by Mark Dawson
“Cops don’t earn much, and he’s just making sure I can fix Chase’s mistake so justice can be done. I don’t see the harm in it.” He shrugged. “You want me to ask him or not?”
“That would be helpful,” Milton said.
“I’ll get right on it.”
33
Milton went to his room and lay down on the bed for an hour, his eyes closed. He slept lightly, waking to the sound of his phone vibrating on the nightstand. He picked it up and looked at the message. Beau said that he had spoken to his police contact, and that the officer was down by the pool now.
Milton stepped out the door to the pool. It was hot now, and the sun glared off the water. Beau and a second man were sitting at the tiki bar. The newcomer was in his late middle age, with a spreading gut and hair that was thinning on top. He was dressed in a rumpled suit, and his brown leather brogues were scuffed and dusty. He was wearing a pair of mirrored Aviators and had a toothpick in the corner of his mouth.
Milton joined them, taking a seat where he could face away from the sun.
Beau nodded in acknowledgement. “This is Sergeant Louis Salazar,” he said. “Louis—this is John Smith.”
Milton offered his hand and Salazar took it. “You’re Vegas police?”
“That’s right,” Salazar said. “Homicide.”
“I think Louis has something you might be interested in hearing,” Beau told Milton.
“Beau tells me you’re interested in Oscar Delgado,” Salazar began.
“I am.”
“And he tells me not to ask why.”
“I can’t say right now.”
“That’s fine by me,” he said. “You got trouble with Delgado, I’m not sure that’s something I’d want to know about.”
“So you know who he is?”
“You know anything about La Frontera?”
Milton glanced over at Beau and, for a brief moment, they shared a look. The two of them had met when they had both been involved with La Frontera in Juárez, Mexico. Beau had taken mafia money to kill or catch Santa Muerta, the bloodthirsty son of the man who ran the cartel’s operations on the border. Milton had helped Beau to bring the son in, and Milton had taken out the old man.
“I know enough,” Milton said.
“They’ve been fighting among themselves for the last couple of years after the Don got offed in the mountains,” Salazar said. “We think Delgado represents the faction that took over.”
“And the cartel has a presence in Vegas?”
“Some. Drug distribution, car theft, prostitution, fraud. I was working a homicide last year—the vic was this young Salvadoran, Arturo Napoleón-Romero. He was shot up like Swiss cheese and dumped in the desert. We charged three Mexicans for it. The vic was from MS-13, part of their effort to push into Vegas. One of the Mexican brothels got hit. The beaners didn’t like that, not a bit. Made an example out of this guy, a warning for the Salvadorans to think again about their plans.”
“And how does that tie in with Delgado?”
“He was brought in for questioning as a part of the investigation. We had a witness who said that he was responsible for the hit—not just responsible, but that he was the trigger-man. We were ready to charge Delgado when the witness disappeared. The three guys who got charged, they swore blind that they’d never even seen Delgado before, even though there was strong circumstantial evidence that they’d been friends since forever. Those guys went down for it, but not one of them has so much as mentioned his name, even when we offered to shave time off their sentences if they gave him up.”
Milton exhaled.
“Tell me about it,” Salazar said. “You need to tread carefully if you’ve got an interest in him. Guys like him play for keeps.”
“I know the type,” Milton said.
Salazar stood. “That’s all I got.”
“Thank you. It’s very helpful.”
“I’m serious. Be careful. Whatever it is you’re involved in, it can’t end up good.”
“I hear you.”
Salazar turned to Beau. “When you want to pick up Anwar?”
“I was thinking tomorrow?”
“Not a problem. I know where he’s at—he’s not gonna be hard to find. Give me a call when you’re ready and we’ll go get him.”
Milton and Beau thanked the detective and watched him make his way around the pool to the door.
“Shit,” Milton said.
“Your day just took a turn for the worse, English.”
Milton leaned his elbows on the bar, suddenly dog-tired.
“You think her old man would try to rip off people like that?”
“What else could it be?”
“He’d have to be as dumb as dirt,” Beau said.
“He works for them; there’s cash in his lock-up; he goes missing…”
Beau shrugged. “Yep—evidence surely points that way. I just can’t get to figuring out why he’d do something so reckless.”
“He has cancer,” Milton said. “Maybe he thinks he has nothing to lose.”
“Getting eaten alive by the worst cancer would be like a walk in the park compared to what the narcos do to people who steal from them.”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” Milton said.
“I know I don’t.” Beau nodded up to the rooms above them. “You think she has any idea how bad her daddy has fucked up?”
“No,” Milton said. “I don’t think so.”
“Then she’s gonna get the mother of all shocks when you tell her.”
34
Milton went back to Jessica’s room and knocked on the door.
She opened it.
“Can I come in?”
She went inside and Milton followed. The bedsheets were bunched up at the foot of the bed and the window was open, the blinds blowing in the gentle breeze that eased inside. She went to the coffee machine and switched it on.
“Want one?”
“Thanks,” he said.
She put a capsule into the machine, put a cup beneath the nozzle and pushed the button.
“What is it?” she asked him.
“I spoke to Beau’s contact in the police.”
She handed him the coffee. “And?”
“Delgado works for La Frontera.”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“It’s a Mexican cartel. They’re involved in various criminal activities in Vegas, including fraud.”
She shook her head and, for a moment, he wondered whether she was about to cry. She laid her hand to her cheek, blinked several times, then backed up, sitting down on the edge of the bed again.
“Jessica,” he began.
She put her head in her hands and her shoulders started to shake.
Milton reached for her, paused, then stepped back. He didn’t know what to say. He knew that everything that she had learned was going to be hard to process. But he was also concerned that they did not have time on their side. Her father… Milton thought that he would still be alive, but his position would be precarious.
Milton took the cup of coffee from the machine. “Here.”
She looked up at him, her eyes heavy with tears. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry.”
He handed her the coffee. “Forget it,” he said. “It’s a lot to take in.”
The tears had streaked her mascara. “What do I do?”
“Your options haven’t changed. You can go to the police, or we can try to work a deal with Delgado.”
“And what do you think?”
“The same as before. Knowing who Delgado is makes no difference to the equation.”
“I don’t know,” she said after another long pause. “I can’t believe that my father…” There was a catch in her voice. She paused and swallowed. “I can’t believe that he would be involved in something like this. With people like that. I just can’t believe it.”
“Jessica,” Milton said, “look at me.”
She turned.
“I k
now this is a shock. You’ll need time to get your thoughts together. But that has to come later. You don’t have time now. More to the point, your father doesn’t have time. Delgado is dangerous. He wants his money back. I didn’t tell you this—when I went to the lock-up last night, two men arrived just after me.”
“And how would they have known…”
“Because Delgado threatened your father until he told him what he wanted to know. And now he knows the place was empty—he’ll probably have guessed that you have the money. It’s not about leverage anymore. We’ve balanced things out.”
“And we’re safe here? They won’t find us?”
“For now,” Milton said. “But he’ll find us eventually. We can’t just wait it out, apart from what that would mean for your father.” He paused. “I know it’s hard, but you have to make a decision. I need to know what you want to do.”
“How can you be so calm? It’s not normal. A normal person reacts like me. They freak out. You know—they panic. They don’t know what to do.” Her face quivered and tears gathered in her eyes again. “And they’re scared to death.”
Milton let her cry.
She wiped her eyes for a second time.
Milton sat down beside her. “What do you want to do?”
She swallowed, regained her composure. “We can’t go to the police.”
“That would be dangerous.”
“So I give him what he wants. An exchange, like you said. I give him the money; he gives me my father.” She frowned. “But how can we trust him?”
“We can’t. But there are ways to make sure both parties behave themselves during an exchange.”
“How?”
Milton had already thought about that. He was going to have to ask Beau for another favour, a very big favour. “You can leave that to me.”
“Is that what you’d do? The exchange?”
“It is.”
She looked down at the floor for a moment. “And you’ll help me?” she finally asked.
“If you want me to.”
Jessica stood. “All right. That’s what we’ll do.”
35
Milton left Jessica in the room with the same instructions he’d given her before: don’t answer the door, don’t make any calls, stay put. He told her that he would be back in an hour.
He walked to East Charleston Boulevard, putting a mile between himself and the hotel. He found the branch of T-Mobile that he had seen online, went inside and bought two pay-as-you-go phones. He went back outside and crossed over to Esmeralda’s Café, a quiet joint at the end of a strip mall with the spire of the Stratosphere Tower visible behind it. He ordered a coffee and a Danish and took a table in the corner where he wouldn’t be overheard. He took the phone that he had confiscated from the first man he had shot in Richard Russo’s garage and switched it on. He noted down the most frequently dialled numbers and then switched the phone off again.
“Here you go, sir.”
The waitress put the coffee and Danish on the table. Milton thanked her, waited until she was back at the counter, and then started to call the numbers that he had written down.
The first went to voicemail.
“Hello, Oscar,” Milton said. “I have your money. Call me back.”
He took a pen and scored a line through the first number. He took a bite of the pastry and washed it down with a mouthful of coffee. He was about to dial the second number when the phone vibrated in his hand. He took a breath, pressed answer and put the phone to his ear.
“That was quick,” he said.
“Such an intriguing message.”
It was the same man. The same English, spoken with a heavy South American accent.
“I wanted to get your attention.”
“You have it. What do you want?”
“You know what I want. Richard Russo. Is he still alive?”
“He is a little—how do you say—the worse for wear. But alive? Yes, he is alive.”
“Prove it.”
“You don’t tell me what to do.”
“Then you don’t get your money.”
Delgado didn’t answer at once. Milton let the silence extend, taking a sip of the coffee and watching a pickup reverse into a space in the parking lot outside the window.
“I will send you a video.”
“Send it to this number. Make sure there’s something to prove it’s current.” Milton took a chance: he ended the call.
“Get you anything else?” the waitress asked him.
“No, thanks,” Milton said. “I’m good.”
He looked at his watch: it was just past midday.
He finished the pastry and pulled out a paper napkin from the chrome dispenser on the table. He wiped his fingers.
He checked his watch: three minutes past midday.
His phone buzzed with an incoming message. He took it out of his pocket and saw that the number was the same as the one that he had used to contact Oscar. He tapped the screen to open the message and saw that a video had been attached. He hit the video and watched. It was a short ten-second clip, the camera showing a man whom Milton recognised as Jessica’s father. Richard Russo was holding up a copy of the Las Vegas Review-Journal that bore today’s date. He had clearly been beaten up; his face was bruised and bloodied, with contusions around both eyes and a purply-black bruise across his right cheek. His eyebrow had been cut and blood had crusted around it. He did not speak in the video, but the fear in his eyes was eloquent.
The phone buzzed with a call.
“If you put the phone down on me again—”
“Shut up, Oscar. I told you—I’m not scared of you.”
“Do you know who I work for?”
“I do,” Milton said. “La Frontera.”
Oscar chuckled. “Yet you still have these cojones.”
“Because that doesn’t frighten me, either.”
“You should be frightened.”
“That’s the thing—I don’t scare easily.”
“That is a simple thing to say when you are on the telephone. It is something else when you are face to face.”
“It won’t change. Don’t waste your breath.”
Milton heard Oscar take a breath to compose himself.
“You have your proof. What about my money?”
“I’ve got it.”
“And what do you propose that we do?”
“Make a deal.”
“You think that you are in a position to do that?”
“I do. You have Russo. I have the money. We each have what the other wants—it should be easy.”
Delgado chuckled again. “Who are you, Smith?”
“You said you knew.”
“I know that you bought your car in Oakland.”
“That was easy. What else?”
“We could ask the man who sold it to you for a description.”
“You could, but I’m not all that remarkable to look at.”
“We’ll know more soon.”
“Let me save you the effort. I’m bad news. I’m someone you don’t want as an enemy.”
“Such big talk.”
“You’ve had three chances to take me out. Three swings, three misses. Three men came at me in that house. What happened to them?”
“They were sloppy. They got what they deserved.”
“We can agree on that, at least. But I can handle you, too, Oscar. Just the same.”
Milton sipped his coffee, letting the silence extend again.
“So?” Delgado said. “We meet? I give you the old man; you give me my money. As simple as that?”
Milton switched the phone from his left hand to his right. “It really is. You won’t get a better offer. And I won’t make it twice.”
“What if I say no?”
“You wouldn’t be foolish enough to do that. I know what they’ll say about failure in Juárez. You’re already worried how they’ll react when they realise you’ve been fooled by a gringo. I doubt you’ve told them
yet, have you? Too frightened.”
It was a calculated escalation. Milton sensed that the man would not enjoy his cojones being questioned, and the sharp exhalation of breath that greeted his rejoinder was confirmation of that.
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” Milton said. “And there’s something else. The fact that you have the girl’s father is the only thing that’s stopping me from coming after you. You sent men after me. That’s bad manners. I don’t appreciate bad manners.”
Milton left another pause. He could hear the sound of conversation on the line, but it was muffled, as if Delgado had cupped his hand over the phone. Milton took another sip of coffee while he waited.
“Fine,” Delgado said at last. “We will meet. The money for Russo.”
“Watch your phone. I’ll send a message with the details.”
Milton hung up.
36
Oscar Delgado was still angry. An hour had passed since the Englishman had called him, and all he could think about was putting his pistol in the gringo’s mouth and pulling the trigger. No one spoke to him like that. No one. The Englishman was infuriating. He had shown no fear of him, despite apparently knowing who it was he represented in Vegas. He took a breath and told himself to relax. Smith had been bluffing. If he had known about the cartel—really known—then he could not possibly have been so sanguine about the insults that he had so casually dispensed. Oscar would correct his behaviour. He would educate him about the cartel, and about what happened to those men and women who were foolish enough to cross it.
He was standing outside the entrance to the Wynn. He looked up at the vast curve of the hotel’s main building, the glass glittering like gold in the bright sunlight. The resort staff were attending to new arrivals, removing their luggage from the trunks of the limousines that had ferried them here from the airport. This was one of the more expensive hotels on the Strip, attracting a moneyed clientele from all around the world. Oscar had grown up dirt poor on the streets of Mazatlán and had dragged himself through the ranks of the cartel to a position where he controlled the business that was conducted here, in this vulgar city. He looked at a young couple getting into their high-end Uber Lux and wondered whether the supply lines that he oversaw would lead to a purchase that they might make. A line of his cocaine, snorted through a rolled-up fifty on the top of a marble cistern in a hotel suite that cost five grand a night.
