Bentley Little - The Collection

He pulled back, looked me over. "How goes it, man?"

"My life doesn't change."

"Solid."

"As a rock."

He laughed, and I saw that he had a new silver tooth in the front.

"I don't know if Liz told you what I'm looking for, but I'm working on a case and I need to find a Guatemalan witch used to work as a maid. Her daughter's named Maya. I thought you might be able to introduce me to someone, set me up."

Hector thought for a moment. "I don't know much about Guatemalans. But you talk to Maria Torres. She run a small I bodega on Central between Southern and Baseline. In an I old house by the Veteran's Thrift. Her son married to a Guatemalan girl. She can get you in."

"You couldn't've told me that over the phone?" I ribbed him. "I had to come all the way out here in the middle of the night?"

"I wanted to see you again, bro."

I smiled at him. I'm not a touchy-feely guy, but I grasped his shoulder. "I wanted to see you too, Hector. It's good to see you again."

We caught up a bit on our respective lives, but it was clear that Hector's friends were getting antsy, and when the lights flashed and the horn honked, he said he'd better get going.

"I'll call," I promised. "We'll get together somewhere. In the daytime. Away from Phoenix."

He waved.

The next morning I learned that Hector had been fol­lowed.

Armstrong was the one who called me. Gleefully, I thought. He told me they'd found Hector in a Dumpster, burned beyond recognition. His teeth had been knocked out first and his fingertips sliced off so there'd be no possibility of positive identification. The cops had been able to ID the men with him, however, and one of the women who'd come down to claim the body of her husband said that Hector had been hanging with these guys and had ridden with them last night and was in all probability the other man.

The lieutenant paused, savoring his story. "That Dump­ster smelled like a fuckin' burnt tamale."

I hung up on him, feeling sick. Immediately, I picked up the phone again and dialed the Big Man's number. I was so furious that my hand hurt from gripping the receiver so tightly, and when he answered the phone himself and gave me that silky smooth "Hello," it was all I could do not to yell at him.

"You killed Hector Marquez," I said without preamble.

"Is this—?"

"You know damn well who this is, and you killed Hector Marquez."

"Sorry. I don't know anyone by that name."

"I'm off this case. You can find some other sucker to do your dirty work."

"I wouldn't do that." The Big Man's voice was low, filled with menace.

"Fuck you."

He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. If something happened to someone you know—and I'm not saying it did or that I'm in any way involved—then it was probably a mistake. If you'd like, I could look into it for you."

"I want you to make sure it never happens again. If I'm going to continue, I need to have your word that no one is going to be murdered, no one I talk to is going to be at­tacked. You want to follow me, fine. But just because I'm getting information from someone doesn't mean they're in­volved with this. You let me handle this my own way, or I'm off. You can threaten me all you want, but those are my terms, those are my rules, that's the deal. Take it or leave it."

"I understand," he said smoothly. "A slight misunder­standing. As I said, I am in no way connected to the death of your friend, but I think I have enough clout that I can assure you nothing like it will ever happen again. You have my word, and I'm sorry for your loss." He paused. "Do you have any leads?"

"Hector was a friend."

"I said I'm sorry."

I was still furious, but I knew enough not to push it. I might be brave when I'm angry, but I'm not stupid. I took a deep breath. "Hector gave me the name of a woman who might offer me an in to the Guatemalan community. I'll ask around. See what I can find out about this Maya and her mother."

There was silence on the line, but I knew he was nodding. "Keep me informed," he said.

"Of course."

I was still furious, but I pretended I wasn't, and we ended on a false note of rapprochement. I wondered after I hung up what kind of man could treat human life so casually, could order deaths as other people ordered dinner, and I told my­self that the kind of man who could do that was the kind of man who would statutorily rape the daughter of his house­keeper.

The kind of man I would take on as a client.

I didn't want to think about that, and I walked into the kitchen to make my morning wake-up coffee.

Maria Torres's bodega was closed when I arrived, so I went to a nearby McDonald's to get some coffee. There were gang members signing near the blocked bathrooms and a host of hostile faces among the silently staring people at the tables, so I paid for my order, took the covered cup, and went out to wait in my car.

I didn't have to wait long. Before the coffee was even cool enough to drink, a dark, overweight woman in a white ruffled skirt walked down the street and stopped in front of the barred door of the bodega. She sorted through a massive keyring, used one of the keys to open the door, and flipped the Closed sign in the window to Open.

I went over to talk to her.

The woman was indeed Maria Torres, and when I told her that Hector had said she could put me in touch with a Guatemalan woman who might know Maya's mother, she nodded and started telling me in broken English a long involved story about her son and how he'd met and married this Guatemalan girl over the wishes of her and her family. It was clear that she hadn't heard what had happened to Hec­tor, and I didn't want to be the one to tell her, so I simply waited, listened, nodded, and when she finally got around to telling me her daughter-in-law's name and address, I wrote it down.

"Does she speak English?" I asked.

"Therese?" Maria smiled widely. "More better than me."

I thanked her, and to show my appreciation, I bought a trinket from her store, a little rainbow-colored "friendship bracelet" that I could either give to my niece or toss away, depending on how the mood struck me.

The Guatemalans lived in a ghetto of a ghetto in the slums of south Phoenix. It was a bad area on a good day, and there hadn't been a lot of good days since the beginning of this long, hot summer.

I found the house with no problem—a crummy plywood shack on a barren lot with no vegetation—and I got out of my car and walked up to the section of plywood that I as­sumed to be the door.

I should've brought a tape recorder, I thought as I knocked. But it didn't really matter, because no one was home. I walked over to the neighbors on both sides, but one of the houses was empty and the tired skinny old man in the other spoke no English. My attempts at pidgin Spanish elicited from him only a blank look.

I decided to head home, get my tape recorder, then come back and see if Therese had returned, but when I reached the front door of my apartment, the phone was ringing, and it continued to ring as I unlocked and opened the door. Some­one was sure anxious to talk to me, and I hurried over, picked up the receiver.

It was the Big Man.

I recognized the voice but not the tone. Gone was the ar­rogant attitude, the sureness and confidence born of long-held power.

The Big Man sounded scared.

"She's hit me!" he said.

"Maya's mother?"

He was frantic. "Get over here now!"

"What happened?"

"Now!"

I drove like a bat out of hell. I did not slow down even through Paradise Valley with its hidden radar cameras, and I sped up Scottsdale Road at nearly twice the speed limit, fig­uring I'd have the Big Man pay off any tickets that were sent to me through the mail.

One of Pressman's flunkies was waiting for me at the door of the house, and I was quickly ushered in and taken to the bedroom, where the Big Man was seated on a chair next to the gigantic waterbed, stripped to the waist. He looked at me with frightened eyes as I entered.