These Mortals

by Alan Lee

  I didn’t return home that night.

  I stewed in a hotel room on the outskirts of Lynchburg, staring at my burner phone, praying Stephanie would call it. And stressing over Ronnie and if she was hurt. Wondering how close Darren was. Hoping Manny would locate Ronnie’s location. And missing Kix.

  Sitting crisscross on a stripped bed on the fourth floor of a Holiday Inn Express, I felt unreasonably alone and abandoned. This wasn’t what—-the hell day was it? Thursday?—this wasn’t what Thursday nights should be like. Isolated with nothing but despair and hope to keep me company.

  Mackenzie August, spiraling into dramatic metaphors. Soon I’d be rhapsodizing about the ticking clock and cheap whiskey and the vanity of life, like a lesser detective with a drinking problem.

  But I wasn’t abandoned.

  I was ground down and demoralized and stricken with grief. Life was nasty, brutish, and short without Ronnie. But I’d get her back soon. I wasn’t alone, not really.

  Darren Robbins, on the other hand, was. Everyone he’d ever met had bailed on him. Like me, he sat in a hotel tonight probably experiencing the same life panic I was. But without the solace I had in a waiting son, a wife, a father, a home, a Manny, a dog, all the things the good God had given me.

  That was the key to this. The key to Ronnie’s abduction and Darren’s search for his ex-wife. His motivation was his loneliness.

  Darren was like much of the planet, that way. But his desperation was weaponized with money and a history of violence. My empathy with him ended there.

  I shook my head. Went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. Stared deprecatingly into the mirror. Enough moping.

  I called Manny Martinez on my burner.

  He answered.

  I said, “Finally. You woke up.”

  “I don’t know what Beck told you, but my wounds would’ve killed a lesser man.”

  “She told me it was equivalent to a paper cut.”

  “Being gored by a rhino, that’s the equivalent.”

  “She said it didn’t need a Band-Aid but you insisted.”

  “She did not say that. She can’t lie. She’s a Mormon, after all,” said Manny.

  “They can lie. Mormons are imperfect.”

  He held the phone away from his face. “Beck, can you lie?” Her voice, distant and inaudible. He came back. “She said unkind things about you, amigo, just now.”

  “As I said. She lies.”

  “I think her fancy underwear keeps her from lying. What else would they be for?” said Manny.

  “You mean her Mormon temple garments. They don’t prevent lies.”

  He held the phone away again. “Aye, Beck. Are you wearing the fancy underwear? Let me see.” Her voice was still inaudible but louder and sharp, the poor woman. He asked her, “Do they keep you from lying?”

  The phone sounded like maybe he dropped it. She was shouting.

  I grinned. I liked Beck.

  He came back. “She says unkind things about both of us now, señor, and she’s throwing things. I don’t think she’s wearing magic pants.”

  “Let’s change topics,” I said.

  “Good idea. The temper on some women.”

  “I found Stephanie.”

  “Bien, we know,” he said.

  “Stephanie called you.”

  “She did. I told her she could trust the tall and slightly overweight detective from Roanoke.”

  “Overweight? Maybe you need to wear fancy Mormon underpants, yourself.”

  “Only if they’re made in America,” he said. “And only if by Brooks Brothers.”

  “If Stephanie agrees to help, I have a plan. But it doesn’t work if we can’t find Ronnie.”

  “Rocky Rickard, Beck’s boyfriend, arranged for us to meet an MS-13 informant tomorrow. If he comes through, and he better if he doesn’t want to be shot in the ass, we’ll narrow down her location and find her pronto.”

  “Good. I’m still hoping Stackhouse gets a hit on the airplane that transported Ronnie. So far, nothing,” I said.

  I heard Beck talking.

  Manny relayed, “We have news for you. Remember Hal New?”

  “Yes. The contract gunner Darren hired.”

  “Darren emailed him privately, off the ledger. Offered him a million dollars to kill you and a million to kill me,” he said.

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I should be worth more than you,” I said.

  “Killing me is impossible, hombre, so the offer should be infinite.”

  “It’s better than the last time, I suppose. The German bounty hunter Ernst took the contract on me for only a hundred grand.”

  “Hal New emailed him back. He agreed. So that makes it trickier. Darren wants it done in the next few days.”

  “Hm,” I said.

  “Hm.”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Good. You’re the boss. I can’t be pretty and smart at the same time,” he said.

  “Darren wouldn’t allow Hal New to run at me until after I deliver his ex-wife. So I’ll use that against him, if I can. I might work it into my plan. I have the best plans.”

  “If you talk to Hal New, tell that pendejo I’ll meet him at high noon.”

  “I will,” I said.

  “Like a vaquero. In a cowboy movie.”

  “I got it. A duel.”

  “Right. A duel. That’s it,” he said.

  “I’m calling him now. Buy Ronnie another day.”

  “Good luck, migo.”

  “Gracias.”

  I hung up. Set down the burner phone and picked up my hacked iPhone. Dialed Darren.

  “Ah, the rookie calls, finally,” he said. “Thought you took the day off.”

  Maybe he thought that because my phone was hacked and he saw that it didn’t move around much today?

  “I found Stephanie,” I said.

  “No kidding? You did? In Lynchburg?”

  “We spoke. She’s still in southwest Virginia.”

  “Where, exactly? In Lynchburg?” he said again.

  “In southwest Virginia. I’ll be more specific once she accepts your letter.”

  “Once she accepts? The hell, August? Did you meet her? Where? At your hotel? What’s going on?”

  “She’s around. She has mixed feelings about the letter.”

  “Where’d you find her?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said.

  “Bullshit, August! That’s bullshit! You want a video of Ron’s eyeballs being cut out? I call the shots, rookie, not you.”

  “Whatever happens to Ronnie, Darren, will happen to you. I guarantee it.”

  “August—”

  “Hush, Darren. I found a woman that you couldn’t, not in a hundred years. So calm down. She’s in southwest Virginia. She’s scared. We’re going to talk again tomorrow and I’ll give her the letter,” I said.

  “How’d you find her?”

  “Investigatorial brilliance and some luck.”

  “No, I mean…did you find her house? Does she work at a hotel or something?”

  He knew I was at a hotel. And he knew my phone had been there much of the day.

  “She doesn’t work at a hotel,” I said.

  “Is she staying at a hotel?”

  “No. She remarried,” I said, and I winced. Instantly I wanted those words back. Wasn’t sure if that information helped or hurt me.

  “Remarried? That bitch. That absolute whore.”

  “Don’t sweat it. It’s only part of her disguise.”

  “Yeah? Where is—”

  “She and I are communicating tomorrow, Darren. I’ll give her the letter. I think she’ll call you.”

  “You have to meet her in person. Okay? You gotta look her in the eyes and put the letter in her hand and then call me. Once you do that, Ronnie goes free,” he said.

  He’d said that before, the demand that I meet her in person. My guess was, he was going to track my phone. Follow
me. Get close enough to see Stephanie, and then maybe follow her home. Or kill me. Or both.

  Which meant, he wasn’t far. I bet he was in Lynchburg too, or Roanoke.

  I said, “I’ll meet her then call you. If Ronnie’s still alive and unharmed tomorrow morning.”

  “Yeah yeah, big shot, she is.”

  “Good.”

  “Good,” he said.

  I hung up and laid down on the bed. Pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes.

  The rest of my life hinged on Stephanie and her reluctance. And on Manny’s informant. And I could only wait.

  Friday Morning

  Mackenzie

  I parked in the BMW lot bright and early. Because I hadn’t slept much and I wanted Stephanie to see me when she drove past. It was March 1st and my heater fought with morning frost.

  A few cars arrived at eight, all BMWs.

  Showoffs.

  Stephanie and her cherry red convertible drove in at nine-thirty. She saw me and slowed.

  I pulled out of my spot at the front and followed her to the dealership’s central office. She parked. I waited behind her and buzzed my window down.

  She didn’t hurry into the warm looking office, though I would have if I was wearing those heels and stockings. She came to my car and spoke over her scarf.

  “I checked you out, Mackenzie August, private detective from Roanoke.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Maybe you aren’t lying.” Her words fogged between us.

  “I’m not. And this would work better if we cooperate.”

  “I might. But my husband can’t know about this.”

  “Understood.”

  “Ugh. Give me the letter.”

  I held it up. “Inside the letter, he asks you to call him. Don’t do it.”

  She did a scoff and an eye-roll. “I’m not calling that motherfucker.”

  I pressed the letter through the window and she took it, her mouth twisting with distaste.

  “I’ll call you later,” she said.

  “I hope so.’

  “On your card, you scratched your cell phone and wrote in a different number. Use that one?”

  “Yep. I’m on a different phone currently, to piss off Darren.”

  She allowed a small smile. Maybe. Maybe I was just hoping it was a smile.

  “Good. Pissing off Darren is good.”

  “Me and you, Stephanie, we could get on great.”

  Friday Afternoon

  Manny

  Manny and Beck drove south on Interstate 95. They didn’t have far to go; MS-13 was active in northern Virginia, prowling the outer edges of DC. Manny navigated the congested traffic, buffeted by a blustery March afternoon, and Beck skimmed an intel briefing on MS-13.

  “These gangs primarily victimize their own community. Did you know that? They target asylum seekers, families temporarily protected by visas, and illegal immigrants…mostly Hispanics. MS-13 robs and extorts them because they are less likely to go to the police.”

  Manny nodded, both hands gripping the wheel. “One reason I hate those babosos.”

  “That’s why the Kings have more money and influence than gangs like MS-13—because the Kings cater to the wealthy. They don’t rob the poor, they satisfy the rich. Their clientele is in a different socioeconomic stratosphere.”

  Manny exited the interstate in Woodbridge, at Potomac Mills, the hub of suburban sprawl.

  She kept reading. “A lot of the immigrants are juvenile orphans. Easy picking for the gangs. The older guys bully and threaten the younger to join.”

  “Por supuesto.”

  She lowered her laptop. “Did that happen to you? You were a young Latino in Los Angeles, a gang infested city.”

  “Yep. I was in La Eme, the Mexican Mafia, when I first came back. Was desperate for a network.”

  “What happened?”

  “I didn’t like La Eme’s rules. I kept fighting mi hombres mexicano, which I wasn’t supposed to do. So I quit. I ran off, the worst sin. They put out the call to kill me.” Manny shrugged as they circled the mega mall. Beck pointed out Ikea and Manny drove into the parking garage. He said, “I thought America was the best place on earth. Still do. Didn’t understand why these guys were trying to ruin it.”

  “How’d you get away?”

  “Got lucky. Arrested for public intoxication but the cop was part of an outreach program, run by Catholics. They helped me move and get settled outside the gangs. It was a little easier for me, because I was an American.”

  Manny parked. They got out and closed their doors simultaneously—he’d never been more proud of her than at that moment—and walked toward the glowing elevator bank. Beck held her coat closed. Manny let his sports jacket flap in the wind because he liked how his reflection looked.

  “What happened to your mom?” Beck asked with chattering teeth.

  “She did her best. But it wasn’t much.”

  “Where is she now?”

  They stepped out of the cold and into the warm lobby area. Manny pressed the elevator call button.

  “Beck?” he said.

  “Yes Sinatra?”

  “No more questions.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry. I was only curious. If your mom—”

  “Shhhh.”

  They took the elevator to the top floor, into the cafeteria. It was busy, but only with white Americans and affluent Europeans. The perfect place to meet an MS-13 informant without being recognized by poor Hispanics.

  Rocky Rickard was already there, sitting at a table with a Hispanic man. Rocky’s hair was perfect, his leg crossed over the other, he wore gloves and a heavy wool coat. The Hispanic man was bald, his scalp was tattooed, and his jeans were baggy. He was too thin and he needed a jacket.

  At a nearby table sat the large man in a black coat that Rocky traveled with.

  The Ikea patrons pretended the little group didn’t exist.

  Rocky stood to greet them. He shook Manny’s hand and kissed Beck’s cheek, and they sat. The Hispanic man temporarily ignored them, eating a sub sandwich and drinking a soda.

  “Thanks are in order, I believe,” said Rocky. “From friends of mine. You saved us from embarrassment and potential conflict with Los Urabeños. It remains a significant problem, but the loss isn’t devastating. And the powers-that-be recognize your risk and are grateful.”

  Manny waved it off.

  Beck smiled and Rocky squeezed her hand.

  “How’s the shoulder, Sinatra?” he asked.

  “Already healed, migo.”

  Beck rolled her eyes. A little. “He’ll be fine in a month. No permanent damage.”

  “Ah. Well, that’s a relief. I watched a few minutes of Good Morning America. The seizure is national news. Quite a coup for the Coast Guard. A Lieutenant Gibson is being hailed as a hero,” said Rocky.

  “Gibson got himself shot in the ass, and should be dead,” said Manny.

  “You don’t require any recognition?”

  “What I require?” Manny tapped his finger on the table. “Is Ronnie’s location.”

  “Then meet Hyrum, a leader within the Salvatrucha ranks, especially inside Woodbridge.” Rocky patted the Hispanic man on the shoulder. “He’s a closely guarded secret, but a certain mutual friend of ours wanted you to know she’s thankful for your help, and gave permission for you to meet Hyrum. He’s helped us before and will do so again today, on certain conditions.”

  “What conditions?” asked Beck.

  “That this conversation won’t be recorded. That you two federal agents will forget he exists. And that he is paid twenty-five thousand dollars.” Rocky smiled politely.

  “Deal. I’ll get him the pesos.”

  Beck blinked in surprise. “You will, Sinatra? From where?”

  “I gambled in Italy last year. I got plenty.”

  “You’ll personally cover the twenty-five thousand?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t express myself well,” said Rocky. “You two agents forget he exists, an
d I will pay the fee.”

  “Even better.”

  Rocky removed two thick envelopes from his jacket. He laid them on the table.

  Hyrum forgot his sandwich. He slurped from his straw and withdrew a slip of crumpled paper from his jacket. He tossed it onto the table. In return, he took the envelopes of cash and pushed them into his pants pockets.

  Manny didn’t touch the slip of paper.

  Beck did. She said, “What’s this?”

  “I know Mario,” said Hyrum. His voice was pitched high. His accent was heavy but he used the right words in the right order. “Mario the giant. I know Mario’s working with his friends. But I didn’t know why.”

  “I can barely read these…” Beck squinted at the paper. “They appear to be addresses?”

  “If Mario is near a beach? He’s at one of those houses with your friend.”

  Rocky said, “It’s my understanding, agents, that local MS-13 gangs are loosely affiliated with one another on a street level, but the leadership is more closely knotted. Resources are shared, in other words, especially as they traffic assets. I asked Hyrum to get me a list of houses where Mario might be keeping Ronnie. He produced that list of six potential sites.”

  “This isn’t good enough, Rocky.” Manny said it loud. His voice lost the usual affability. Hyrum took a second glance and even Beck looked startled.

  “I understand.” Rocky cleared his throat. It was best not to forget the lethal maniac hidden underneath the Sinatra veneer. “But—”

  “Call Mario. Now.”

  “I tried.” Hyrum was eyeing Manny with renewed respect. Something about the voice. “Mario disappeared a week ago. That’s what they told me. Nobody knows where he is.”

  “I wouldn’t bring you here, agents, if I thought it was a waste of your time. Hyrum has been an invaluable informant in the past. He says Mario and Ronnie are at one of these houses, and he’s never been wrong before.”

  Beck was punching addresses into her phone.

  Rocky continued, “Also, as promised, we are attempting to buy out the contract on your life. So far, the shooter, a man named Hal New, isn’t responding. Until he does, I’m afraid I can make no guarantee other than we’re trying.”

  Manny ignored him. He indicated the slip of paper Beck held. “How do you know these houses?”