XXVII
Task leaned back in the passenger seat of the white sports utility vehicle and shifted his attention from the lumps that sat nearby to the rumbling ones that hung in the vault overhead. His wet clothing clung to his feet, shins, and arms, and he was cold despite the warm weather.
The automobile rolled east for seven minutes, cornered, and proceeded north. Financial district skyscrapers appeared on the blurry horizon and expanded until the automobile was in a deep valley of concrete façades and dark windows. Ten more minutes of travel in this direction brought the vehicle into a developing area.
The goateed cog cut the wheel and steered directly at a tall barb-wire fence that had an orange privacy mesh. Tires squeaked, and the truck stopped moving. Locks clicked, rising, and Leo V. exited from the back of the vehicle. His big black umbrella opened like the wings of a bat.
The short fellow shut the door, walked into the headlights, and reached into the right pocket of his dark blue suit. Keys in his hand, he undid three padlocks (which held just as many chains) and shoved the gate.
The driver accelerated past his peer and into the muddy lot. Two hundred feet away stood a thing that would one day be a skyscraper but was currently a lot of girders and ideas.
Task glanced at the side view mirror.
Leo V. fastened the chains around the reunited fence posts and then walked toward the vehicle. The back door opened and shut.
Tires churned wet earth as the SUV rolled toward the foundations of the partially completed skyscraper.
The goateed cog cut the wheel to the right. Headlights panned across the percolating mud and shone upon a saffron-colored, sixty-foot long box of corrugated metal. A curtained window glowed on the right side of the trailer, and on the opposite end stood an off-white door.
The SUV stopped.
A lot of fears crowded into Task, who was now unarmed on a closed construction site with some consortium guys in the middle of a storm. Concerns of treachery suddenly joined his other more logical apprehensions, and briefly, he wondered why he had not allowed himself to look back at Erin as the automobile had left the diner.
The goateed cog shoved the gear stick into park.
“Go in,” said Leo V., who did not choose to lend out his umbrella.
Task pulled the latch and leaned sideways. The storm squeezed through the opening, pelting him as he climbed out of his seat.
Italians slapped the mud, and the slick shut the door. Mud percolated like magma as he walked through the downpour toward the saffron trailer. The floral curtain flinched, moved by an unseen watcher.
Rain hissed.
Task reached the stairwell that led to the off-white door. Hard leather clanked upon steel as he climbed, trailing ochre gobs. Physical discomforts and the deluge partially distracted him from his fears.
A bolt clicked, and the slick raised his gaze.
The off-white panel swung inward, revealing the buzzcut cog who had driven Strembicky’s town car at the bakery one week earlier. Fresh bandages sat on his jaw and right arm, and dangling from one of his gloved hands was a red fire extinguisher.
The underling stepped aside, revealing a bright saffron interior.
Task walked through the doorway.
Seated in a rolling chair and wearing a black windbreaker suit and blue rubber gloves was the agent. His left elbow was on an office desk that had a bottle of water, two coffees, and a black toolbox.
The buzzcut cog waved at the SUV, shut the door, and turned the bolt, which snapped.
Anxious, Task looked around.
Nobody but the fat fellow and his underling inhabited the Spartan room.
Concerns of treachery percolated inside the slick’s brainpan once again, and he took a moment to master his fears before he spoke. “Is the boss here?”
“No,” replied the agent.
“Is he coming?”
“No.” The fat fellow motioned to the black toolbox. “This is for you.”
Task walked to the desk and withdrew a handkerchief, which he then used to lift the lid.
Lying inside the toolbox were a pair of blue rubber gloves and a nickel-plated revolver.
The slick wiped some wet hair out of his eyes and took a deep breath. Careful not to touch the toolbox itself, he claimed the gloves and pulled them over his hands. His fingertips throbbed inside of the tight rubber.
Somebody groaned.
Task looked to the far side of the trailer and saw a closed white door. The plaintive sound had emerged from beyond that barrier.
Rain rattled on the roof as the slick returned his attention to the toolbox and withdrew the nickel-plated revolver. His rubberized fingers pressed the release and opened the weapon.
Sitting in the cylinder was exactly one bullet.
Task looked at the agent. “You only got one of them?”
“Only one of them is still alive.”
The slick swung the cylinder in place. “So, what happened?”
“Two Hispanic gentlemen contacted one of our bookies. They wished to place a bet on Flores versus Johnson.”
“How much?”
“Fourteen hundred dollars.”
Task was incredulous. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” the fat fellow said through a smirk. “The robbers were told to come in and make a deposit.
“We were waiting.”
“I can’t believe they bet exactly half of the take.” The slick scratched an itch on his face with a rubber digit. “Fucking morons.”
“They are unintelligent, though they move very, very quickly—” The agent pointed at the bandages that adorned the buzzcut cog. “And another one of ours is in the hospital.”
“Serious?”
“It’s not trivial, but he’ll recover.” The fat fellow stood from the chair. “Are you ready?”
The slick fingered the nickel-plated revolver, inhaled deeply, and steeled himself. “I am.”
The three men walked toward the white door. Clattering rain and heavy footfalls resounded throughout space.
Task eyed the agent. “Did you find out their source?”
“The one that died did not survive long enough to be questioned, and our captive has been less than cooperative.”
“I need that information.”
“We know that you do.” The word “you” was emphasized in this statement.
The slick knew that things were going to get mean. This would not be a short and clean execution.
The buzzcut cog stopped and opened the door.
Curled up in a fetal position at the bottom of a shower was a naked and unconscious Hispanic who had a beard, a lot of scars, and a purple bruise on his forehead the size of a golf ball. Stainless steel handcuffs clasped his ankles and wrists, and his left foot wore an entire roll of duct tape.
“This is Hector Bello,” stated the agent. “He was released from the broiler a little less than four months ago.”
The slick noticed that the captive was missing two and one third fingers. “What happened to his hands?”
“He came like that,” said the buzzcut cog. “Except for the foot, which I shot twice.”
The fat fellow gestured. “Let’s start.”
Holding the fire extinguisher, the underling stepped forward, aimed the discharge hose, and squeezed the lever.
Foam slapped Hector’s face. Yelling, he spat out chemicals.
“¡Hijos de putas! You fucking—”
Foam filled his mouth.
Choking, the lowrider twisted away from the spray and rolled onto his side.
The buzzcut cog released the lever and withdrew from the bathroom.
Task walked through the doorway. “Who told you about the Commerce Street pickup?”
Hector rolled onto his back and opened his swollen red eyes. An ugly grin remodeled the forest of wiry hair that comprised his beard. “It’s the soap opera actor.”
“Who told you about the Commerce Street pickup?”
“How’s your friend?” The lowrider chuckled and sat upright. “Mr. Beefcake?”
The slick disregarded the goad. “Who told you about the pickup?”
“You didn’t like it when we shot at you, did you? Hiding like a faggot-ass bitch while your—”
Task slammed the revolver into the golf ball-sized bruise. Hector winced, gritting his teeth, but made no sound.
“Who told you about the pickup?” asked the slick.
“It wasn’t nice leaving your friend like that. He—”
Task stomped his right heel upon the duct-taped foot. Bones crackled.
Jaw clenched, Hector silently endured his pain.
“Who told you about the pickup?”
“Fuck you.”
The slick kicked the lowrider’s nose. Cartilage snapped.
“Who?”
Blood filled Hector’s nostrils and dripped down his foamy beard. A thin and staccato squeak came from behind his ugly yellow teeth.
He was laughing.
It was unclear if the lowrider was high on something or a masochist (or both), but his incomplete hands and the scars all over his body proved that he was well acquainted with pain. A man like this would probably be able to endure physical torments until his brain relinquished consciousness.
An oblique tactic was needed.
Withdrawing from the bathroom, Task faced the agent. “Did you find a cellphone on him or his buddy?”
“Both,” answered the buzzcut cog. “They’re in the car.”
“Get them.”
The consortium guys exchanged a look, and a moment later, the underling walked toward the off-white door.
Inside the bathroom, Hector leaned his back against the tiled wall of the shower. Blood drained from his smashed nose and ran down his throat and torso, bisecting him like a zipper. The discharge from the fire extinguisher had turned his eyes into puffy red bivalves.
An umbrella expanded over the head of the buzzcut cog as he walked outside. The door shut, and heavy footfalls clanked down the steps.
Task hoped that the cellphones would not be locked, yet he knew that they would be. Pondering plots, he walked over to the curtained window and peered outside.
The white SUV was missing, as was the underling, though the splashing footfalls of the latter were now audible behind the trailer.
“Did Mr. Beefcake have a nice funeral?”
The slick ignored the goad. Falling rain rattled on the ceiling, and a couple of loose panels buzzed. The buzzcut cog soon reappeared outside, carrying a plump trash bag.
“Did he get buried with his favorite set of dumbbells?”
Another squeaky laugh came from Hector, who was obviously doing what he could to hasten his execution. This antagonism would not alter Task’s itinerary, but it did make the imminent murder more palatable.
Footfalls clanked as the buzzcut cog climbed the steps. Collapsing the umbrella, he entered the trailer and elbowed the door. A bolt snapped, and the dripping trash bag thudded upon the office desk.
“Did he shit himself when we shot him?” asked the lowrider. “Fill his pants with all that sperm you pump up his ass?”
The underling rooted in the open trash bag and walked across the trailer toward the bathroom. Held in his right hand were a red touchscreen cellphone and a black one.
The slick took the slender devices.
Squeaking, Hector flashed his bloodstained teeth.
Task activated the black cellphone.
The touchscreen illuminated. Atop an empty box were the words, “Enter Code.”
The slick tried the red one and came to the same digital barrier, though with the additional information that there were ‘7 Missed Calls.’
“Too bad, maricón,” said the lowrider. “I guess you can’t use them…”
Task slid the cellphones into his jacket pocket, turned to the bathroom doorway, and eyed Hector. “Now you’re fucked.”
“They’re locked. Both of them.”
“I know—I have the same kind myself. But you know what happens when there’s an incoming call?”
The lowrider looked confused.
“You’re an imbecile,” the slick stated, “so I’ll just tell you rather than watch you attempt to fire a neuron.
“Two things happen when a call comes in: A phone number appears on the screen or a name does, depending on what you’ve entered.”
The lowrider shrugged. “So?”
“Looks like the neuron’s asleep,” remarked the buzzcut cog.
“If a phone number comes up,” Task continued, “I’ll write it down and send a text message to the caller from a computer at an Internet cafe.”
Hector spat red ichor. “Nobody’ll tell you shit.”
“This caller will,” said the slick. “This caller will think I’m you because the text message will be from an email account that has the name Hector Bello, which I am about to create.
“So I’ll send the caller a text message from my Hector Bello account, saying that I’m at a café using a computer because my phone’s having problems and my normal email account was hacked.
“The next day, I’ll let the caller know that I need his or her full mailing address for a special package that I’m sending out.”
Task motioned to the consortium guys. “Then we’ll visit the caller.”
The lowrider was unable to keep a smile on his face.
“If we get a name,” the slick resumed, “then we just look that person up and make a visit.
“Very simple.”
Hector said nothing.
Task walked to the office desk and grabbed the rolling chair, which he then pushed across the trailer until it was in front of the bathroom doorway. Upon the dimpled seat cushion, he set the black and red cellphones.
The slick eyed the lowrider. “Now give us some answers.”
“Fuck you, faggot. I ain’t telling you shit.”
“Who told you about the Commerce Street pickup?”
“¡Vas al infierno!”
“Okay.” Task gestured his blue rubber hands at the cellphones that lay upon the chair. “The first person who calls is the first person we’ll visit. And the red one’s been very busy.”
“Fuck you.”
“All we want to know is who told you about the pickup. Once we—”
Growling death metal music filled the air, and the slick lowered his gaze.
Upon the touchscreen of the red cellphone was a blurry photograph of a Hispanic girl who had the major part of an erection in her mouth. A name sat above the pornographic image.
“Corazon Jimenez,” said Task.
Hector tensed.
The slick picked up the growling device and showed the photograph to the agent. “Take a picture so it’ll be easier to find her.”
The fat fellow photographed the digital fellatio with his own cellphone. “I have it.”
“Okay. And send it to me.”
“I will.”
“Copy me in,” said the buzzcut cog. “For fun.”
“I will.”
The touchscreen stated that Corazon Jimenez was being diverted to a voicemail account.
Task set the red cellphone beside its black sibling and eyed Hector. “Give up your source or we visit Corazon Jimenez.”
Fear played upon the lowrider’s face, yet he remained silent.
“I’m voting for a visit with Corazon.” The buzzcut cog cracked his knuckles. “I bet she’s a screamer.”
“We’ll find out,” promised Task.
Defeated, Hector lowered his sad head and sucked oxygen. “The guy’s a citizen. North. He saw something funny going on and told me about it, ’cause he knows how I am. That’s all, I swear. You can’t kill him just for that.”
“If what you’re saying’s true, we’d have no reason to kill him,” stated the slick. “But we need to know how he learned about the pickup.”
“He drives a dairy truck that delivers up and down Commerce. He saw you doing your pickup a coupla times and told me about it. That’s it. I swear.”
Task had seen many such vehicles on Commerce Street over the years, and he believed Hector, whom he suspected lacked the ability to fabricate believably under pressure (if ever). “What’s his name?”
“I— I swear that’s what happened. The guy’s north. A citizen. H—”
“Then he has nothing to worry about.”
“He has a family.”
The slick gripped the back of the chair and leaned forward. “Unless I hear a name from you right now, Corazon will get raped by a lot of men and die in that shower.”
“Fernando.”
“Fernando what?”
“Jimenez.”
“He’s related to Corazon?”
“They’re brother and sister. My cousins.”
The buzzcut cog tittered.
“What truck company’s Fernando with?” inquired Task.
“Great Crown Dairy.”
The slick looked at the agent, who was already making a connection on his cellphone. “Are you calling your rotary?”
Nodding, the fat fellow walked toward the office desk. If the rotary did not know somebody at Great Crown Dairy, he would be able to find somebody who did in a matter of minutes. A short and accurate biography of Fernando Jimenez would soon be on its way.
Hector spat blood on the tiles and looked at Task. “You have consortium backing?”
The slick glanced at the buzzcut cog. “That neuron fired.”
“I heard a pop.”
Grimacing, the lowrider shifted his leaky, duct-taped foot. “We didn’t know when we rolled you.”
“Obviously.”
On the far side of the trailer, the agent talked quietly into his cellphone. Amidst the drowsy syllables of another language were recognizable words like “Fernando,” “Jimenez,” “Commerce,” “Great,” “Crown,” and “Dairy.”
Task reached his rubberized right hand into his jacket and withdrew the nickel-plated revolver. The metronome inside his chest beat a little faster.
Rain crackled against the roof of the trailer. Near the central join in the ceiling, two saffron panels buzzed.
The agent uttered a few seemingly positive syllables, killed the connection, and rejoined the others. “Fernando Jimenez works at Great Crown Dairy. His route regularly puts him on Commerce Street at or before dawn.”
“He’s north?” asked the slick.
The fat fellow scratched his wrinkled nose. “He has a spotless record other than one DUI, which he received while riding a bicycle.”
Relieved that the murders would end today in this trailer, Task steeled himself for the coming deed. Muscles tensed throughout his body as he carried the nickel-plated revolver into the bathroom.
Seated upon the floor of the shower was Hector. The bearded fellow stared vacantly at his duct-taped foot while calmly and silently awaiting the end of his life.
Heart thudding, the slick took a deep breath, aimed his gun, and curled a rubber index finger around the trigger. A bruised scalp and an array of dark and dirty hair lay six inches from the end of the barrel.
“Once he’s dead,” Task said to the consortium guys, “we’ll pick up Fernando and Corazon.”
“No!” The terrified lowrider looked up at the slick. “You promised that—”
Gunpowder exploded in Hector’s face, and the bullet slammed his skull against the wall.
Task lowered the revolver. His hands were shaking, and his heart was pounding.
Shot through the brain, the lowrider slumped sideways while kicking the floor with his duct-taped foot. Shocked eyes stared out from his face.
The slick took a breath.
Hector blindly gulped air while bad sounds and worse substances came from his anus. Gradually, all of his autonomic and reflexive movements slowed down and stopped.
Rain crackled upon the roof.
Relieved yet nauseated, Task exhaled.
“Let me get in there,” said the buzzcut cog, who then squeezed past the slick, entered the bathroom, leaned over, checked the lowrider’s pulse, and twisted a shower knob.
Hot water sprayed against the wall. Blood and pinkish-gray protein fell to the tiles.
“It’s time to go,” announced the agent.
Task was confused. “We just…leave him there?”
“We have a disposal team.”
The underling aimed the showerhead directly at the corpse. Hot water sent blood, brains, dirt, urine, and feces toward the drain.
The slick stared at the dead thing.
“Return the gun to the toolbox,” prompted the fat fellow.
“Okay.”
Task walked across the trailer and set the weapon inside the toolbox. The killers were dead, and the threat to him, his associates, and his business had been eliminated. Intellectual relief was starting to combat his emotional shock.
The buzzcut cog shut off the shower, walked to the front door, and picked up his umbrella. “You were just fucking with him, right?”
Confused by the inquiry, the slick looked at the underling. “Pardon me?”
“About us getting Fernando and Corazon. You said that just to fuck with him at the end, right? To make it worse when he died?”
“He didn’t deserve to die with dignity.”
“That’s what I thought.” A small amount of disappointment shone upon the buzzcut cog’s face. “Was just checking.”
Rain crackled upon the roof as the agent withdrew an umbrella from the office desk, reached out, and palmed a light switch. The trailer became a slab of night.
In this darkness, Task saw a lot of imaginary faces.
A bolt snapped, and a rectangular piece of the storm appeared as a doorway on the near wall.
“The men who brought you over will take you back,” the silhouetted agent informed the slick.
“Okay.”
Covered by umbrellas, the consortium guys walked outside. Footfalls clanked as the pair approached the percolating mud.
Task remained just inside the doorway. His back was to the darkness, which now smelled like gunpowder, blood, and feces.