Saint Death

Something had happened.

He had his orders, and he would obey them as far as he could.

He would go and bring him back. But he wouldn’t retire him unless there was nothing else for it. He would do everything he could to bring him back alive.

36

Beau Baxter didn’t even see him come in. He was hungry, busy with his plate of quesadillas, slicing them into neat triangles and then mopping the plate with them before slotting them into his mouth. It was a public place, popular and full of customers. He had let his guard down just for a moment and that was all it took. Adolfo González just slid onto the bench seat opposite him, a little smile on his face. It might have been mistaken for a friendly smile, one that an old friend gives to another, except for the fact that his right hand stayed beneath the table and held, Beau knew, a revolver that was pointed right at his balls.

“Good morning, Señor Baxter.”

“Señor González. I suppose you think I’m pretty stupid.”

“Negligent, perhaps. I’m surprised. Your reputation is excellent.”

“And yours,” Beau said, with a bitter laugh.

“You know not to make any sudden moves, yes?” Adolfo’s English was heavily accented, slightly lispy.

“No need to remind me.”

“Nevertheless—”

“There’s no need for this to end badly.”

“It won’t, Señor Baxter, at least not for me.”

Beau tried to maintain his composure. He laid the knife and fork on the plate, nudging them so that they rested neatly alongside each other. “Let me go back to New Jersey. I’ll tell them to lay off.”

“I could let you do that.”

“They’ll listen to me. I’ll explain.”

“But they won’t, Beau — do you mind if I call you Beau? You know they won’t. I killed your employer’s brother. I removed his head with a machete. I killed five more of their men. They want that debt repaid. I’d be the same if the roles were reversed, although I would do the business myself rather than hide behind a panocha’s skirts.”

“I’ve got money in the car. Twenty-five grand. I’ll give it to you.”

“That’s the price they put on me?”

“Half. You’re worth fifty.”

“Fifty.” He laughed gently. “Really? Beau, I’m disappointed in you. You think I need money?”

He realised how stupid that sounded. “I suppose not.”

He indicated the half-finished quesadilla. “How is the food here?”

“It’s alright.”

“Do you mind?” González picked up Beau’s knife, used it to slice off a triangle, then stabbed it and put it in his mouth. He chewed reflectively. “Mmmm,” he said after a long moment. “That is good. You like Oaxaca?”

“I like it alright.”

“It is a little too Mexican for most Americanos.”

“I’m a little too Mexican for most Americans.”

González took a napkin from the dispenser, folded it and carefully applied it to the corners of his mouth. Beau watched Adolfo all the time. He looked straight back at him. Beau assessed, but there was nothing that he could do. The table was pressed up against his legs, preventing him from moving easily, and, besides, he did not doubt that Adolfo had him covered. A revolver under the table, it didn’t matter what calibre it was, he couldn’t possibly miss. No, he thought. Nothing he could do except bide his time and hope he made a mistake.

“We’re alike, you and I,” he said.

González did not immediately answer. “Let me tell you something, Beau. I want to impart the gravity of your” — he fished for the correct word — “your predicament. Do you know what I did last night? I went out. Our business has a house in a nice neighbourhood. Lots of houses, actually, but this one has a big garden in back. Not far from here. We had two men staying there. Hijos de mil cojeros. They used to be colleagues but then they got greedy. They thought they could take my father’s money from him. Do you know what I did to them?”

“I can guess.”

“Indeed, and discussing the precise details would be barbaric, yes? I’m sure a man such as yourself must have an excellent imagination. We had some enjoyment but then, eventually, after several hours, I shot them both. And then, this morning, I visited the restaurant where a journalist and her friends were eating on Monday night. The owner and the cuero he was with, they didn’t give me the information that I wanted. So I shot them, too. Just like that.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Another question: do you know what a pozole is?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re fixing to tell me.”

He smiled, his small teeth showing white through his thin, red lips. “A pozole is a Mexican stew. Traditional. Hominy, pork, chillies. It’s important to keep stirring the soup while it is on the stove so that the flavours blend properly. One of my men has acquired a nickname: he is know as El Pozolera. The Stewmaker. It is because he is an expert in dissolving bodies. He fills a plastic drum with 200 litres of water, puts in two sacks of caustic soda, boils it over a fire and then adds the body. You boil them for eight hours until the only things left are teeth and nails, and then you take the remains — the soup — to an empty lot and burn it up with gasoline. It is disgusting for those without the constitution necessary to watch. A very particular smell.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because, Beau, I need you to understand that, even though we might be in the same business, you are mistaken: we are not alike. You deliver your quarry alive. You even allow them to bargain with you. To negotiate, to offer you a better deal. Mine ca

“Feels like business.”

“Again, a point of difference. For me, it is everything. It is the sensation of having someone’s life in the palm of your hand and then making your hand into a fist, tightening it, squeezing tighter and tighter until the life is crushed. That is power, Beau. The power of life and death.”

“You’re crazy.”

“By your standards, perhaps, but it hardly matters, does it?” The man leaned back. He studied Beau. “I’ll be honest. You will die today. It will not be quick or painless and I will enjoy it. We will record it and send it to your employer as a warning: anyone else you send to Mexico will end up the same way. The only question is where, when and how. I will give you a measure of control over the first two of those. The how? — that you must leave to me.”

Beau looked out of the restaurant’s window. “I know where the girl is.”

“Good for you.”

“The Englishman — I know where he’s taken her.”

“Ah, yes, the Englishman. Caro de culo. An interesting character. I can find out nothing about him. What can you tell me?”

“I could give you him, too.”

“You’re not listening, Beau. I don’t barter. You’ll tell me everything I want in the end, anyway.”

“I could deliver him to you in five minutes.”

He smiled again, humouring him. “You said you know where the girl is?”

“Yeah.”

“You know, Beau. It still doesn’t matter.”

“And why is that?”

“Because there is nowhere in Juárez where the Englishman could hide her from me. This city is mine, Beau. Every hovel in every barrio. Every street corner, every alleyway. Every hotel, every mansion, every last square inch. How do you think I found you? All I have to do is wait. She will be delivered to me eventually. They always are.”

37