Commies?”
Lucas considered for a moment, then said, “Fascists,” and Mallard passed him the Journal. They both opened to the editorial pages, looked over the offerings, and then Lucas asked, casually, “How bad you got it for Malone?”
Mallard’s newspaper folded down. He looked at Lucas for a long moment, then sighed and said, “Is it that obvious?”
“Yup,” Lucas said.
“The goddamn woman drives me crazy. I know you guys…” He didn’t say it—that Lucas and Malone once spent a happy weekend together. “That’s not a big deal. I just… hunger after her. I thought I was hiding it pretty well.”
“I’m a trained investigator,” Lucas said. He looked at an editorial headline that said, “‘Sweatshops’ Often Build Sustaining Family Businesses.” After a moment of silence from Mallard, he added, “I suspect nobody else knows, except any trained investigators you might have at the FBI. And Malone, of course.”
Mallard’s eyebrows went up. “You think she knows?”
“Jesus Christ, Louis, she knew before you did,” Lucas said. “Women always know that shit first. And she’s not backing away. If I were you, I’d set up a moment somewhere. Have a few drinks around the pool tonight, tell her a few stories, give her a chance to tell you a few, and you know, going up stairs, put a hand on her.”
“What about the drywall guy? The Sheetrocker?”
“Fuck the drywall guy. You’re not playing tennis.”
“Have to be more than a few drinks,” Mallard said gloomily. He looked scared to death.
“It’s no big deal, Louis,” Lucas said. “People do it all the time.”
“Not me,” Mallard said. “I’m not exactly your romantic hero.”
“Yes, you are, Louis. You’re a big wheel in the FBI. You’re involved in international intrigue. You carry a great big gun. You spend the taxpayers’ money like it was water.”
“I’m paying for the beer personally.”
“Louis, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Yeah, yeah.” The phone in his pocket rang and he slipped it out, answered, listened for a moment, then said, “Oh, boy. When? We’ll be out front.” He clicked it shut and said, “Martin’s coming back. They found that guy who might have been the driver.”
“Dead?”
“Not yet. But he’s in terrible shape. Martin says he was tortured.”
“Where is he?”
“Here. Cancún. He was dumped at a hospital. Martin’ll be here in five minutes.”
MALONE CAME OUT of the elevator as Mallard was ringing her room. Mallard explained about the phone call on the way to the door. Martin roared in three minutes later, parting the clouds of Volkswagen Beetles like a wolf going through a flock of sheep. “He’s at the hospital now,” he said, as they scrambled aboard.
“How bad?” Lucas asked.
“He could die before we get there,” Martin said. His face had gone grim as a crocodile’s, and the easy charm had vanished. They bounced over a curb going out of the parking lot, onto the strip. Lucas had no idea of where they were going. The GMC was rigged with a siren to go with the flasher lights above the bumper, and Martin punched the truck through the traffic.
An unknown person had driven an old Toyota Corolla over a curb at the hospital emergency entrance, Martin said, had left the motor running and the passenger door open, and walked away. When a cop inside the emergency room noticed the car, he’d gone out to order the owner to move it—and found the tortured man sitting in a blood-soaked passenger seat. Nobody saw where the Corolla’s driver went. Nobody remembered what he looked like.
Then: “Here it is.” Martin did a U-turn and dropped down a slanting concrete ramp to the emergency entrance at the hospital. A cop at the entrance tried to wave them away, but Martin put the truck astride the main door’s entrance ramp, hopped out, and showed the cop a card. The cop stepped back, and Mejia said something that Lucas thought might mean, “Park the
Lucas considered for a moment, then said, “Fascists,” and Mallard passed him the Journal. They both opened to the editorial pages, looked over the offerings, and then Lucas asked, casually, “How bad you got it for Malone?”
Mallard’s newspaper folded down. He looked at Lucas for a long moment, then sighed and said, “Is it that obvious?”
“Yup,” Lucas said.
“The goddamn woman drives me crazy. I know you guys…” He didn’t say it—that Lucas and Malone once spent a happy weekend together. “That’s not a big deal. I just… hunger after her. I thought I was hiding it pretty well.”
“I’m a trained investigator,” Lucas said. He looked at an editorial headline that said, “‘Sweatshops’ Often Build Sustaining Family Businesses.” After a moment of silence from Mallard, he added, “I suspect nobody else knows, except any trained investigators you might have at the FBI. And Malone, of course.”
Mallard’s eyebrows went up. “You think she knows?”
“Jesus Christ, Louis, she knew before you did,” Lucas said. “Women always know that shit first. And she’s not backing away. If I were you, I’d set up a moment somewhere. Have a few drinks around the pool tonight, tell her a few stories, give her a chance to tell you a few, and you know, going up stairs, put a hand on her.”
“What about the drywall guy? The Sheetrocker?”
“Fuck the drywall guy. You’re not playing tennis.”
“Have to be more than a few drinks,” Mallard said gloomily. He looked scared to death.
“It’s no big deal, Louis,” Lucas said. “People do it all the time.”
“Not me,” Mallard said. “I’m not exactly your romantic hero.”
“Yes, you are, Louis. You’re a big wheel in the FBI. You’re involved in international intrigue. You carry a great big gun. You spend the taxpayers’ money like it was water.”
“I’m paying for the beer personally.”
“Louis, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Yeah, yeah.” The phone in his pocket rang and he slipped it out, answered, listened for a moment, then said, “Oh, boy. When? We’ll be out front.” He clicked it shut and said, “Martin’s coming back. They found that guy who might have been the driver.”
“Dead?”
“Not yet. But he’s in terrible shape. Martin says he was tortured.”
“Where is he?”
“Here. Cancún. He was dumped at a hospital. Martin’ll be here in five minutes.”
MALONE CAME OUT of the elevator as Mallard was ringing her room. Mallard explained about the phone call on the way to the door. Martin roared in three minutes later, parting the clouds of Volkswagen Beetles like a wolf going through a flock of sheep. “He’s at the hospital now,” he said, as they scrambled aboard.
“How bad?” Lucas asked.
“He could die before we get there,” Martin said. His face had gone grim as a crocodile’s, and the easy charm had vanished. They bounced over a curb going out of the parking lot, onto the strip. Lucas had no idea of where they were going. The GMC was rigged with a siren to go with the flasher lights above the bumper, and Martin punched the truck through the traffic.
An unknown person had driven an old Toyota Corolla over a curb at the hospital emergency entrance, Martin said, had left the motor running and the passenger door open, and walked away. When a cop inside the emergency room noticed the car, he’d gone out to order the owner to move it—and found the tortured man sitting in a blood-soaked passenger seat. Nobody saw where the Corolla’s driver went. Nobody remembered what he looked like.
Then: “Here it is.” Martin did a U-turn and dropped down a slanting concrete ramp to the emergency entrance at the hospital. A cop at the entrance tried to wave them away, but Martin put the truck astride the main door’s entrance ramp, hopped out, and showed the cop a card. The cop stepped back, and Mejia said something that Lucas thought might mean, “Park the
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