by Jeff Buick
“No easy target here, amigos,” he said, his hand steady, the Smith & Wesson targeted on the closest man’s forehead. “Go find some other mark or your night’s going to get real messy.”
The men quietly disappeared back into the shadows between the two buildings, and Pedro kept moving. Once he was a hundred feet along the street, he reactivated the safety and holstered the gun. El Centro. Nice part of town to visit at night. He’d have to have a chat with Alfredo about his choice of meeting spots. Pedro finally found the bar where Alfredo had suggested they meet and saw the big man in a booth near the back. The establishment was typical of El Centro, run down and dark, with enough shady, tough-looking characters to cast an entire Quentin Tarrantino movie without leaving the place.
“I almost got mugged,” he said, sitting down opposite Alfredo Augustino. He ordered a beer when the waitress came by.
“You leave San Salvador, you get soft,” Alfredo said lightly. He didn’t seem at all put off by Pedro’s close call. “Even in Caracas you can forget how to take care of yourself.”
“That’s not such a bad thing, Alfredo,” he said. “I hardly need a knife in me to keep me on my toes. I’ll take a nice quiet street where families walk their dogs anytime.”
Alfredo waved his hand in deference. “I’m not worried about you, Pedro. You can take care of yourself. Always could.”
The beer arrived and Pedro found himself drinking it faster than usual. His pulse was still higher than normal; he was still on the downside of the adrenaline rush. “You said you had some information about Javier Rastano.”
The big man nodded. His double chins wobbled about as he moved his head. “I do. In two days of asking around, I found out the three things that turn Javier Rastano’s crank. His buttons, so to speak.”
“What are they?” Pedro asked, finishing the beer and motioning for another one. The waitress, watching Pedro as she made her rounds, caught the motion and nodded.
“Orchids. The man absolutely adores orchids. He spends time in a public park in Medellín just to stare at the orchids. And his estate here in Escalón is packed with them. Along with the indigenous ones from Costa Rica and the other Central American countries, he’s imported them from Mexico, Colombia, Thailand and Cambodia. Rumor has it he recently killed a gardener for breaking a flower off its stem while in the orchid was in bloom.”
“That doesn’t help me,” Pedro said. “What else does the guy like?”
“Believe it or not, snow skiing. He travels to Switzerland and Canada to ski at least three times a year. From what I hear, he’s quite good.”
“Again, Alfredo, not much help.”
“This might be.” Augustino shifted his considerable bulk slightly to get comfortable. “He likes boxing.”
Pedro was silent for a moment, then said, “Really? How much does he like it?”
“A lot. He hangs around some of the better gyms while he’s in San Salvador scouting out new talent. He doesn’t go for the heavyweights; he likes welterweight and flyweight. What weight division did you used to fight in?”
“Welterweight, but that was a few years ago. I’m out of practice.”
Alfredo just laughed. “Look at you, Pedro. You work out, keep yourself in great physical shape; how hard can it be to slip on some gloves and trade punches?”
“You’d be surprised,” Pedro said, smiling at the server as she placed his second beer on the table. It was frosty cold and went down easy, a little too easy, perhaps. “It’s not hard to get your face smashed in if you’re out of shape or forget to duck.”
“It’s your way in, Pedro,” Alfredo said. “You asked me to find you a way inside Javier Rastano’s life, and I found one. Plus, I went one step further. I found someone who might be able to get you into one of the boxing clubs that Javier likes to visit.”
Pedro leaned forward. “Really?” He knew how difficult it could be to cross the socio-economic boundaries in San Salvador. The rich people liked to hobnob with their own kind. “How can I meet this person?”
“He’s at La Luna Casa y Arte tonight. You know it?”
Pedro nodded. “Sure. It’s probably the best club in San Salvador. I doubt I can even get in.”
“He’s left your name with the doorman. His name is Oscar Bernardo and he’s expecting you.”
“What time?”
Alfredo glanced at his watch. It was eleven o’clock. “Anytime after ten, so you can head over whenever you want. Just for your knowledge, this Bernardo has a real hate-on for Javier Rastano. I’ll let him explain things to you.”
Pedro just nodded and finished his beer.
“Take care, my young friend. Javier Rastano is an evil man. Everyone I spoke with was very worried that their name may come up in a future conversation. I assured them that no names would be mentioned.”
“What about Oscar Bernardo,” Pedro said. “He doesn’t seem to mind.”
“He has his reasons for helping you, but I’m sure you’ll find that he would prefer his name stay out of this.”
“Okay. Good night, Alfredo. And thanks.”
“Good night, Pedro.”
Pedro left the bar, waved down a taxi and gave him the club name. Every driver in town knew exactly where it was, although it was doubtful even one of them had been through the front doors. While San Salvador’s rich and pampered played at La Luna Casa y Arte, the uninvited survived another night on the dangerous city streets. No one objected, they just accepted it as part of life. You were either born into it, or you weren’t.
The taxi left El Centro behind and wove through a labyrinth of backstreets, staying off the congested main thoroughfares at Pedro’s request. Pedro had always preferred the scenic route through the city in lieu of the major arteries; the back roads offered a kaleidoscope of El Salvador’s people as they went about their daily lives. Folding card tables were set up on the narrow walks between the adobe houses and the streets, and men played cards and women talked about their day. The mosquito hours would soon be over for the evening, and the people could then venture back into their houses. In El Salvador, only the rich, with air-conditioned homes, could stay inside as dusk approached and the mosquito population searched for windless places to roost. The hot little adobe houses were mosquito magnets and Pedro couldn’t count the number of evenings he had spent outside, unable to sit in his house for fear of being eaten alive. They drove on toward the Ciudad Universitaria, the city landscape changing, mutating into the more upscale shops and houses of the small Salvadorian middle-class. The driver turned onto Boulevard de Los Héroes and pulled up in front of a nightclub, its chrome and glass frontage vibrating from the Latino rock music. A line of hopefuls waited along the curb, but the doors were closed and the bouncers in place.
Pedro slipped the driver the fare and a decent tip and walked to the front of the line. Those waiting didn’t complain; they knew so much as a whimper and they were out of the line. Two body-builder types stood on each side of the door with their arms crossed over their chests. Pedro approached them tentatively. He had always been the one in the line, never the hombre with the connections.
“Good evening,” he said. “I’m Pedro Parada. Oscar Bernardo is expecting me.”
One of the goons picked up a clipboard and ran his finger down the short list of names. Even upside down, Pedro could see his name. “Don’t see you here,” he said. “But my eyesight is always better once the cover charge is paid.”
Pedro slipped an American twenty from his pocket. “How’s your eyesight now?”
“Much better, thank you,” he said, pocketing the twenty. “Oscar has a regular table. I’ll show you where it is.” He glanced at Pedro’s jacket, just under his left arm. “I’ll check the gun first,” he said.
Pedro un-holstered the gun and handed it across, butt first. The bouncer looped a tag through the trigger guard and ripped off the bottom half of the stub. He checked to make sure the safety was on, handed Pedro his claim check and deposited the gun in a locked cab
inet just inside the doors.
“Okay, let’s go,” he said.
“Thanks.” He followed the man into the club. The music was extremely loud, to the point of causing pain in his eardrums. They skirted the dance floor, covered with gyrating bodies dressed in Guess and Versace. Pedro drew a few admiring looks and smiles from the women. He smiled back, his even white teeth reflecting the bright strobe lights that throbbed with the music. As they cleared the dance floor, the music from the speakers subsided, and when they reached the tables in the rear of the club, the noise level was not at all irritating. The bouncer pointed at a man seated with two women on either side of him. Both were eager looking and young, probably in the club only at Oscar’s invitation.
“That’s Oscar,” he said, then turned back to the front of the club.
Pedro walked the last few paces alone, Oscar’s eyes watching him as he approached. Bernardo was in his late thirties, with slicked-back hair that just touched his shoulders, and very suspicious eyes. His face and shoulders were lean and Pedro knew the man kept himself in excellent physical condition. He was tanned and his fingernails manicured.
Pedro reached the table, covered with a crisp white tablecloth that reached the tile floor. “I’m Pedro Parada,” he said.
“Oscar Bernardo,” the man replied. They both leaned forward and shook hands. “Sit down, Pedro,” Bernardo said, his voice a smooth baritone. “The girls are Savanna, Carmela and Felisa.”
Pedro cocked his head slightly and gave Oscar a puzzled look. “There are only two girls, Oscar.”
A moment later, a head popped up from under the tablecloth. She gave Pedro a wicked smile and disappeared back under the table. “That one is Felisa.”
Pedro slid onto the curved leather bench, careful where he put his feet. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
“Not a problem.”
The waitress happened by, and Oscar asked what Pedro wanted, then ordered for the table. There was a repeated banging sound as Felisa’s head kept hitting the underside of the table, then Oscar made a bit of a face and groaned slightly. The banging stopped. A few moments later, Felisa appeared, sliding up onto her seat and taking a long drink of beer.
“Why don’t you gals go dance or something for a few minutes,” Oscar said, handing one of the girls two crisp hundred dollar bills. They left quickly, knowing he wanted time alone with Pedro.
“She’s got a good attitude,” Pedro said, nodding his head slightly toward Felisa.
Oscar grinned. “They all do.” He finished the drink in front of him and asked, “What do you want with Javier Rastano?”
“That’s kind of confidential,” Pedro said.
“Then leave,” Oscar said, setting the drink on the tablecloth. “We either trust each other, or we don’t.”
“Okay,” Pedro said, leaning back into the leather seat. He could feel the impression of his second gun hard against the small of his back. “Rastano kidnapped the wife and daughter of a friend. I’m trying to find them and get them back. I think Rastano might have them somewhere in San Salvador.”
“Really? Why doesn’t your friend come looking for his wife and daughter himself? He’s a coward?”
“He’s being squeezed from more than one direction. They want something else from him and he’s concentrating on finding it. That’s why he can’t search for his family himself.”
The drinks arrived and not a word was spoken until the server had left the table. Bernardo finally said, “Alfredo tells me you are a boxer.”
Pedro shrugged. “I spent some time in the ring a few years ago, but nothing much lately.”
“Javier Rastano likes boxers. He scours the local gyms looking for diamonds in the rough. He likes to discover new talent. You good enough to be noticed?”
“Maybe,” Pedro said. “It depends who I’m up against.”
“How about if I arrange for a bout between you and another guy with average skills? I’ll have someone put the word out that you’re worth watching, try to entice Rastano to show up and check you out. But that’s all I can do. Once you’re in the ring, you’ve got to hold your own.”
“I’ll try,” Pedro said. “When and where can you set this up?”
“He belongs to an exclusive club in Colonia Escalón. I’ll try for the day after tomorrow. Friday. That work for you?”
“Yeah, that works fine. What do I do?”
“Show up at the gym by ten in the morning. We’ll try to have you and your sparring partner in the ring by noon.”
Pedro sipped on his beer and eyed Oscar Bernardo. “You know why I want to get near Javier Rastano, but why are you so willing to help? What’s in it for you?”
Bernardo’s steel-gray eyes bore into Pedro’s for the better part of thirty seconds before he answered. “Rastano is a prick. He’s an arrogant, ruthless, Colombian bastard.”
“True. But that doesn’t answer the question. What’s your motive?”
Bernardo spread out both his arms on the back of the couch. “Three years ago, my little brother was fifteen. He was in Escalón selling raffle tickets for his football team. They were at the gate to the Rastano estate, trying to get the guards to let them in when Javier drove up in his Ferrari. My brother leaned on his car and held up the tickets so Rastano could see what he was trying to sell. Rastano went ape-shit. He jumped out of the car, raced around to the passenger’s side and threw my brother to the ground. Then he started screaming that my brother had scratched his car with the rivets on his jeans. He grabbed an M-16 from one of his guards and pumped six bullets into my brother. Murdered him right in the street.”
“But there were witnesses,” Pedro said. “Even in San Salvador some things are too brutal to ignore. There should have been a trial.”
Bernardo laughed. But it was cynical, not joyous. “The police were going to file charges, until the witnesses either had accidents or couldn’t remember exactly what happened. Then I got pulled aside and told in very simple terms that if I ever even looked sideways at Javier Rastano, my entire family would be killed. Every brother, sister, cousin, in-law, and my parents. I can’t move against Javier Rastano myself. But you can.”
Pedro nodded. “Okay, you set up the bout, I’ll be there.”
“I won’t be there,” Oscar said. “And whatever you do, don’t mention my name.”
“Never,” Pedro said, shaking Bernardo’s hand.
“By the way, good luck getting into Rastano’s estate. Word on the street is that he’s holding a couple of women somewhere inside the house. Could be your friend’s wife and daughter.”
Pedro nodded. He thanked Bernardo again, then claimed his gun and left the club. He returned to the street, quiet in comparison to the lively nightclub, and hailed a cab. He gave the driver the address to his hotel and sat back. The cab smelled of incense and a tiny statue of the Virgin Mary dangled from the rear view mirror. Julie and Shiara were probably in Javier’s house. That was good news; Eugene would be pleased. But now he had to think about boxing. He hadn’t set foot in a ring for almost two years. True, he had been an excellent fighter back when he made his run at the Olympic boxing team, but never quite good enough. And two years was a long time without lacing up the gloves. Still…
He dialed Eugene’s number on the cell phone, and when his friend answered he asked the driver to stop at a small park and jumped out of the cab. The last thing he needed was some cabbie going to Javier Rastano with a story of what he overheard in the back seat of his hack. He strolled across a stretch of grass to a bench and sat down, watching the cab and the street traffic as he said hello.
Eugene’s first words were, “Do you have any information on Julie and Shiara?”
“Not for sure, but the word on the street is that Rastano has a couple of women at his estate. Might be Julie and Shiara, but no guarantees. And I may get a chance to meet personally with Javier on Friday.”
“That’s excellent news,” Eugene exclaimed. “Let’s hope the word on the street is right.” He p
aused for a second, then asked, “How could you meet him? Rastano, I mean.”
Pedro explained the meeting with Oscar Bernardo at the club, minus the young woman with the sore head. “This Bernardo guy absolutely hates Javier Rastano, but he can’t do a thing or his entire family gets whacked. Pretty sick stuff.”
“Typical for Colombians. What are your chances of turning Rastano’s head at the bout?”
“I don’t know,” Pedro said, his voice now uncertain. “I haven’t been in the ring in two years, and I have no idea whether the guy I’ll be facing is a good fighter or a bum. I won’t know until I’m face to face with him.”
“Well, don’t get your head pounded in,” Eugene said.
“I’ll try not to. This is going to be my only shot at getting a look at how Rastano lives.”
“Beat him senseless, Pedro. Impress Rastano.”
“Yeah, okay, Eugene. But how are you? How are things in El Paso?”
“Oh, man, you won’t believe what’s happening here. One of the top DEA guys in the United States flew in from Washington, and a high-ranking CIA agent is here as well. They worked together in Colombia back when the U.S. was helping the Colombian army find Pablo. They seem to be taking my situation pretty seriously.”
“That’s great news,” Pedro said. “Have they got any ideas?”
“Well, they knew about the bank account the Rastano’s insist is theirs. They were monitoring it and saw the debits.”
“More good news, Eugene. Anything else?”
“Nothing right now.”
“I’ll call again on Friday. Maybe later in the day. I’m not sure.”
“Okay, talk to you then.”
The line died, and Pedro snapped the phone shut and slipped it back into his suit pocket. Things were moving ahead for both of them. Now all he had to do was keep from getting his ass kicked on Friday, and maybe he’d get an inside look at Javier Rastano. That or one hell of a headache.
