the electric hot water kettle on the countertop and got out the French press for a cup of coffee. Goudaz was turning toward the small pantry to grab the bottle of amaretto from the top shelf when he came face-to-face with a man he didn’t know.

Before the mayor could even think, Liquida went in through the stomach, piercing the diaphragm. He wiggled the needle-sharp point of the dagger up inside the right-lower chamber of Larry’s heart.

“So you cleaned up the Mexican’s mess,” whispered Liquida.

Goudaz stared back through bulging eyes.

“Wile E. Coyote, huh? Well, beep beep, asshole!” Liquida pushed hard on the handle of the knife and moved it around until he found what he wanted. Blood gushed from the severed aorta as the mayor flopped to the ground.

“The only mess I see is the one on your kitchen floor.” Liquida’s brain bristled with thoughts of revenge, a growing list that started with the Arab for his arrogance and ended with the lawyer who had interfered to save the woman from the fiery house. He remembered the black man, the big one at the door to the house, and the other one, the shadowy figure at the corner, the one he had tried to find on the street that night.

“So that’s who it was.” Liquida spoke out loud to himself.

He remembered sitting on the broad avenue outside the lawyer’s office and seeing his name in the papers-Madriani. He remembered it as something almost musical. But now emotions of fury consumed him, especially the thought that perhaps he had also meddled in the bus ambush to save the woman’s daughter.

Liquida leaned over and picked through Goudaz’s pockets until he found his apartment key. Then he stepped around the body, quickly washed the blood off his hands, and cleaned the dagger at the sink. He dried his hands before he picked up the note with the shipping information that the mayor had laid by the kettle on the countertop. Liquida was still reading the note when he heard the metal gate rattle downstairs.

Herman uses Goudaz’s spare key to let us in. We have decided to pack up, grab Maricela, and find other accommodations until we can decide where we’re going. With the new passports we can start staying in hotels again as long as we use cash. We climb the steps to the apartment. Herman uses the other key to open Goudaz’s door.

“It’s just us,” Herman shouts as I close the door behind us.

“We need to go up and get our stuff together,” I tell him.

“You think we ought to tell Maricela so she can get ready?” Herman and I are whispering in the entry area.

“We’ll tell her just before we go. I don’t want her talking to Goudaz about it. He may try and convince her not to go with us.”

Herman nods. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. Probably in his study.” I head down the hall to tell the mayor that everything went well with the passports, but nobody is there.

“Paul! Get out here.” Herman’s voice from the other room tells me something is wrong.

By the time I get to the kitchen, all I see is Herman’s hulking frame standing there looking down at something on the floor. I don’t see the blood or Goudaz’s body until I come through the door.

“Ain’t no sense checking for a pulse,” says Herman. “Look at his eyes.” Herman slowly backs away from the body and edges over toward one of the drawers near the sink. He slides the drawer open and reaches in, his eyes constantly scanning the two doors leading into the kitchen. He takes a quick glance down at the open drawer and grabs a large butcher knife. He hands me another sharp blade.

“Let’s check the rooms,” he says. “Stay together. If he jumps me, use the knife, put it in him deep, as many times as you can-and don’t hesitate. Can you do it?”

I nod.

It takes us several minutes, moving cautiously from room to room, to clear the apartment. Whoever killed Goudaz is gone, and so is Maricela. There is no sign of her, and no note.

“You think he might have taken her?” says Herman.

“Why would he take her now if he tried to kill her before? It doesn’t make sense. He could have dumped her body someplace else.”

The thought hits us both at the same moment. We break for the door.

I stop to grab the key from the hook as Herman runs ahead of me up the steps to the other apartment. With blood and a dead body on the floor, I lock the door from the outside so no neighbors wander in.

I am hoping that Maricela is hiding upstairs in the other apartment, praying that whoever killed Goudaz didn’t find her and dump her body there.

By the time I get up the steps to the open apartment door, Herman has already used the key in his pocket and raced through the rooms. He is standing in the living room shaking his head. “She ain’t here,” he says.

“You checked every room?”

“I looked. She’s not here.”

We check again, this time carefully, opening every closet, looking under the bed. We even check the refrigerator, a thing macabre movies make you do. Nothing.

We close the door, lock up, and head back down.

“What time did she leave to go to the phone company?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I think it was probably a little after nine,” says Herman.

“She can’t still be there.”

Without a phone to reach her, there is no way of knowing.

“What do we do now?” he says. “We can’t stay here.”

“No. We need to pack up. But first we have to make sure we have everything out downstairs.”

“You think we oughta wipe the place down?” says Herman.