by AJ Adams
I was heating trays of beef and mushroom pies while making myself a salad of cherry tomato with a balsamic vinegar glaze when Quique walked in. Instead of the gun, he was carrying a bottle of wine.
“Hola, Natalia!”
The greeting was determinedly cheerful, too. He’d decided to charm me, then.
It was the first time I’d really looked at him. I mean, I’d looked, but mostly I’d been paralysed with fear. Now, with Delicia safe at home, I gave him a proper inspection.
Actually, now he wasn’t going totally Viking Berserker, Quique was a nice-looking bloke. Good skin, slanting cheekbones and a lean body that simply popped with muscle. He was dressed in black trousers and a green pullover the colour of emeralds. It looked casual, but the trousers were beautifully tailored and the pullover was cashmere. The shirt underneath was black and looked like soft silk. The shoes were leather loafers. He smelled good too—a fresh cologne, lightly spiced.
He set the wine on the counter and picked two glasses up from the counter. “How is the chiquitína?”
“With her mum. We’ll know more tomorrow.”
“Did you get a doctor?” He was opening the bottle, pouring it into glasses.
“Yes.”
He put a glass in front of me. The wine smelled like heaven: rich red grapes with a hint of wood. With the balsamic glaze, it was perfect.
I chopped up the cherry tomatoes, divided them into two dishes, dotted them with cubes of feta cheese, sprinkled them with chives and then drizzled the lot with the glaze. “Sit down and tuck in.”
“This looks great!” Quique was frankly amazed.
“Hopefully it tastes good, too.” I raised my glass. “Salud!”
We ate in silence. Somehow food hadn’t been part of the day, so I hopped up and snaffled a pie from the tray before passing the rest through the hatch. The wine was superb, bringing out the smoky taste of the mushrooms in the sauce.
“This is terrific,” Quique sighed. “You should have a Michelin star.”
I was liking this man—but not enough to trust him. There wasn’t enough wine in the world for that. Still, I owed him.
“I’m sorry for the things I said earlier. I was upset. I apologise.”
The dark eyes were looking me over. “But you’re not giving the watch back.”
I didn’t want a fight. “The second I feel safe, it’s yours.”
He shrugged. “And the property? The kebab shop?”
I was tired. “Look, there’s a place up the road that’s practically identical. Buy that.”
“I’ll pay you ten per cent more than you paid.”
“It took me forever to find a place, get the surveys done and secure a mortgage. I just can’t face going through that again.”
I was expecting pressure or yelling but he just nodded. “You’re tired. We can talk tomorrow.”
“My answer will be the same.”
“Be nice, bruja.”
“Calling me foul names won’t help!” Yes, I was tired.
He grinned, and for a moment he was a different person. The eyes lengthened as he smiled, turning from dangerous black to friendly dark brown while white teeth highlighted the tanned skin.
“Bruja means witch.”
“With a w and not a b?”
“Not even a hint of b.” He was grinning at me. “Just don’t ask me what zorra means.”
“Or hija de puta.”
Another flashing grin. “I’m shocked a nice girl like you knows that expression.”
We sat and looked at each other. I felt him trying to influence me; the man had charm and certain force of personality. Still, I wasn’t giving up my shop for a smile and a glass of wine.
“I’m not changing my mind,” I said eventually.
The friendly look vanished. “You’re making a mistake.”
I was too tired to argue. “Whatever.”
For a moment I thought he’d yell, but he got up and marched out, the door snapping shut. Yes, I really wasn’t making friends.
Chapter Seven: Quique
Al Capone once said, “You can get much further with a kind word and a gun than you can with a kind word alone.” Me, I was dying to shoot the bitch, but I controlled myself. I reasoned that a gift might help that fiend from hell see sense. So I bought a bottle of good wine, went to see her and after she made me a dinner that was certainly inspired by angels, she still blew me off.
At that point I was beyond anger. The disrespect, her refusal to do the right thing, her stubborn determination to go against me at every point no longer bothered me. I was pure ice. I’d just go to her place and take back what was mine.
I left her in that small scorching hot kitchen and went to work. I was actually humming, filled with an excellent dinner, a superb wine and the certain knowledge it was my turn to turn the tables on her.
She lived on the third floor of an apartment block about a mile away from the pub. It was wet, cold and dark, typical English goddamn weather, but the upside was that people were huddled indoors in order to keep warm. I walked up to the place unseen and unheard.
The door had some serious locks on it, and it was covered in graffiti. Clearly it was someone who knew her, because he’d painted “bitch” all over it. I was determined to more than deface her door: I’d come prepared with some picks I’d found in Jorge’s desk drawer. Titanium and lightweight, they were real beauties. I was out of practice, so it took me five minutes and a lot of cursing to get in.
The bruja had a nice home, comfortable and lived in. It was clean but with cookbooks lying open by the couch and the kitchen counter, the bed unmade and a pile of freshly laundered sheets on the dining table.
My place back in Nuevo Laredo always looked like a cross between a home deco magazine and a hotel. For a second I wondered what was going on back there. Everyone was probably talking about me wearing horns. I didn’t want to go there, but I looked at my phone, just to check if Tina had broken down and texted me.
In the ten minutes since I’d last checked, she hadn’t. I stood there, the rage flooding through me again. I wasn’t going to text her either. Not this time! I was through being the peacemaker. Hell would freeze over before I’d call.
I turned back to the job and considered the options. Sometimes I smash a place up when I turn it over. It’s both a punishment and a warning as in, “This time it’s your gear; next time it’s your face.” At other times I sneak through silently and invisibly. That can be difficult if you’re dealing with a pro or OCD neat freak, but it has advantages, too, especially if you’re trying to mindfuck the target.
For a moment I debated what action to take. Destroying her things would be counterproductive, forcing the bruja to dig in her heels. Still, I wanted to send a message.
At first I thought of doing something to her clothes, because women value those, but a look at her wardrobe, mostly pale purplish blue, decided me against it. Her work clothes were fine, but her casual tees were well worn, and her PJs were worn so thin, they were practically see-through. This wasn’t a girlie-girl who’d freak if I touched her stuff.
It was the laundry that gave me the idea: I made her bed. It was nice and subtle.
I found the safe in her bedroom closet easily enough, but once again it took me a good five minutes to get into it. I was crowing, “I got you, you little zorruta!” as I spotted the note.
She’d written it on blue paper in loopy writing, “Too bad, Quique. Please make sure windows are secure when you leave.” There was a sketch of a watch as a signature.
Bitch was one of the nicer things I called her. Natalia Truelove was an unprincipled hija de puta, and I swore to get even with her. A lesser man would have burned her apartment to the ground in revenge, but I just left. I locked the door behind me, as well. If she could play mind games, so could I.
The upside to the fury I felt was that I was too uptight to sleep. Instead of going to the apartment, I went back to the office and buried myself in paperwork, getting to grips
with the London operation. I worked the night through, and by the time the others came in, I had everything sorted.
“I’m checking on Jorge, and then I’m spending the morning with Sykes. I want all of you to make sure it’s business as usual.”
There were nods all round.
“We’ve got our weekly coke shipment coming in today at eleven. Monitor Smith and his team. It’s out of his province, but the man may try to play a bigger hand.”
I could see they were on the ball. Jorge had a good team.
“I also want you to beef up our club business. See off any dealers who don’t buy from us, and remind the managers to push our booze. Also, I want our top six bands booked there for live performances in the next quarter.”
James frowned. “They’ve booked bands already.”
“Pay the cancellation fee. There’s a lot of money to be made from music, and I want to leverage what we have. In a year’s time I want our bands supporting the big names at mega-concerts. Also, I want our clubs hosting mini-concerts at least once a month.”
“It’s not something we’ve done before,” Matu ventured.
“We let the pros handle the promotion, equipment and so on. All we do is make sure our people provide party extras. I want everything sold from regular toot to disco biscuits. For the big events, have our escorts seen with the band. It will leverage their image, and we can push up prices.”
Making money is something we all love, so the crew were smiling at the thought of making more. Also, it would keep them busy, which is a good thing. Young men with too much free time get into trouble, which is why a good officer gets troops digging ditches, practicing marching and every other goddamn thing he can think of to keep them occupied when there are no battles to be fought.
Lencho’s phone beeped, and soon he was grinning. “Sooty is home.”
“Good. I’ll see him.” We all knew I’d be dropping in with my Magnum, but it’s policy not to be too direct. Technology is so sophisticated that you can never be absolutely sure who’s listening. And although we never acknowledge it publicly, we’ve had a few rats over the years, so we’re instinctively cautious.
“Give him my best,” Matu said ironically.
“What about Smith?” Lencho asked. “You’re not wearing your watch. Are we all clear?”
It was a normal question, but the way everyone suddenly looked away made my hair stand on end. He wasn’t just asking after Smith, the watch or the bruja; he’d heard about Tina’s cowboy. It was inevitable as they all had family or contacts back in Nuevo Laredo. My bowels clenched. It was bad enough having the horns, but if they knew the rest, I might as well shoot myself in the head.
I couldn’t face it, so I decided to misunderstand and misdirect. “Right, as James might have told you, Smith is going to be all over us because we took care of some business yesterday.”
Of course they’d heard the bones from James but I filled them in on the details. It distracted them completely, and their response was predictable.
“Taking revenge by raping a kid? Disgusting!”
“Hijo de puta, what a pervert!”
“I’ll be making an example of the capullo,” I told them. “The three I had a word with yesterday will tell their own tales. As for the rest, I’ll be asking head office for permission to do a little house cleaning.”
That went over well. Taking out the competition is essential, and when you can feel virtuous about it, it’s even better.
“We’ll present Jorge with the best goddamn get-well gift anyone can ever ask for: an established territory, four kilometres across, right in the middle of London.”
Now I had them by the balls.
“I’m still looking at the figures, but I reckon that within three years we’ll be raking in a million a month on legitimate business like rent, plus another mil from our additional services.”
There was a dead silence as they worked out what their own shares would do to their income.
“Blessed Madonna and all the saints, fuck me!” Matu sighed. “Really? That’s quite a package.”
“Enough to buy you Madonna,” I kidded him, “but considering she’s old enough to be your mother, I’d look to Taylor Swift.”
From the excited murmurs, they’d forgotten about Tina and the watch. The prospect of being richer than Trump put it out of the minds.
Time to send them on their way. “Check in with me around six. I’m available for emergencies but otherwise we meet tomorrow morning, same time.”
They all disappeared, pumped at the thought of the riches to come. I was less enthusiastic. As long as I delivered on that promise, they’d want me around. Nobody wants to mess with a moneymaker. But to maintain respect I had to fix my problems with Tina and bring the bruja to heel.
Frankly, money and possessions aren’t important to me. I have silk shirts and sports cars because it goes with the image. People who don’t know better think that shit is important, and as showing them I have it makes getting little things done easier, I go with the flow.
What really matters is respect. Money, love and friendship make life sweet, but without respect, a man is nothing. You can’t buy it or force it; you’ve got to earn it.
I tried to work out what to do about Tina, but nothing sprang to mind. Maybe I should’ve shot her. Then the boss would’ve been after me. For a split-second I wondered if that would have been easier. Having a slut of a wife was bad enough, but if anyone found out that the reason she’d cheated was because I wasn’t even a real man, I’d be nothing. I’d have to leave the Zetas because nobody would respect me.
Leaving would be a living death. Actually, it would probably be a real one, too, because I’ve lots of enemies, and without backup, I’d be a sitting duck. Not just me, but my family. My two brothers are still on the family farm, and my sister married a local man in the village. They’re safe from interference because everyone knows fucking with me and mine means death. But if I were to lose my position, Eduardo, Pablo and Carmen and their kids would lose their lives, too.
Being fucking depressed wasn’t getting me anywhere, but it reminded me that I had to report.
“Quique,” the boss’ deep rich voice was warm. “I was about to call you to give you a heads-up: someone tried to hack into your phone.”
Some cartels are so old-fashioned that they operate with carrier pigeons and smoke signals, but we Zetas employ hackers from China, Russia and the States. We get the best of the best, and so even the CIA and DEA bust their nuts and still fail to get to us.
“It’s a local job, not sophisticated. This is the guy.”
A file flashed up on my screen. Terry Chin, an unaffiliated kid working out of his apartment. He was just down the road.
“I’ll drop in on him.”
“Terrific. Listen, I’m here with Arturo.”
The big boss, Arturo Vazquez, head of our cartel. I sat up straight. “Hello, jefe.”
“Quique, I’m so glad you could take over London for us. What a thing, huh? Poor Jorge!”
I gave them an update on their cousin and then updated them on the operation.
“It sounds excellent.” Arturo was pleased, I could hear it in his voice. “Listen, you’ll need to talk this over with the lawyers, of course, but there are one or two small points I’d like you to look into.”
Then he talked for five minutes, and what had been a vague outline of a plan of mine came sharply into focus. The jefe is a genius. When it comes to money, he’s sharper than Warren Buffett and Carlos Slim rolled into one. I took notes, asked a couple of questions and felt like I could now handle the situation.
“Don’t forget,” the jefe went on, “think English. They have some strange ways there. If it makes sense, go with it. If it gets in the way, do what it takes.”
“Right, jefe.”
My boss was focusing on security, “I heard about events yesterday. Well done. Justice, but discreet. Absolutely perfect.”
“Thanks, boss.”
&nb
sp; “Did you get your watch back?”
When talking to the jefe and the boss, I always tell the truth. I respect them too much not to.
“No boss, I didn’t. And what’s worse, the woman put one over on me.”
Life doesn’t always go smoothly, and when shit happens, how you tell it depends on you. Some people moan and groan while others laugh. As we Zetas enjoy a good story, and the boss and the jefe love to laugh, I made sure that they enjoyed it.
“And so here I am, being blackmailed by a witch from the blackest hell. I’m completely hogtied!”
The jefe was killing himself laughing. “Recruit her! We need people like her!”
“Fuck me!” The boss had tears in his eyes. “You’re going to have to shoot her! There’s no way you can out-think her!”
It cheered me up, hearing them laugh. They didn’t give me any advice, either, so I still had their respect.
“I insist you call me tomorrow,” the jefe said. “I need to hear what she does next.”
Meaning he trusted me to fix it. Hopefully, I would. But I could spin it out a little, too. Telling it straight had bought me some time.
“What are your plans for the Peckham Knaves?” the boss asked.
“Well, Jorge was planning to push them out in six months’ time but I think we should move it up.”
“Revenge for the shooting?”
“No, boss. It just makes good sense to clear the decks now. Seeing I’m here. I mean, his team are good, but on this kind of mission I think they could do with my planning and coordinating.”
“I agree,” the boss nodded.
“But about this fucker with the weird name, Sooty. Make sure the body’s found,” the jefe instructed me. “We want to discourage this kind of thing. Send a message by shooting the capullo. What comes around goes around, right?”
“Sure, jefe. I’ll do it myself.”
The boss was thinking of the big picture. “We haven’t had much to do with them. What are the Peckham Knaves like?”
