Greasing the Piñata

by Tim Maleeny

  Julio fell facedown next to him and tried to crawl away, but there was no escape. He had been standing directly in front of the tank when André’s second bullet ruptured the glass. A dozen piranha flipped and flopped across his massive back, panicked as their gills failed, razor-sharp teeth trying to find purchase wherever they could, jaws locking as they died.

  Two piranhas had embedded themselves in Julio’s neck, and one had found the jugular. Blood streamed onto the floor, a river as endless and unforgiving as the Amazon.

  Cape dropped the spear and stood up. He arched his back and used his good arm to feel around until he found the shard of glass from the fish tank. He pulled it from his back and tried not to faint. It had penetrated just below the shoulder blade, not dangerous but painful enough to remind Cape that he was still alive.

  The same couldn’t be said for Enrique. He lay facedown in a pool of his own blood, the back of his head missing. His gun was on the floor next to his right hand.

  Cape picked it up. Then he turned his attention to Garcia, who sat on a chair near the door with his gun resting in his lap.

  Chapter Eighty-four

  The rain was still pouring through the window but was on a diagonal. Cape found that he could open his eyes wide without worrying about being blinded by water darts.

  The subsonic humming had stopped, and his skin no longer felt like ants were crawling all over him. The sound grenade had burned itself out.

  He kept Enrique’s gun down, held loosely against his left leg. Enrique wouldn’t be needing it again, thanks to Garcia.

  Cordon lay on his back, his lifeless eyes open in disbelief that someone who had once signed his high school yearbook had just shot him in the head. Only a few feet away the box jellyfish had detached itself from Salinas and was pressing against the glass of the tank, as if trying to get a closer look at its fallen master.

  Blood streamed down Cape’s right arm where Julio had cut him above the elbow. Cape was right-handed but could pull a trigger with his left. He hoped he wouldn’t have to—he took a step closer to Garcia.

  Sally stayed close.

  Vomit stains streaked Garcia’s shirt and blood ran down his left cheek below his ear. His face was sweaty and pale, but he managed a weak smile. He tried to talk but his lips were stuck together. He tried again and they came apart with a pasty pop.

  “What was that noise?” His voice was ragged. “That insect noise that almost killed us.”

  Sally reached into the folded cloth she used as a belt and removed the black and silver ball. She held her thumb over the button to show Garcia it could happen again.

  Garcia’s eyes went wide with fear.

  For a split-second Cape thought Garcia must really believe Sally was going to push the button, just to teach him a lesson, until he realized Garcia was looking past her toward the center of the room.

  Cape turned in time to see Priest lunge at Sally, holding a dagger shaped like a crucifix that was already covered in blood. Sally spun on her heels as Cape swung his left arm up and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in his hand and he almost dropped it.

  Cape would have sworn it was direct hit, but the bullet didn’t slow Priest down at all. It must have gone wide. He heard another shot and realized Garcia must have squeezed one off, but it was another miss. If anything Priest was moving faster.

  Cape adjusted his grip and started to pull the trigger, but he was too slow. Priest was too close to Sally for Cape to get a clean shot. The dagger seemed to fly as Priest launched himself off the ground, teeth bared as he raised his arm for the strike.

  Sally stepped into the arc of his jump and crouched, thrusting her right arm almost straight up. The heel of her hand hit his solar plexus like a battering ram. Priest crashed in a heap to the floor, his mouth open and gasping for air.

  Sally did not hesitate. With her left thumb she pressed a tiny button once, twice.

  She dropped to a squatting position and rammed the silver and metal ball she’d been holding into Priest’s mouth with enough force to break off his incisors. His eyes bulged as Sally kept pushing, jamming it down the back of his throat.

  She grabbed the back of his neck with her left hand and pressed hard against his chin with her right, her thumb digging into the soft spot above his vocal chords.

  Tilting his head back, Sally forced Priest to stand and half-walked, half-dragged him over to the open window. A few stray rays of light broke through the clouds. It was almost dawn.

  Sally pulled Priest close enough to whisper in his ear.

  “Yat…Yi…Sam…Sei…Mm…” Sally loved counting in Cantonese. It reminded her of her childhood.

  She threw Priest out the open window just as the sonic disruptor came to life.

  A shrill and horrible cry filled the room and then vanished, a sonic explosion that disappeared as if it had been dragged back out the window. Damnation at the speed of sound.

  No one looked out the window. It was still too dark to see the rocks four stories below.

  Cape heard sobbing.

  Rebecca had dragged herself across the floor. Her father’s head was in her lap. Blood poured sluggishly from a single hole in his chest, a puncture wound through his heart.

  Dobbins opened his mouth but only gargling noises emerged. His vocal chords were flooded with blood. His eyes spoke volumes as he gazed at his daughter, communicating what he had never been able to put into words. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

  Cape saw more love and regret in those eyes than he had ever felt in his life. He wanted to know which would win out in the end but turned away, not wanting to intrude. Sally was watching him from the window, the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions. She gave him a half-hearted smile.

  Rebecca cried out—no words, just a gasp of anguish. Cape turned to see her cradling her father’s head, his eyes open and unblinking. He had stopped crying, and then he had stopped breathing.

  Rebecca looked at Cape until her eyes dried. It took a long time, but he didn’t move until she nodded once, as if she’d just made a decision.

  “I want to go home.”

  “Señorita Lowry has the right idea. We must be leaving.” Garcia was standing next to his chair. He looked shaky, as if he might collapse at any moment. His gun had fallen to the floor and he made no move to pick it up. He checked his watch. “In five minutes.”

  “Why Oscar?” Cape knew the answer but asked the question anyway. If he hadn’t been so exhausted he could have been pissed. “Why the fuck do we have to leave in five minutes?”

  “Because it is almost six.” Garcia gave him an apologetic look. “And that is when I sent the timers.”

  “The timers.”

  “Yes.” Garcia gestured toward the door. “The timers for the bombs that will blow up the castle.”

  Chapter Eighty-five

  A fireball brighter than the sun welcomed the dawn to Bagdad Beach.

  The charges had been set on the first two floors, shaped against the walls facing the beach. The windows erupted in geysers of flame, the concussive force tearing the sea wall apart like paper. With the foundations destroyed, the castle tumbled over the cliff onto the rocks and sand below, burying the tide pool in smoldering debris.

  Garcia had parked close to the castle, and Rebecca drove fast. The effects of the disruptor had faded, and she was the only one with a driver’s license and effective use of both arms. Sally sat in back with Cape while Garcia navigated. They were a mile away when the pressure wave chased them down the beach road. The car bounced on its shocks but kept going.

  Rebecca gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white but didn’t speak. Cape didn’t know what to say. They had left her father’s corpse behind along with the rest of the bodies. Not giving him a proper burial was the only way to bury his secrets.

  After twenty minutes they left the highway and headed into Matamoros. Garcia made a call on his cell phone and said a few words in Spanish, then directed Rebecca to drive into a neigh
borhood that was little more than a maze of alleys. They stopped in front of a house too dilapidated and spooky for the Addams Family.

  “This is a safe house.” Garcia opened his door and stepped out of the car.

  Cape joined him on the sidewalk as the lone streetlight died in a shower of sparks. “It doesn’t look very safe.”

  “Would you rather go to the polizia?”

  “I’d rather go home.”

  “I see, and what would airport security say about that arm? Or the man at the front desk of your turista hotel?”

  Cape looked at Garcia and wished he trusted him just a little bit more.

  Garcia gave Cape a look. “I could have shot you in the back at the castle when you turned to help her.” He jutted his chin toward Rebecca through the window of the car. “Why don’t you come inside and have a drink.”

  “I’m not drinking with you anymore—I think it affects my judgment.”

  “Are you coming inside or not?”

  “Who do you work for, Oscar?”

  “Have a drink with me and I’ll tell you.” Garcia summoned a half-smile. “But I think you already know.”

  Inside, the house was nicer than the hotel Cape and Sally had checked into the day before. It was a hotel of sorts, known only to a select group of guests. No swimming pool or free cable, but there were other amenities, like an infirmary and dispensary. The staff was friendly and paid to be discreet.

  It took them three hours to attend to their injuries. Adrenaline had kept them from realizing the worst of them, and by the time they were shown to their rooms they were all wrapped in enough gauze to be stunt doubles for Boris Karloff as The Mummy.

  Cape lay on the bed after agreeing to meet Oscar downstairs in an hour. He didn’t wake up until nightfall. Not surprisingly, Oscar was waiting in a lounge off the main entrance, the safe house equivalent of a lobby bar.

  “Tequila.” Cape sat down heavily. “What a surprise.”

  “1800 Silver.” Oscar poured them each a shot. “It’s not one hundred thousand dollars a bottle, but not bad for a safe house in a Matamoros ghetto.”

  Garcia raised his glass. “Salud.”

  Cape started to sip and then changed his mind. He swallowed the tequila in one shot. It made love to his tongue and then burned like regret.

  Garcia waited until Cape’s eyes stopped watering.

  “I am one of the good guys.”

  “You almost blew us to kingdom come.” Cape poured himself another glass. The aspirin he’d taken were wearing off.

  “The castle—I set the timers too early.”

  “I’m not talking about the castle.”

  “See why I said that you already knew the answers to your questions?” Garcia winked at Cape over his glass. ‘You are perhaps the smartest gringo I have ever met.”

  “That almost sounds like a compliment.”

  “De nada.”

  “The pig farm, Oscar. We almost got killed.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “No, you didn’t. You showed up at the hotel and apologized for releasing the Senator’s name to the press.”

  “True, that was the conversation we were having.” Garcia smiled. “But that is not what we were talking about.”

  “Do you ever give a straight answer?”

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “I made a phone call before we left for Matamoros.” Cape turned the bottle to admire the label. “I had someone check on your background, something I should have done earlier.”

  “You’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”

  “And you have a lot of jobs, Oscar. An Inspector for the Mexico City polizia. Special agent for the AFI. Another organization I can’t remember.”

  “What were the letters?”

  “Never mind—they’re all listed as current jobs—how is that possible?”

  “I am what you might call a contract employee.”

  “But the most interesting thing I found was your service record.”

  “Here it comes.” Garcia took a long sip.

  “You handled demolitions for the army.”

  “And I still have all my fingers.” Garcia wiggled his right hand.

  Cape studied him for a minute, saying nothing.

  “I arrived at the hotel too late, after you had already visited the pig farm.” Garcia spun his empty glass. “I am deeply sorry.”

  The two men drank in silence.

  “What was your last official job?”

  Garcia seemed to consider the question for a long time. “I was assigned to a joint U.S.-Mexico task force.”

  “To go after the cartels?”

  Garcia nodded. “But I resigned.”

  “So you could really go after the cartels.”

  “Exactemente.” Garcia sat up a little straighter. “The cartels own the government in Mexico, just as the gangsters own the politicians in your country.”

  “They’re called lobbyists, not gangsters.”

  “It is the same thing.” Garcia made a vague gesture. “Do you think the U.S. or Mexican government can stop men like Salinas or Luis Cordon?”

  “Ever been to the DMV?”

  “You see my point.” Garcia made a fist with his right hand, as if holding a stick. “Politicians are like piñatas. If you want something good to come out of them, you have to beat them up sometimes.”

  “Never heard that one before.”

  “It just occurred to me.”

  “So you work outside the system.”

  “No, I make the system work.” Garcia shook his head. “I work inside the system, but the system doesn’t know I’m there.”

  “The ghost in the machine.”

  “Perhaps I should have that printed on my next business cards.” Garcia ran his hands through his hair and Cape noticed the gray streaks for the first time. He looked the way Cape felt—completely and utterly exhausted.

  “You used me, Oscar.”

  “So did Salinas.”

  “True.”

  “And Cordon.”

  “Also true. Maybe I’m not such a smart gringo after all.”

  “But I think you are.” Garcia stood. “I could also claim that you used me.”

  “I was just doing my job.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Who do you work for, Oscar?”

  Garcia smiled wistfully as if he’d forgotten himself, then he turned and walked out the door.

  Chapter Eighty-six

  It was a week before Cape could lift his right arm beyond ninety degrees, and his one attempt at shaving left-handed left him scarred, physically and emotionally. His bandages made showering awkward and even brushing his teeth was challenging, so he decided to spend the week recovering at home. He spent most of his time watching the Discovery Channel.

  It took an invitation to breakfast to lure him outside again. Beau even offered to buy.

  “You look better than I expected.” Beau wore his usual jeans and black t-shirt, size XXXL.

  “You look tired.” Cape felt full just looking at the table. Beau told him he would order if he arrived early, and he had outdone himself. “And hungry.”

  “Got you pancakes, just came out. Good thing you were on time for a change.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Want some?” Beau shoveled some bacon onto his own plate, then held it across the table.

  Cape felt his stomach do a back-flip as the all too familiar smell hit him. He shook his head. “Think I’ll stick with the pancakes.”

  “Watching your cholesterol?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Everything in moderation.” Beau scooped the rest of the bacon onto his own plate, where an omelet as big and yellow as the sun waited patiently for his hunger to bring about a total eclipse.

  “Any word from the Feds?”

  “Those papers you turned over got them all excited. But it’s the Feds—it’ll take a while. My guess is Delta Energy might go the way of Enro
n and implode from the scrutiny.”

  “Any chance of nailing Frank?”

  “I wish.” Beau frowned. “Other investors got burned. Frank will just call his lawyers, claim he’s the victim.”

  “Respectable businessman duped into a shady investment?”

  “Fat Frank is teflon.”

  “So he walks.”

  “Until someone pulls the trigger on him.”

  “He’s not worth it.”

  “No argument.” Beau shrugged. “I’m not gonna lose my badge taking that fat bastard down. My new plan is to watch Frank eat himself to death.”

  Cape surveyed the damage on Beau’s plate. “That’s quite a statement, coming from you.”

  “You see an ounce of fat here?” Beau took a deep breath, straining the seams on his t-shirt, his mahogany skin tight as a drum.

  Cape had to admit he didn’t, just enough muscle to bench press a Buick. “Can’t say I’m surprised about Frank.”

  “You could press charges, say he sabotaged your car.”

  Cape shook his head. “I think Cyrano—sorry, André—”

  “—seized the moment?”

  “Yeah.” Cape conjured the image of the car in his rearview mirror, tried to put a face into the memory. “I don’t know, but you said Frank would’ve just had me shot—I think that’s true. When André got sent outside, I think he acted on impulse.”

  “He was two-timing Frank—and Frank was two-timing Salinas.”

  “Frank doesn’t have to worry about Salinas anymore.”

  “You never did tell me what went down in Mexico.”

  Cape let his eyes drift to the gold badge clipped to Beau’s belt. “You really want to know?”

  “No.” Beau shook his head. “I really don’t.”

  Chapter Eighty-seven

  Linda squeezed Cape hard enough to get sap out of a tree. By the time she let go he felt like maple syrup, a thought that made him wish they’d met at a breakfast joint instead of a coffee shop in the Mission district.

  Linda ordered for them while Cape got plates, spoons, and napkins. The plates were china and the spoons metal. A hand printed sign on the wall read Napkins = Trees. He set everything on a table in the corner before meeting Linda at the counter.