CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Nothing.

Ricardo had spent the entire night watching the front entry to 417 Matamoros Street with nothing to show for it. Not one person had entered or exited the modest two-story stucco house tucked between a souvenir shop and a decrepit-looking pharmacia promoting Viagra and a host of other prescription drugs available over the counter. A couple of older gringos had visited the drugstore and come away with small bags and a smile. It disgusted him. A man was a man—he didn’t need that shit to get it up.

After a few hours’ sleep, he was back in his favorite chair in the bar, the daily newspaper on the table along with an espresso. The sun began to heat the street, and he loosened his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. It was going to be hot. Noon crawled by, and he ordered his first beer of the day. He’d had enough coffee. For the first time he wondered if this was going to work. They were relying on Carlos Valendez to open a back door to Edward Brand. But if Valendez didn’t show, everything changed. Ricardo would have to fly to Puerto Vallarta and try to get face to face with Brand without a middleman. Not easy and not without its pitfalls. Edward Brand was a con man, and con men were suspicious by nature. Selling him on Monte Alban without some sort of a lead-in would be difficult, if not impossible.

The beer arrived, and he took a short swig. He’d nursed six of them yesterday, but today was going to be even longer. He’d have to pace himself. A pretty girl walked by with a fat friend, and he smiled. She returned the smile, and glanced back. He was just about to wave at her and invite her in for a drink when the heavy wood door at 417 opened and a man appeared. He turned back to the door and locked it, then moved south on Matamoros toward the marina. Ricardo dropped some money on the table and settled in about a half block behind the man. That he had locked the door behind him was a good sign. It might mean that he lived there alone, which would mean that he was Valendez. Maybe, maybe not. No one told him this would be easy.

The man he was following was a working-class Mexican in his thirties. He wore ripped jeans and a white T-shirt with a small stain on the front. His gait was reasonably quick, and Ricardo hurried when the man reached Avenida Lazaro Cárdenas and disappeared around the corner. Ricardo picked him up again on the main street that skirted the marina. His target was moving slower now, eyeing the throngs of young college coeds that are staples in Cabo San Lucas. He crossed the street and entered one of the many bars fronting onto the marina. Ricardo waited for a minute then followed him in.

The bar was about half full, and most of the patrons were gringos in varying stages of sunburn. The décor was tacky Mexican, which the tourists seemed to love, and the menu was an entire list of high-cholesterol food. Valendez, if that was his name, was sitting at the bar talking with the bartender. They appeared to know each other. Ricardo moved through the bar slowly, as if deciding where to sit. In his peripheral vision, he saw the bartender was watching him. He stopped and continued to look about. Then he moved toward the bar and took a seat two stools down from the man he had followed. The bartender sidled over and set a coaster on the bar.

“What can I get you?” he asked in Spanish.

“A few more Mexicans in the bar, less gringos,” Ricardo said. That prompted a laugh from the bartender. “Corona.” Sol and Corona had the lock on the Mexican beer market, but he preferred Corona hands down.

“You got it.”

Ricardo glanced toward Valendez and caught the man’s eye. They nodded at each other. The beer arrived and he took a long drink. He finished it quickly and ordered another. Ricardo kept his eyes off Valendez until he was halfway through the second beer. When he glanced over, they locked eyes again.

“Too many gringos,” Ricardo said quietly, but loud enough for the man to hear. “The women are nice, but it’s like we’re giving them our country.”

“Gringos bring money, amigo,” the man said. His voice was throaty, deeper than Ricardo expected. “Lots of money.”

“Yeah, and then they fuck you,” Ricardo said. Again, only loud enough for his conversation partner to hear.

“That’s a good thing, if it’s a woman,” the man joked. He smiled, and his teeth were crooked and stained from cigarettes and coffee. His eyes were dark brown, but cold. A small scar ran down the left side of his face, from the corner of his eye to halfway down his cheek. His hair was long and looked greasy.

Ricardo turned back to the bar. “I wish. It’s nothing like that. I just got screwed, is all.”

There was a break, then the man asked, “What happened?”

Ricardo looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

The man shifted over one seat so he was next to Ricardo. Cigar smoke drifted up from the stub in the man’s hand. “Try me.”

“Ricardo.” He offered his hand.

“Carlos.”

Ricardo sipped his beer. Pay dirt. He had his man. “I had a deal of sorts. A good one. I needed some money to make it work. I had a gringo who lived in Texas and has one of those luxury villas down here interested in covering the up-front money for a percentage.”

“He back out?”

Ricardo sneered into his beer. “Yeah, the chickenshit asshole. He realized it was more than just handing me a wad of cash and got scared. Now I’m fucked. Fucked beyond belief.”

Carlos finished his beer and motioned to the bartender. Two Coronas appeared in record time. He puffed on a short, stubby cigar. “What sort of deal did you have on the go?”

Ricardo turned a bit and eyed Carlos up and down. “It’s private,” he said, turning back to his beer.

“Too bad. Maybe I know someone.”

The Eagles played in the background—“Lyin’ Eyes”—and a table of tourists laughed at an unheard joke. The bartender slowly polished a glass, watching the two men at his bar with interest. Finally, Ricardo swiveled about slightly and faced Carlos.

“I’ve been burned once,” he said. “Don’t need it to happen again.”

Carlos shrugged. Both men were feeling each other out now—the game was on. “Right now you got nothing. The deal is dead.”

“Yeah,” Ricardo said quietly, turning back to the bar and working on his beer. “It’s dead.”

“Is it worth doing?” Carlos asked.

Ricardo stared straight ahead. “Would have set me up for life,” he said. “Could have had one of those fucking villas. Asshole fucked it all up.”

“Big money,” Carlos said. “That might be worth looking at.”

Ricardo didn’t look over. Just shook his head. “No time. The deal has to be done in a few days. It’s done.” He finished his beer and stuck his finger in the neck of the bottle and idly swung it around a few times before setting it on the bar. He glanced at Carlos. “Done, amigo. Gone. Millions of dollars. Gone.”

“I’m not shitting you,” Carlos said. “I’ve got a guy can make things happen. Quick if it’s a good deal.”

“So what’s in it for you?” Ricardo asked. Another beer showed up.

“A finder’s fee. My guy pays well if things work out.”

Ricardo finally allowed himself a wry smile. “Oh, if this works out, you’d get the finder’s fee of all times.”

“Then let’s talk,” Carlos said.

Ricardo gave the man a long, hard look. “Okay,” he said as the Eagles tune finished and Bob Seger started singing “Night Moves.” “Let’s talk.”