by Thomas Laird
‘Please ...’
‘Your fucking family got us here, Ellen. All those fucking guineas. They got no idea how to keep their lips tight, so here we are tonight.’
‘My brother ... His people had nothing —’
‘They all had something to do with this. They all helped get us where we are. Big John. He’s the one who was gonna kill me, until he found out I could be a moneymaker for you and his fucking family. He thought he had me at the end of some puppet’s string, but he was looking at it ass backwards. I was the moneymaker, all right, but I used him. It was never the other way round. But you fucking guineas suffer from a massive overdose of ego. You think you’re always in control. Well, Ellen, do you feel like you’ve got your hands on my balls right now?’
I turn her hand a little more and she screams.
‘You broke my arm! You son of a bitch, you broke my arm!’
I let go and I see I’ve probably gone a little bit too far. Her arm dangles loosely. But as soon as I let go of her, I see that she’s trying to whack me with her good limb. So I punch her in the mouth with a straight right, and her head bounces off the headrest of the chair behind her. Then I pop her again with another straight right, and she bounces back at me and then falls on her face on the floor after I get out of her way.
There is blood all over her teeth, but I don’t see any of those fangs missing from my two blows. I reach over and pick up the towel that flew from her wet head. I bend down and wipe the gore from her mouth. It’s still a lovely mouth, so I would not want to damage it.
I pull her to her knees. I slap her lightly to bring her back. When she’s awake, I wait to see her strike out at me, but she doesn’t. When it appears as if she’s clear-headed, instead of clawing at me she begins to unzip my fly. I ball my fist to show her that she’d better not be thinking of biting anything in close proximity.
But she’s doing what she does best. Her mouth is her best feature, as I say. When she’s got me where she wants me to be, she gets back up on the chair and opens her legs wide. So I accommodate her.
When it’s almost over, I reach to her throat and I squeeze. She doesn’t like this play. Nearly choking doesn’t get her off, and she knows that I know it.
Her eyes plead with me as she reaches the envelope of consciousness. I’m lunging at her, and in spite of the fact that she’s running out of air, she’s still pumping hard at me. When she finally begins to go out, I release her throat. She takes an exaggerated pull at the air she was being denied, and then the color starts to return to her cheeks.
‘Why ... why do you insist on doing that? Isn’t it good enough without all that?’ she gasps.
‘I can’t get hard unless I hurt you,’ I tell her.
Something resembling shock crosses her bruised and bleeding face. I look down at her thighs and I see the blooms of blood on her bitten legs.
I bend down again and bite her near one of her open wounds. She tears at my hair and screams. When she nearly yanks my scalp off, I jerk up and nail her twice with two more rights. This time two teeth come loose.
She claws at me again, even though she’s almost gone to black. She’s vicious and indomitable. She’ll take nothing from anyone, male or female. Ellen says it’s how she survived her family and the things that John Fortuna did to her when she was a young teenager.
I kneel down and bite her repeatedly. She yips like a bitch who’s being harassed by a male in heat. I have her blood all over my lips, my face. I press my nose and eyes into her wounds as if her blood is balm.
Then I rise. Her eyes open as I stand erect. I go to the closet and get the knife out of my bag. It is at this moment that she knows this has not been some perverse dance. She knows she’s going to die. She knows I’m going to cut her.
I take her hair and I pull her face up at me. Then I cut her throat. But I miss the jugular purposely. She bleeds only lightly. I take hold of her left eyelid and I slice it away from her.
I look down at her destroyed face, at her gory legs. I want her to see herself while she still can. All that noise coming from her has decreased to moaning. When she looks in the living-room mirror, and sees what I’ve done, I hurl her to the floor. She begins to beg. It’s the first time she’s ever been reduced to begging. She’s John Fortuna’s sister. Nobody brings her family to its knees, literally or figuratively.
‘Johnny’ll kill you, Marco. He’ll cut you open like you did all those women.’
‘You mean like I’m going to do to you?’
She begins to weep. Then she tries to catch me from the floor with a kick that I easily sidestep.
‘Come on. You can’t fuck me anymore if you kill me.’
She’s pleading. I’m enjoying the moment.
‘Marco, please. Jesus, please ...’
This has gone on long enough. I don’t feel safe in this farmhouse. The police will be here soon. It’s inevitable. That Chicago cop — Parisi — he’ll be on me. He’ll find me out here, so I have no options. I’ve got to leave everything behind me. I mean everything.
‘No, Marco, no …’
Ellen’s flat on her back. I can see the red line across her throat.
‘No one’ll want you now, Ms Fortuna. No one’ll want you. You’re ugly. You were always ugly. As ugly as the one before you. That was a long time ago. I remember her. I remember what she did. Nothing washes it away. You know that? You were always ugly, but it was your ugliness that attracted me to you. Did you know that?’
I stick her in the left side. She blurts out what passes for a scream.
‘How many times can I perforate you before you run out of noise and blood, Ellen? Huh? How many times?’
Her eyes follow the hand with the knife as I raise it hand and blade above my right shoulder.
*
It’s a long flight to central Mexico. I don’t let anyone handle this part of the operation, of course. It is what you might call too delicate — dealing with Guerrero.
His name means ‘warrior’, I’m told. He is my connection not only to the rich and corrupt in South and Central America and Mexico, but to those in Europe and Asia as well. There is a large community of Americans where I’m headed, and Guerrero insists that he loves dealing with Americans.
I use a private jet, courtesy of the Outfit. It’s the least they can do to accommodate our business venture. But the trip always tires me. It reminds me of all the air time I endured during the Gulf War. And the ride is equally uncomfortable coming down here, even on days of clear weather.
My business is pharmaceuticals, as far as the Mexican Federates are concerned. They have been paid off with money from the Cartel that does business with my friends in Chicago. Or at least with the people who used to be my friends. This is very likely my last trip south. I will need to make new arrangements soon.
After the multi-hour flight we land. I am hustled through the terminal by Guerrero’s people with no delay. His people are everywhere, here. He has his beak into everything, being the CEO of the Cartel in central Mexico.
After a perfunctory run-through with the Federates, there are big smiles and much politeness, and I’m headed toward Guerrero’s driver. Once we get out of this midsized Mexican city, I am blindfolded by fuanito — Johnny — who is a bodyguard of the ‘Warrior’. I never see the last ten miles of the trip. My eyes are wrapped with gauze and the gauze is covered with heavy material that makes any glimpse of my whereabouts impossible.
*
I left her in pieces. I need to make this visit as fast as possible before her body is found. Then, of course, I become a persona non grata with my one-time allies in the city, and of course they will be looking to eliminate me. This is my last business with the Cartel boss, and I’ll need his cash to go underground from the Outfit and the personal vendetta from that cunt’s brother. I should have killed him too, but he is too dangerous to approach. And it would be a silly risk. After this deal, with her lovely internal works to trade, I’ll be fixed for a lifetime.
The mask of gauze is stripped off when we arrive inside Guerrero’s compound. I’m assuming it is a fortress of some kind although I’ve never seen the outside or the grounds. It would simply seem to be the kind of place he’d use for his business and pleasure.
I am seated in his office in a huge, new-smelling leather chair. It is high-backed and executive-like.
Guerrero walks in alone. We are never accompanied in here. There is a video camera behind me, I’ve noticed. But Guerrero has explained there is no audio. They can see us but they can’t hear us. And the camera is aimed at Guerrero’s chest so no one may read his lips.
I’m sure he is armed. He is not a stupid man so he does not trust me, just as I have no confidence in him. But to do this business we must take some chances. And I would never allow those Chicago wops to deal with this man. It is my business. I made it happen, regardless of how it all began with her pimp of a brother.
‘Buenas tardes.’ Guerrero smiles.
He smiles frequently, but there is never pleasure on his face.
He is an Indian. Dark and truly handsome for a mixed-blood Mexican.
‘You looked tired, señor. Como esta?’
‘I don’t have much time, jefe.’
‘You are rushed, eh? Why is that?’
‘Pressing business, back in Chicago.’
‘Ay, Cheecago. I would like to visit it. I am a big White Sox fan. Do you like baseball, señor?’
‘No. I don’t like —’
‘You ought to have a hobby. Such a grim business as yours would make one ... tense. No?’
‘No, jefe. I am fine. But I need to hurry, if you don’t mind.’
‘I see no reason why this should take very long ... The goods are delivered. No?’
‘Yes. In the usual fashion.’
‘It helps to own the union which does the baggage. Eh?’
‘Yes. It makes things much easier, jefe.’
‘And the fucking Federates. They are expensive, but it is a necessary expense. Just as they are everywhere we take your goods.’
He is smiling broadly now.
‘You’re telling me my end of the deal is to be reduced?’ I ask.
‘It is becoming more expensive to fill all these pockets, señor ... I hear they call you The Farmer. Is that true?’
‘Yes. It is true.’
He laughs boisterously.
‘It is not a thing of laughter,’ I tell him.
The smile disappears. He is very dark brown. Blinding white teeth. Even, perfect teeth.
‘You are not thinking of a dispute?’
‘I’m being squeezed. Right?’
‘Claro!’ He laughs loudly.
‘I don’t suppose I have a choice but to go along.’
‘You are very cooperative ... too cooperative, señor. If you were to reach into your pockets for anything my bodyguards might have missed ... Or if you somehow managed to conceal a weapon on the way in here, your head will adorn my mantelpiece and the coyotes will eat your cojones. Are you with me, Mister Farmer?’
‘How could I have snuck a weapon into here with all of your security feeling me up and examining me beforehand?’ I smile.
His canine teeth are just slightly too long, I notice. I’m wondering if he is a biter.
‘There is always that chance. No one is that good, hombre. No one.’
He is a well-built, fit man. There is no fat on his frame. You can see the muscle beneath his expensive sports attire. Guerrero is wearing all American brand-name sportswear.
‘And besides, I’ve already received the call.’
‘What call, jefe?’
‘From the brother of that bitch that you sliced up and cut to pieces.’
I find myself rising from the chair.
‘Sit down, Mister Farmer ... Bueno. They have offered me very significant dinero to send you back to El Norte, just so the brother can do to you what you did to the sister.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘It’s not good business. You are good business. I don’t know about your friends, but we have made very fine profits, you and me. And why would I want to fuck it all up? Over one puta, one hoor?’
He watches me to see if there’s a rise.
‘We were in business together. She was a cunt. That was all.’
‘I see. Yes, I understand. But her brother doesn’t agree with you.’
‘He was fucking her himself.’
‘Such twisted people. Like a pretzel, no? You are very interesting people, you northerners. You like to destroy each other no matter what you’re doing. In sports, in the bed. It makes no difference. You want to wipe the other away. There is no mercy with you, Señor Farmer.’
‘Do we stay in business?’
He watches me carefully. He wants to see me squirm, but I will not.
‘We have interests in London, Paris, Amsterdam, Moscow, Beijing, Hong Kong, Manila, Toronto, Berlin, and a dozen more cities throughout the world that I can’t remember. We are talking about hundreds of millions of pesos and dollars and pounds and yen. You think I’d give you up for this puta-greaseball? I don’t think so. And I told this Italian bastard that whatever he has between him and you is left right there. I will not protect you, señor. That was the only concession I gave to your master up north. But if he includes me in his vengeance, then I will protect myself, and he does not want a war on this side of the Rio Grande.’
He takes a sip of his iced tea. The glass has been sweating on the table since I arrived.
‘I will not protect you from him, but I never said I wouldn’t help you evade his revenge. I will. Help you, that is. But you know how it is with the wops. I’m doing it only because it is good business ... What is it that made you as you are, Mister Farmer? How did you become the crooked thing of beauty you are now? Was it a woman before this puta that you just destroyed?’
‘It’s none of your fucking business, Guerrero.’
‘You don’t disrespect me in my casa, Marco.’
He hits my first name with a hard emphasis. He knows my name, but I don’t what his real moniker is.
‘Yes, Mister Karrios. I have had you investigated. I know as much about you as your friends at the Chicago Police Department do. I have many friends in your city. I have many friends all over the north. And in the world, too. How else could one sell body parts from murder victims? And then you have this habit of defiling the bodies of these unfortunate creatures. Why is that? Was it your mother? Did you have a sister, perhaps?’
His information is limited. He is fishing with sharp barbs aimed at my flesh.
‘Were you abandoned at birth, jefe? Like so many of these little street bastards who beg for money in the streets of your putrid cities? Did you start out by sucking the cocks of the honchos on the street corners? Was that the way you rose to power, chief?’
‘You assume that you can say whatever you want. It is your way, Marco. You are ignorant of manners. But I accept that. We are businessmen, no?’
‘Yes. We are businessmen.’
‘Then we should both learn to treat each other as partners. No?’
‘Yes. Of course, jefe.’
‘But do not feel safe or secure. As I said, I will not protect you from your old friends. You are on your own when it comes to personal security. It is simply that I have refused to return you to the north. How you get back, once you are dropped off at the airport, is up to you ... We will need to make new arrangements about dealing with you. There is sometimes not enough money to cover up your crimes against those women. You have become too famous. You should have stayed in the darkness. It is becoming very difficult to make the police and the Federates turn their backs on you. That is what fame will do. It will take away your freedom. You will have to live in a fortress, such as this one, Marco.’
His expression almost turns to sadness, but he quickly recovers his feral smile. It is a smile that intimidates; it does not suggest pleasure or humor.
‘If the money wasn’
t so good, I think I would have a good time carving you up with your own blade, Marco ... You better get out of here quickly. Your last mess may be your final mess.’
I can see him up in the hills or the mountains with Emiliano Zapata or Pancho Villa. He is the kind of Indian who would prefer to use the machete. He is the man who has moved our goods. He is our international middle man, but he is nothing more than a very dark Indian with an intimidating grimace planted perpetually on his lips.
‘Go quickly, then, gringo. You will never see me again. You will deal with other men from now on. You are too hot to make direct contact with me anymore. Go with God, Marco. He is the only one who will have you now. Adios.’
He reaches under the long mahogany table and presses a button. Immediately Juanito is back with us. He is carrying the gauze and the eye cover. Once he’s done his job, I’m escorted out of the citadel of Guerrero’s castle or fortress or hideout or whatever it is that he lurks inside.
If they’re going to cut my throat, this would be the moment. As Juanito leads me out of the door, I’m anticipating the slice of a blade across my jugular. I’ve done it to others so many times, it would be a fitting way for my end to come. And if my end is to come, a knife would be my own personal choice. The sweetness of that bleeding, the slow draining away of all hopes and ambitions. The sleep that would put its dark hand over my eyes and finally put me to permanent rest. That there is no hell and no heaven is my only certainty. There will be an end to this, only an end. How it will come, I’m not sure. Whether it will be Juanito or Guerrero or Ellen’s vile brother or some Chicago policeman makes little difference to me.
Dreamless sleep. Oblivion. They are my versions of paradise. So come on, Juanito. If you have the knife in your hand, use it. Do it quickly. Do it deftly.
Let me float away from this life. Here in this sultry country. It’s as good a place as any. Go ahead. Tear me open and let my bowels rush forth, just as I have done to those women. It all ends the same way. Blackness. Dreamless sleep. Oblivion.
