"Here's what it comes down to…who's gonna make the meet for their side. If it's Muñoz himself, he's got to know we can take him out if he makes a move. If it's some Hunky, he wouldn't care."
"So…?" Buddha queried.
"So this. We get Fal up on one roof, leave him in place. We get Ace to work the sidewalk. I don't think they'll make him for our crew–he wasn't on the bust–out down there. Buddha, you get us a cab from someplace, all right? You cruise by. Short loops, okay' Rhino takes the rear seat."
"But what if they–?"
"Listen, Buddha, that's where you come in. I'm gonna roll up just at noon, like they said. I see Muñoz at the table, I go ahead and sit down. You don't see me take a seat, it means it's me they want–get ready to lay down some cover fire."
"You think it's like that? Personal?" Buddha asked.
"It could be," Cross replied. "Muñoz always was unstable."
The next day, 11:56 A.M., Cross emerged from the underground train station on State Street and headed east. It was 11:59 when he came within sight of Nostrum's, and a few seconds before noon when he spotted a man he recognized at a table by himself. Cross kept his eyes on that man alone as he approached, hands empty at his sides.
Cross sat down across from a copper–complected man who wore his thick hair pulled straight back, tied in a ponytail.
"Cross," the man said, not offering to shake hands.
"Muñoz," Cross replied.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," a voice said. Both men continued to stare at each other. "My name is Lance. I'll be serving you today," the voice continued. "Our house specials today are a spinach salad with a mild vinaigrette dressing, together with–"
"That sounds perfect," Muñoz said, his English laced with a regal touch of Castilian. "Bring us two of them. But first…you have Ron Rico?"
"Yes, we do," the waiter replied. "But if I could perhaps suggest–"
"Bring me a double," Muñoz cut him off again. And for my friend here…"
"Water," Cross said.
"We have Evian, Perrier, and also a new–"
"Just water," Cross said.
The waiter flounced off. "I hate them," Muñoz said.
"Who?" Cross asked.
"Maricons. You know what I mean. You must know. After all, one of your own crew–"
"You trying to tell me you took Princess easy?" Cross asked, his face blank.
"Mio dios, no." Muñoz smiled. "That is one hard man, no matter that he is not really a man at all. He took out two of my best men. With his hands. I held a pistol on him, but he only laughed. If Ramon had not shot him, we would still be–"
"You shot him?" Cross asked, soft–voiced.
"With a tranquilizer dart, amigo. Like you would use on a mad dog. Even with the serum in him, he continued to fight. I wonder how such a man–"
"What do you want?" Cross interrupted, no impatience showing in his voice.
"I already told you, hombre. I want you to do a job for us.
Then you get your merchandise back."
"What job?"
"You see this?" Muñoz asked, sliding a,tiny microchip across the marble tabletop.
Cross didn't touch the chip. "So?"
"So this is what we need. Watch," Muñoz said. He grasped the chip with the thumb and forefinger of each hand and pulled it apart, revealing one male and one female coupling. "We have this one," he said, holding up the male piece. "The other one, the mate, that is in the hands of another."
"Who?"
"Right to the point, yes? You know Humberto Gonzales?
He works out of a bunch of connected apartments in the Projects."
"I never met him."
"Okay, sure. We will tell you where he is, and you will take
our property from him."
"How can you be sure–"
"It is always with him, Cross. Always on his person. There is no one he could trust with it. But we have very good sources. We know exactly where to look his right arm."
"I don't get it."
"On his right arm, right here," Muñoz said, patting his right biceps. "He has a big tattoo. Of a dancing girl. Very pretty. The chip is somewhere in the tattoo. Implanted. A fine piece of surgery. After you drop him, we need his arm. You bring it to us, your job is done."
"No go."
"What do you mean, no go? Why do you say this?"
"I'm not sending a goddamned arm through the mails–
you wouldn't give me an address anyway. And I'm not meeting
you to hand it over. Send your carrier pigeon–the chip would fit in his carry–pouch easy enough if it's this size," Cross said, pointing at the microchip lying on the tabletop.
"That is a good plan, hombre. As soon as our bird is home, we will release your man…or whatever he is."
"What's on the chip?" Cross asked.
"That is not your business, my friend."
"Then get somebody else to do it."
"I don't think you understand…"
"Sure, I understand just fine. What's on the chip?"
Muñoz stroked his chin. Cross lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. A long minute passed. Cross took another drag and snubbed out the cigarette. The waiter approached, a pair of glasses on a tray. "Here you are, gentlemen. Your salads will be along in a few minutes."
Muñoz waved him away, leaning forward so his eyes were locked on Cross. "Herrera had a couple of dozen locations. Where he stashed money. Money and product. He and I were partners. He gave me half of the microchip–it only works with his half. Herrera, he was having a problem. He paid you to retrieve a certain book. I heard nothing after that, until I learned Herrera was blown up. His car, his bodyguard…everything blown to pieces. I figure you got paid for that. Paid twice. Now I know Humberto has the chip. He must have been secret partners with Herrera, but partnerships mean nothing to such a savage–I figure he paid you to take Herrera out. Humberto and I, we have been warring for months. Now it is getting too public. The newspapers are nosing around. We each have several dead soldiers, but we have a man in his camp. This is how I know about where he keeps the chip. Each of us is nothing without the other, but our negotiations have proved fruitless. This is where you come in. I want to go back across the border, but, first, I need all the locations."
"What's my piece?" Cross asked.
"Your piece? Your piece? I told you…you get El Maricon back."
"You got a good sense of humor, Muñoz. You want me to do all kinds of risky stuff and score something worth millions to you…and you want to trade a POW in exchange? Do the math!"
"This…Princess. He is your man. We have–"
"What you got is a soldier. A soldier who knew the deal when he signed on. There's no patriotism in our country, pal. I'll take half a million. Cash. And Princess. For that, you get your little chip."
"You will trust me to–"
"Get real. I'll trust you to release Princess–it don't do you any good to dust him. But the cash…no way. You send a man. Your man, okay' You tell him what the chip looks like. Don't tell me–that way you'll know you're getting the real goods. Your man puts the chip in the pigeon's bag. The bird takes off, and your man hands over the cash. We hold on to him until we see Princess. Got it?"
"What is to prevent you from killing my man and keeping the money? And the chip?"
"The chip's no good to me. I want the money. And I want you back over the border, too. This strike's gonna draw too much heat anyway."
"Your salads, gentlemen," the waiter said, putting a plate in front of each man. "Will there be anything–?"
"No," Muñoz snapped, eyes still on his opponent. Finally, he slid a folded piece of paper over to Cross. "It's all there. Everything you need. Make it fast."
Cross lit a cigarette, ignoring his salad as he pocketed the paper from Muñoz. Then he leaned forward slightly, dropping his voice a notch. "You're a professional," he said. "So am I. We understand how these things are done. Money's money. Business is business. I'm gonna get
you your little chip. You're gonna pay me my money and let my man go, right?"
Muñoz nodded.
"You know how soldiers are," Cross said softly. "In war, you don't look too deep. A guy's good with explosives, another's a top sniper, maybe another's a master tracker, right? It all comes down to what you need. Turns out one of the guys is a little bent, you don't pay much attention to what he does when he's out of the field, you understand what I'm saying?"
Muñoz bent his head slightly forward, waiting.
"Some people, they're in because they like it. It's not for the money–they like the action. That's not you–that's not me. But, maybe, you got guys like that. Do something unprofessional…just because they like to do it. You can always spot them, right? Guys who volunteer to do interrogations. Rapists. Torch freaks. You always got them, right?"
"So?" Muñoz challenged. "What has this to do with what I–?"
"You got my man, got him locked up. He's your hostage– I understand that. I don't expect you gonna feed him whiskey and steak, send up a hooker if he gets lonely. That's okay. But, maybe, you got guys who like to hurt people. Hurt them for fun. That's not professional."
'Yes," Muñoz said impatiently. "I know all this."
"Herrera, he liked to watch men die. That's why he had those cage fights."
"Herrera is no more, amigo. You above all should know that."
"There's others. Maybe you have some of them. What I want to tell you is this: I got some, too."
"Why do you say all this? What is your meaning?" Muñoz said softly, a titanium thread of menace in his voice.
"Play it for real," Cross said quietly. "It don't make you any money to be stupid. If you hurt Princess, if you hurt him or kill him, that would be a mistake. If we don't get him back the way you found him, it's going to take you a long time to die."
"How much do I owe you?" Rhino asked the waiter from Nostrum's. They were standing near the mouth of an alley that opened into a street in the heart of the gay cruising area.
"You owe me respect," the waiter said. "I don't forget what Princess did for us. I'm a man," he said with quiet force. "I pay my debts."
"I apologize," Rhino squeaked. "If there's ever–"
But the waiter was already walking away.
In the basement of Red 71, Cross was using a laser pointer to illuminate various parts of a crudely drawn street map he had taped to the back wall.
"He's somewhere in here," Cross said, the thin red line of the laser pointer aimed at a cross section of a tall building standing next to three others exactly similar–the Projects. "We don't know what apartment. Hell, we don't even know what floor–he may even switch from time to time."
"He never goes out?" Rhino asked.
"Once a week. To the airport. He meets an international flight on the south concourse. A different guy comes each time. Humberto meets this guy, talks to him for a hour or so, then the guy just turns around and gets back on another plane."
"The courier, he has to clear customs, right?" Buddha asked.
"Yeah. It's a sterile corridor up to that point. No way to get in or out. But he's not bringing product…at least not much of it. When he clears customs, he has a conversation with Humberto. That's it."
"Don't make sense," Buddha said. "That's a ton of money and time just to beat a wiretap."
"I don't think that's what it is," Cross said. "I think he's bringing in. a chip. Like this one," holding up the chip he got from Muñoz. "The only way to see if it works is to try it…they all look alike. The way I got it figured, Herrera was playing both sides. Trying to get Humberto and Muñoz to waste each other, each of them thinking they were partners with him, see?"
"So?" Rhino put in impatiently.
"So Herrera's probably got chips stashed all over the damn place. Maybe Humberto thinks Muñoz hasn't got the only one. Or even the right one. They go through this negotiation dance, but it's really a stall for time."
"He cuts the chip out of his own arm every week?" Fal asked, skepticism in his voice.
"Maybe not. Maybe he's got a dupe. I don't know. This much is for sure: we got to take him at the airport. The deal is for half a million. That's a hundred grand apiece," he said, glancing around the room.
"You want to dust him at the airport, then chop off his fucking arm right there?" Ace asked caustically.
"No. We got to take him out of there. I think I know how to do it. Something I've been working on. But he won't be there alone. I figure we take him when he comes out. Just as he gets into his car. Buddha can get an ambulance real close. What we need is a hideout…someplace close to the airport…where we can do the rest."
"How you figure a hundred G apiece?" Rhino asked, leaning forward, his bulk imposing on the room.
"Me, you, Ace, Fal, and Buddha," Cross replied. "What's the problem?"
"The way I figure it, Princess is in for a share, too."
"Princess?" He's the genius who got us into this mess," Buddha said.
"Right," Rhino responded. "So he's the one who brought us the job, too."
"Give him half of your share," Buddha suggested.
Rhino slowly turned, focusing his small eyes on the short pudgy man, not saying a word. Buddha gazed back, unfazed.
"If we each give up a tenth, he gets a half–share. How about that?" Fal suggested in a mild tone of voice.
"Okay by me," Ace agreed.
Cross nodded.
Buddha waited for a slow count of ten, then said "What the fuck…sure."
• • •
Cross plucked the cellular phone from his jacket pocket in response to a soft, insistent purr.
"Go!" he said.
"He's in. On schedule," Fal's voice, quiet but clear. The voice of a man accustomed to speaking from cover.
"You have his ride tracked?"
"Black Mercedes. Four door. S class. Driver's still with it, parked on the roof. Probably on call."
"Roger that. How many we looking at?"
"One in the car, one with the man."
"See any backup?"
"Negative."
"We're rolling," Cross said, breaking the connection. He turned to Rhino. "They'll probably call the driver as they get close to the exit. He pulls off the roof, swings around, so he's waiting when they step out. You get the bodyguard, I get Humberto. Ace is riding with Buddha–the driver's their job. We ride crash–car on the getaway, meet back at the spot if we get separated."
Rhino nodded. "You really think that contraption's gonna work?" he asked, pointing the index finger with the missing tip at what looked like a particularly awkward pistol–instead of a butt, the pistol's handle was a long, narrow canister.
"It's freon," Cross said. "Like they use in air conditioners. We should get around five hundred feet per second. And it won't make a sound."
"It only works for one shot."
"One's all we need."
"Why don't we just ice this fuck? What do we need him alive for?"
"Because Muñoz wants him dead," Cross said. "And he only paid us for an arm, not a whole body."
The phone purred again. Cross snapped it to his ear. "What?"
"Moving," Fal's voice said.
"Who?"
"All of them. Me, too. You got two minutes, tops."
"Later," Cross said, pointing a finger at the windshield. Rhino keyed the motor of the shark car, threw it into gear. Cross was punching a number into the phone.
"Go!" is all he said when it was answered at the other end.
Humberto stood on the wide curb, his broad–chested bodyguard at his side, tapping his foot impatiently. The bodyguard spotted the Mercedes rolling toward them, stepped forward, reaching for the handle to the back door. Cross moved out of the shadows cast by a thick concrete pillar, the freon gun up. Humberto grabbed at his right hip just before he fell. The bodyguard whirled just in time to meet a .22 hollowpoint with the bridge of his nose. Rhino pocketed the silenced pistol and charged forward as the ambulance pulled to the curb.
The Mercedes driver was trying to stare through the darkened side window, when the back of his head mushroomed into tomato paste. The rear doors of the ambulance popped open. Rhino tossed Humberto inside as easily as if he were a sack of grain, then immediately turned to the bodyguard and did the same thing with his dead body. The ambulance doors closed and it took off for the exit, lights flashing. Rhino ran to the shark car and dived into the open back door, his movements acrobatic despite his bulk. Cross mashed the pedal and the shark car chased the ambulance.
By the time the airport police arrived, they found one dead man at the wheel of the Mercedes. And a good many highly contradictory accounts from spectators.
The ambulance pulled to a stop in the shadows of a bridge abutment, just a few yards off the Freeway. The shark car cruised in a few seconds later, Cross skidding the anonymous vehicle so that it lay parallel to the ambulance. Cross stood watch as Rhino tossed Humberto's limp body over his shoulder and transferred it to the shark car's trunk. Buddha took the wheel of the shark car, Cross the shotgun seat. Ace and Rhino took the back, weapons out, each man covering a different rear window. As the shark car pulled away, Buddha said: "I dusted it down good, boss. But you never know what they're gonna find when they vacuum it out."
Cross pulled a small radio transmitter from his jacket, checked the blinking red LED, and threw a toggle switch. A heavy thumping whoosh sounded and the sky behind them was brightened with a red–and–yellow fireball.
"What they're gonna find is some dead meat," Cross said. "Well done."
As the shark car entered a quiet community of tract houses, the phone in Cross's jacket sounded. He picked it up, but didn't say a word.
"I'm out," came Fal's voice.
Cross broke the connection, gave the thumbs–up signal to Rhino.
Buddha pulled into a driveway of packed dirt, nosing the car forward until it was inside a garage that had been standing open. He popped the trunk, and Rhino tossed Humberto's still–limp form over one shoulder.
Born Bad Page 11
