bones clutched the film, then pushed him out the door. "It is not important I know. I will send the photos to him. You give him the information."
Leaning in on the door as the old man tried to close it, Jorge warned him: "No mistakes! This is life and death!"
Senor Brillas locked the door. He turned the small film canister in his hands. "Soldiers, cocaine, and death. Always."
From a nearby cafe's pay phone, Jorge called Zavala, lieutenant to El Negro. The chatter and laughter of four teenage girls forced Jorge to put his other hand over his free ear and speak closely into the mouthpiece.
"This is your friend with a camera. Can we speak?"
"Why did you not call this morning? What do you have to tell me?"
"They did not come until only an hour ago. I have photos of all of them."
"And names? What gang?"
"They were North Americans. Two of them. Perhaps the others. You will have the photos soon. You will see."
"Did they take the dead one with them?"
"No. They left him. And they laughed when they left."
"Did they look like DEA?"
"I don't know. They wore suits. Three of them looked like soldiers. What I say means nothing. You will have the photos. There is nothing else I know."
"Thank you, friend. You will have your money soon. And soon we will know who those Americans are."
Slamming down the telephone, Jorge laughed out loud, slapped his hands together. What did he want most? An Italian motor scooter? Or a new uniform? Then it occurred to him. If the Americans were agents of the Drug Enforcement Agency, perhaps El Negro would give him even more. He could have both the scooter and the uniform! Jorge would be the envy of the barracks.
* * *
Following the directions Blancanales gave through the intercom, Lyons eased through the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Whenever the other drivers saw the limousine, they eased away.
"Marvellous how a hundred-thousand-dollar car cuts through traffic jams," Lyons told the others through the intercom.
Gadgets smiled wearily. "We're going about five miles per hour."
"They're all making room for me. I feel like the king of the road."
Blancanales laughed. "It's not the car, it's who they think is inside it. Pull over in front of the hotel there."
As Lyons coasted to a stop in front of the doorman, two soldiers in combat gear saw the limo, snapped to attention. Once Blancanales and Gadgets appeared from within the limousine, the soldiers relaxed. Lyons started out of the driver's door. Blancanales leaned over the roof of the Mercedes.
"It's the custom here for the driver to stay in the car and keep the engine running. Things happen fast. Stand by while we go in and get our gangsters."
Lyons waited, switched on the radio. He watched the traffic pass. He glanced in the rearview mirror. He wanted to put the Uzi on the seat beside him, but he was uncertain how the soldiers or the local law enforcement would react to an automatic weapon in a civilian limousine. So he snapped open the briefcase latches, then kept his hand on the grip of the Uzi. On the radio, a man's voice ranted and shrieked. Lyons did not know enough Spanish to understand what was said, but when the raving went on for minutes, without other voices or commercials, he spun the dial. "Politics or religion," he muttered. "Got to be."
The voice blasted from all the other channels. Lyons turned off the radio. "Politics."
Then he saw Blancanales and Gadgets escorting a man and a woman toward the curb. They were the agents who were setting up the Caribbean connection. The man was middle-aged, paunchy, wearing a conservative gray suit. The woman, tall and lithe, young, wore red satin and a black mink. She looked like sin striding.
Lyons watched her strut to the limo, the satin of her gown flashing with each step as the shimmering fabric revealed the curves of her hips and thighs.
Texas could wait. Lyons turned in the seat, watched through the Plexiglas partition as she swept into the Mercedes, her lovely features framed in mink and
Leaning in on the door as the old man tried to close it, Jorge warned him: "No mistakes! This is life and death!"
Senor Brillas locked the door. He turned the small film canister in his hands. "Soldiers, cocaine, and death. Always."
From a nearby cafe's pay phone, Jorge called Zavala, lieutenant to El Negro. The chatter and laughter of four teenage girls forced Jorge to put his other hand over his free ear and speak closely into the mouthpiece.
"This is your friend with a camera. Can we speak?"
"Why did you not call this morning? What do you have to tell me?"
"They did not come until only an hour ago. I have photos of all of them."
"And names? What gang?"
"They were North Americans. Two of them. Perhaps the others. You will have the photos soon. You will see."
"Did they take the dead one with them?"
"No. They left him. And they laughed when they left."
"Did they look like DEA?"
"I don't know. They wore suits. Three of them looked like soldiers. What I say means nothing. You will have the photos. There is nothing else I know."
"Thank you, friend. You will have your money soon. And soon we will know who those Americans are."
Slamming down the telephone, Jorge laughed out loud, slapped his hands together. What did he want most? An Italian motor scooter? Or a new uniform? Then it occurred to him. If the Americans were agents of the Drug Enforcement Agency, perhaps El Negro would give him even more. He could have both the scooter and the uniform! Jorge would be the envy of the barracks.
* * *
Following the directions Blancanales gave through the intercom, Lyons eased through the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Whenever the other drivers saw the limousine, they eased away.
"Marvellous how a hundred-thousand-dollar car cuts through traffic jams," Lyons told the others through the intercom.
Gadgets smiled wearily. "We're going about five miles per hour."
"They're all making room for me. I feel like the king of the road."
Blancanales laughed. "It's not the car, it's who they think is inside it. Pull over in front of the hotel there."
As Lyons coasted to a stop in front of the doorman, two soldiers in combat gear saw the limo, snapped to attention. Once Blancanales and Gadgets appeared from within the limousine, the soldiers relaxed. Lyons started out of the driver's door. Blancanales leaned over the roof of the Mercedes.
"It's the custom here for the driver to stay in the car and keep the engine running. Things happen fast. Stand by while we go in and get our gangsters."
Lyons waited, switched on the radio. He watched the traffic pass. He glanced in the rearview mirror. He wanted to put the Uzi on the seat beside him, but he was uncertain how the soldiers or the local law enforcement would react to an automatic weapon in a civilian limousine. So he snapped open the briefcase latches, then kept his hand on the grip of the Uzi. On the radio, a man's voice ranted and shrieked. Lyons did not know enough Spanish to understand what was said, but when the raving went on for minutes, without other voices or commercials, he spun the dial. "Politics or religion," he muttered. "Got to be."
The voice blasted from all the other channels. Lyons turned off the radio. "Politics."
Then he saw Blancanales and Gadgets escorting a man and a woman toward the curb. They were the agents who were setting up the Caribbean connection. The man was middle-aged, paunchy, wearing a conservative gray suit. The woman, tall and lithe, young, wore red satin and a black mink. She looked like sin striding.
Lyons watched her strut to the limo, the satin of her gown flashing with each step as the shimmering fabric revealed the curves of her hips and thighs.
Texas could wait. Lyons turned in the seat, watched through the Plexiglas partition as she swept into the Mercedes, her lovely features framed in mink and
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