Ten miles north up the beach from their hotel in La Crucecita, James’s place was a white box beach house that was large and modern with a lot of glass.
Even after they got buzzed through the gate, Lou was still watching out the back window for an ambush.
“Alberto told me they’re about to leave to their plane now,” Alessandra said as she bagged her phone. “That’s actually a good thing. That’s good for us.”
“Why’s that?” Lou said.
“James will be in the mood for deal making. One of my husband’s rules to live by was to always wait to ask for something when the boss was hurrying out the door.”
Lou opened his mouth. Then he closed it, not wanting to remind her that her husband’s rules to live by hadn’t really served him all that well, had they? Since he recalled that the drug dealer had died a horrible violent death several years ago in a Medellín cartel car bombing.
Lou patted at the sweat on his face with a jacket sleeve as they stopped in the circular driveway. When the driver got out for a second, Lou, still in a bewildered state bordering on panic, thought very seriously about hopping into the front and slipping it into Reverse and just slamming down the accelerator.
Alberto greeted them at the door and just inside it there was a large man in camo wearing a ski mask and a .45 in a belt holster.
“It is okay. These are friends,” Alberto said as the meaty guy held up a metal detector wand. But the guard completely ignored him as he wanded them anyway.
The living room Alberto led them into was the size of a hotel ballroom. Beyond the soaring window at the other end of it, James, with his shirt off, was on the covered patio before the water view infinity pool sipping at a drink while he talked on the phone.
“James will be with you in a moment,” Alberto said as they were led to a white sectional couch the length of a limousine. “Drinks?”
No one wanted drinks. As they sat, Lou watched shirtless James pace back and forth by the window. He was in great shape. He had stomach muscles like a male model or something. Even with steroids in his midforties he had to work out like what? Three hours a day?
Lou looked down at the Mexican tile, trying to breathe down his anxiety. There was a soundless flat-screen on the wall to the left and when he looked up at it, an Asian female golfer was lining up a putt.
The ball just missed the hole as Alberto returned with his own drink.
“Is there a restroom I can use?” Lou said, standing.
Alberto pointed toward the kitchen to the right. The open door of the powder room was in the corridor just beyond it but Lou, still not liking any of this in the slightest, immediately stepped past it toward a flight of circular stairs at the end of the hallway.
Halfway to the stairs beyond the powder room door on the right side was another door half-open and he peeked inside.
It was the garage. Inside of it was a large van.
And beside the van was the American player from the Concurso, sitting in a wheelchair.
The poor son of a bitch was in a waist chain and handcuffs interlinked with leg shackles and he had a black cloth bag over his head. But Lou could tell it was him because he was still in his soccer shorts.
Whatever his story was, Lou admired him. Dude had king-size balls, the size desperate housewives did Pilates on. Out of all the people here, he was the one person who still seemed sane.
Lou looked up and down the hallway.
He pushed through the door and quickly came down the steps.
As he approached, he could hear the guy’s labored breathing.
No wonder, Lou thought. The un-air-conditioned garage was about a hundred degrees.
The guy stiffened and glared up at him as Lou pulled off his hood. It was the crazy gringo all right. He was sweating and red-faced and he had a gag on, a black ninety-nine-cent store bandana. Lou was still working on the knot when he heard the door behind him.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” said a voice.
Lou turned as a soldier in camo and a ski mask came down the steps. It was a different one from the one who had wanded them into the house. This one was very tall and had his hand on a .45.
“What am I doing?” Lou said, shifting into immediate outrage. “What the hell are you doing? Get this guy a damn bottle of water, would you? It’s a hundred degrees in here. I’m coming out of the bathroom, and I hear this guy gasping his last breath.”
“What are you? His nanny? Get lost!” the thug said.
He was half drawing his pistol when Alberto suddenly appeared at the doorway.
“Louis! Where have you been?” Alberto said. “James is ready.”
Instead of moving an inch, Lou stood eyeing the tall masked scumbag until he turned and left the garage.
Then he finally undid the knot and let the gag fall to the floor.
“You’re all set,” Lou said as the American began spitting.
“Louis, now,” Alberto said.
Lou paused. Then he shot the cuffs of his sport coat.
“I’m coming,” Lou said finally.
“Hey!” called out a voice as he got to the top of the steps.
Lou glanced back at the brass-balled American in the wheelchair. He was smiling widely.
“Thanks, homey,” he said.