Hard Luck

by Pascal Scott

  “Don’t worry. I am not going to kill you. I think what you should do is you should go back to this woman in California with a gun and kill her. That is what I would do.”

  “What woman?” Elizabeth asked, although she already knew.

  “The woman in California.”

  “This woman in California, did she have blond hair? Brown eyes?”

  “I did not meet her.”

  “Then, how—?”

  “My friend. My friend asked me if I wanted to make some money. I said I did.”

  “A friend in Mexico?”

  “No. In California.”

  A friend in California. What friends did Denise have in California who had friends in Mexico? Elizabeth remembered something. Hadn’t Denise told her that the Hells Angels ran drugs from Tijuana? This mutual friend must be an Angel.

  Elizabeth wondered if Mickie knew. Maybe Mickie was in on the plot to get her out of the way, or maybe Denise had talked her into it, just like she had talked Mickie into the heist, which had happened this morning if they had followed the plan. Elizabeth wondered how much they got. By now, they were probably somewhere south of the border, starting their new life together without a third wheel to slow them down. But no, hiring a hit woman didn’t sound like something Mickie would do. That sounded like Denise.

  “I owe you my life,” Elizabeth said.

  “Me caes bien. I like you. And you are a friend of Teresa Barrera. Señor Barrera is a very important man in Mexico City.”

  “Is that where you’re from? Mexico City?”

  “Yes. Tacuba.”

  “May I ask you a personal question?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Please.”

  “How did you become a hit woman?”

  La Pequeña sat up a little straighter. “I am not a sicaria. I am a halconeo.”

  “A what?”

  “A halconeo. A hawk. Like you have the eyes of a hawk? A lookout.”

  “Who do you look out for?”

  “I look out for enemies,” La Pequeña answered.

  “No, I mean who do you protect?”

  “Oh, yes. I protect La Familia.”

  “The family, like a cartel family?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t look old enough to do that,” Elizabeth said.

  “I am twenty-seven years old.”

  “You don’t look that old.”

  “Because I am small, I look young. I am not young. When I was fifteen, I had a baby by a man who was old enough to be my father. He put me out on the street and gave away mi hija.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “Así es la vida.” That’s life.

  “May I ask you something else?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  “No. You would have been my first.”

  They drank silently for several minutes. Elizabeth heard the sound of rain on the thatched roof and of glasses clinking and people laughing as she became aware of her surroundings. The bamboo bar where they had stopped on Front Street was filling up with evening tourists. She barely remembered walking there. She had moved dreamlike from the cemetery, floating beside La Pequeña.

  “What are you gonna tell them?” Elizabeth asked. “Your friend and the woman who hired him.”

  “I am going to tell my friend Daniel that I couldn’t find you. I went to the cemetery, and you were not there. He paid for my trip here, and I feel bad about that, but I would feel very bad about killing you.”

  “How much was he going to pay you?”

  “Two thousand pesos.”

  Elizabeth calculated. She guessed that two thousand pesos was about five hundred dollars. Apparently, it was cheap to hire a killer in Mexico.

  “I want to tell you something,” La Pequeña said. “I want to tell you to be careful. When a woman wants you dead, she will not stop until you are dead.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Then I must ask you a serious question.”

  “Yes?”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  That was the question of the hour, wasn’t it? It was exactly what Elizabeth was thinking. What the hell am I gonna do now?

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Elizabeth would need to get off the island, that was the first thing she needed to do. Rain meant the tourist season was coming to an end. Today was Saturday, the first day of June. Soon the population of Caye Caulker would drop down to its original thousand. The tall, sun-burnt white girl with the fuzzy head would stand out in a crowd of home-grown Belizeans. Elizabeth would be an easy target for a hit woman. What was it La Pequeña said? If a woman wants you dead, she won’t stop until you’re dead. La Pequeña was proof that Denise thought of her now as a loose end to be tied up, an inconvenience.

  The second thing was: get money. She had a few pesos, a couple of Belizean coins, and three American dollar bills. La Pequeña was gone, no doubt on her way back to Mexico City. Elizabeth was still in bed. The last thing she remembered from last night was listening to the rain on the thatched roof of the bamboo bar. She couldn’t remember how she got back to her cabana. She had no idea where La Pequeña spent the night. She couldn’t remember anything. This morning—and was it still morning?—she had a headache and a hangover. She needed coffee. An Irish coffee would be even better. Especially if somebody else was buying.

  The bamboo bar was called Sea Grapes. Yesterday, Elizabeth hadn’t noticed the green and purple neon sign above the front door. The same bartender was on duty. He remembered her. No doubt he knew more about last night than she did. When she ordered an Irish coffee, he laughed and set a white cup on the counter.

  “No whiskey,” he said.

  Holding a coffeepot high above the cup, he poured in the dark liquid without spilling a drop. When he was done, she reached for it. He set a big hand on her wrist. “No, miss.”

  From below the bar, he pulled up a bottle of Kahlua. In went at least an ounce. Next up came an aerosol can, and a cloud of whipped cream whooshed on top. Now he backed away and let her take the cup. She sipped.

  “Damn, that’s good.”

  He smiled his gap-toothed smile. “On the house.”

  “Even better. Thank you.”

  She looked around the bar. More men than women, and that was good, too. She spotted a pool table in the next room that she hadn’t noticed last night. Two men were playing a sloppy game of billiards. They were dressed in baggy shorts, T-shirts, and white socks with sandals. Paunchy beer bellies, receding hairlines. No wives in sight. Perfect.

  She hadn’t played in years, but wasn’t it like riding a bicycle or sex? You never forgot how? She was right. She hadn’t forgotten. She lost the first three games of eight ball only half intentionally, to Glenn and Leo from Minnesota and Illinois, or maybe it was the other way around. On the fourth game and her second Kahlua with cream—they were buying—she cleared the table. After tapping the last solid into a side pocket, she pointed at the right corner and called it. The black ball rolled in like it was destined to go there. The expression on their faces was priceless. Well, not really. It cost them four hundred fifty dollars. She was through the front door of Sea Grapes and on a boat out of Caye Caulker before the sun set on that dangerous island.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Who said, “You always kill the thing you love?” Denise couldn’t remember. It was another one of those poets Miss Diamond made them read for her English class. It was surprising that of all her teachers, Miss Diamond was the only one who had made an impression on her. Maybe that was because Miss Diamond was a lezzie. At least that was what Shelly said.

  “How can you tell?” Denise had asked Shelly during one of their make-out sessions while Shelly was reapplying lip balm. Denise and Shelly were in Shelly’s room, the second bedroom of the apartment in Bern that Shelly’s mother had been renting since her divorce from Shelly’s philandering father. They were supposed to be doing homework.

  “You
just can.”

  After that, Denise had watched Miss Diamond for signs. She wondered how Shelly knew. Miss Diamond wore heels and sundresses and looked like a church lady, so that wasn’t how. She did wear owl-like, black-rimmed glasses, but then so did the librarians, and most of them were old spinsters, not lesbians.

  She didn’t get it back then, but she was only thirteen. Now she understood. Gaydar, they called it when she got to San Francisco. It was a vibe you got off a woman or the way she held your gaze at first glance just a moment too long. And then there was heat, that throbbing sexual energy you got from some girls. Like Mickie, the night Denise had watched Mickie walk into Mabel’s, a bar in the Haight where Dykes on Bikes drank and hung out. Mickie had paused in the doorway in her black leather jacket and 501s and biker boots, looking all bad-ass and hungry, and Denise had known right then that she wanted her.

  Poor Mickie. Mickie had no idea what she was getting into when she hooked up with Denise. Of course Mickie called right on time at 1:00 p.m. Sunday, just as Denise had told her to.

  “Did you know there’s a time difference?” Mickie said first thing when Denise picked up the receiver of the payphone in the Nash lobby.

  “Hello to you, too,” Denise said.

  “It’s 3:00 p.m. here. There’s a two-hour difference. Good thing I checked, or you would have missed my call.”

  “I told you that. I told you about the time difference.”

  “You did? I don’t remember.”

  “Where are you?” Denise asked.

  “It’s called the Hotel Rosa. I’m in Mexico City.”

  “Good. Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. How are things there?”

  “Good.”

  “Have you checked the papers?” Mickie asked.

  Damn, no, she hadn’t. She’d been so busy she hadn’t thought about it.

  “No. Hold on a sec. I see one right here.”

  There was a folded newspaper sitting on the outgoing mailbox. Opening it, Denise saw that it was dated yesterday, Saturday, June 1, 1996. She picked up the receiver and cradled it between her shoulder and neck while she skimmed the front page.

  “Oh, yeah, here it is. Lemme read it to you. ‘An armored car driver disappeared Friday morning after a routine pickup from SFO, an FBI agent told the San Francisco Chronicle. Michelle Forrest, 32, is wanted for questioning in the theft of more than $7 million. The FBI declined to say whether Forrest is a suspect or a victim in the crime.’”

  “I’m wanted by the FBI,” Mickie said.

  “Yeah, you are. You wanna hear more?”

  “Nah. That’s enough. When do you think you can come down?” Mickie asked.

  Denise tucked the newspaper under her arm and held the receiver to her ear. “Not for a while. I don’t want to draw attention to myself in case I’m being followed by the FBI. I don’t want to lead them to you.”

  “No,” Mickie agreed. “Have they talked to you yet?”

  “Not yet. But I’m expecting a visit any day now.”

  “That sounds right. They’ll probably want to see what you know.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Right,” Mickie said.

  “It’ll probably be a few weeks before I can get down there. What room are you in?”

  “Eight oh five.”

  “Okay. Ya got a phone in your room?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. What’s the number?” Denise asked.

  “It’s 1-800-592-5959.”

  “Okay, good. I’ll call you in a week and let you know what’s happening.”

  “A week from today?”

  “Yeah, next Sunday.”

  “All right.”

  “Don’t sweat this, Mickie. Go out. Have a good time. Just don’t let anybody know who you really are. You’re Heather Carpenter. Remember that.”

  “Right. Heather Carpenter.”

  They were both silent at once.

  “Denise?” Mickie said after a moment.

  “Yeah?”

  “I miss you. I love you, you know.”

  “I know. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

  “All right.”

  “Bye, Mickie.”

  Denise hung up the receiver and then picked it up again. She put a quarter in the slot and dialed a number in Oakland.

  “Dan?”

  “Who’s askin’?”

  “It’s me, Denise.”

  “Neece. Hey.”

  “Hey. So, did it happen?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “What we talked about. Did it happen on Friday?”

  “Oh. Uh, that. No. There was a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Uh, yeah, she couldn’t find her,” he answered.

  “She? It was a girl?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. So, whaddya mean she couldn’t find her? Did she go to the cemetery on Caye Caulker? Lizbeth said she’d be waiting in the cemetery at the payphone. She was gonna wait for me to call her after me and Mickie did the job.”

  “Yeah, well, she didn’t show.”

  “That’s just fucking unbelievable,” Denise said. “Why wouldn’t she show?”

  “You’re asking me? How the fuck do I know?”

  “Awright. Shit. That means she’s still alive.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I need to think about this for a minute.”

  “Yeah. But, uh, Neece?” His tone sugared into a syrupy timbre Denise had never heard from Dirty Dan during the two years she’d ridden with him as his BOB (babe on back) and not in the two years since his wife made him quit his little blond chick-on-the-side.

  “I’d…I’d like to see you,” Dan said now. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  Denise paused.

  “Neece? You there?”

  She hung up the phone. Fuck. Oh, fuck. Are you fuckin’ kidding me? She’d been around enough snitches to know that tone of voice. But it couldn’t be. Could Dirty Dan really be dirty? Maybe Dan was an undercover cop. Or a CI. The Angels had been infiltrated and ratted out before, and everybody knew that plainclothes cops and undercover DEA actively worked the Bay Area.

  Nah. Not Dan. There must be some other explanation, but Denise couldn’t imagine what it was. So, now she had a problem. Well, two problems, because she had been going to ask Dan if he could arrange another hit, this one on Mickie. Damn. Now Lizbeth and Mickie were alive, Denise was stuck in San Francisco, and more than seven million dollars was just sitting around waiting for her to come get it.

  Denise thought about what she knew for sure. Lizbeth had been in Belize the last time she had talked to her, but Lizbeth was probably gone from there by now. After the call to that payphone in the cemetery hadn’t come, Lizbeth must have known that Denise had cut her out of the take. If she was keeping up with the news, she’d know that the newspapers were reporting that Mickie was hiding out in Mexico City. Lizbeth had probably headed there to track down Mickie and confront her about the money.

  Denise tried to get her thoughts together. If things had gone as planned, Lizbeth would be dead. But she had to assume now that Lizbeth was still alive. She was likely in Mexico City, looking for Mickie. Maybe Lizbeth would find Mickie, maybe not.

  The important thing to remember was that Lizbeth had to be taken out. Lizbeth and Mickie were the only obstacles between Denise and more than seven million dollars. The trouble was that Dirty Dan, Denise’s sole connection to the world of contract killing, had just turned hinky on her. She would need to find another killer-for-hire. But where?

  Chapter Twenty-three

  La Pequeña had never met El Padrino—Don Emilio Barrera—in person. She thought he looked like a businessman in his expensive suit and polished shoes. He stood close enough to where she sat that she could smell his aftershave. He smelled good. He spoke softly, like a father. But she was scared. She felt like she might vomit. Surely, he would not kill her here? Although he might. He was p
owerful enough that he could do anything he wanted.

  A lieutenant, El Ladrillo—The Brick—stood with his arms across his big chest. It was El Ladrillo who had arrived at her Tacuba apartment that morning and brought her here to the historic district of Mexico City, to the presidential suite of La Regencia where El Padrino conducted his private business.

  “How was your visit to Belize, my friend?” he asked her in Spanish.

  “How did you…” She stopped herself before she spoke. Everyone said that El Padrino was like God; he was all-knowing. “Good,” she answered.

  “And yet, you did not finish the job you were sent there to do.”

  “No, Padrino.” Cleary, he did know everything. Like God.

  At first, La Pequeña had told Dirty Dan that she hadn’t been able to locate the Kelly woman she was supposed to kill in Belize, but when he had pressed her, she had confessed. Yes, she told him, she found the Kelly woman, but she couldn’t kill her. She was a friend of the Barreras, La Pequeña told him. When he heard that, Dirty Dan mumbled fuck and got off the phone, saying he needed to call somebody. Who he called was his club’s sergeant-at-arms, who called his chapter’s president, who called Mexico.

  “So, you wish to be a sicaria,” El Padrino said now.

  “Sí, Padrino.”

  “My father, he was an old-fashioned man. My father believed that women are virgins or whores, but they are not soldiers. I do not agree, and when he died, I set a new policy for La Familia. I had to ask myself, what do women do best? I answered, they seduce men.

  “Two years ago, I organized a female contingent. I called it Las Zorras. The Foxes. Las Zorras go through the same training as my men. They learn how to shoot and bomb and kill with a knife. When they are done with this instruction, I send them out into the regions and the plazas to do what women do best. They seduce my rivals, especially the young men.