American Blood (24 page)
He cruised the room again, gun out, giving it heaps of cool, used the cell phone and called his mother.
Marco answered.
Rojas said, “Put her on.” He jabbed the pistol for emphasis.
“Don’t give me that attitude, man.”
Rojas cocked the gun, wondered if he could hear it. “You tell that to me when I’m standing in your face, see if you can take the consequences.”
No reply. He heard the phone being passed round, murmurs like they were still in bed. His mother came on.
“Why you gotta talk to him like that all the time? Troy?”
He was still on the move, chest thudding with the hype.
“I got it all, Ma. I’m coming to see you.”
“What? Troy—”
“I’m coming to see you. You’re not going to believe how much I got till you see. But I’m coming. I might even be there today.”
“Troy, where you get it from? I don’t want no crime money. Where you get it?”
He laughed.
“Troy—”
“No, don’t worry. Ma, it’s been coming to me a long time and finally it’s here. It’s been coming to you a long time as well, you just maybe didn’t know it. But now all you got to do is wait, sit tight.”
She didn’t answer, but he had momentum, didn’t let things ebb. He said, “How many times in life does good stuff just come to you? People always saying, you gotta go out and make your own luck, all that shit, but not today. You just got to sit there, and it’s fucking coming for you.”
He nodded the beat for the last line, water flicking from his hair.
She said, “Troy, your language, please.”
“Ma, don’t sound so scared. It’s all okay. I’m coming to see you. You don’t gotta worry about a thing ever again.”
“Troy, where you get it all?”
“Forget it, you don’t have to think about it. It all works exactly the same.”
He ended the call, cutting her off in the middle of something.
Exactly the same.
He dialed Troy Junior, wouldn’t the kid be proud, but he didn’t answer. Probably juiced on something. He tossed the phone on the bed and started bagging the money, a soft buzzing as another call came through.
He collapsed across the bed, answered without checking the screen.
Leon said, “Why’d you do it?”
Rojas didn’t answer, caught off guard.
Leon said, “You left that photo on my desk upside down. So that was the first clue. And then of course the money’s gone, so I put it all together pretty quickly.”
Rojas found his voice. “It’ll work out. You can make some more.”
“I’d like what you’ve got, too. Seeing as how it’s mine.”
A minute ago he’d been humming, but it was hard to keep it up, talking to Leon. Man put a frost on anything. He said, “That’s not going to happen.”
He heard the crack in his own voice.
Leon didn’t answer.
Rojas said, “I only ever wanted to make money. But it just got too heavy. It isn’t what I wanted. I mean, Jesus. You cut up Cyrus.”
“Doesn’t matter if it’s what you want.” Quiet a while, like there was a tough lesson coming: “When there’s dollars at stake you have to accept some amount of moral abandon. I mean, you give a man enough, he’ll cut all ties with decency, just the way it is. World we live in, Troy, there’s no act can’t be bought. Maybe you know that already.”
Rojas didn’t answer.
Leon said, “Have you looked out the window this morning?”
“Don’t think you can screw with me.”
“I’m not. It’s a nice morning down there in Bernalillo.”
Rojas almost threw up in his mouth. He sat up on the bed, everything suddenly very hushed. Don’t be stupid—
Leon said, “Didn’t you know I have trackers on the cars?”
He got up and checked the window, just a peep at the edge of the blind. “Prove it.”
“I just did. You’re in Bernalillo.”
“Sorry.”
Leon laughed. “Bear with me. You see that motel across the street? There’re guys in a room on the upper level. Just be careful when you step out the door.”
Shit, that Bronco that showed up.
Rojas didn’t answer. Leon probably heard him let his breath out, sensed the panic gaining ground.
“If there’s a window out back, you’ll see a parking lot across that vacant lot, couple of guys in there, too.”
Come on, get back level with him.
“Maybe I’ll just call the cops on them.”
But his tone said he’d never follow through.
Leon laughed. “Not a good game to play. You’ve got a dead man in your truck, remember? All chopped up, Dahmer-style.”
“I dropped him off miles back.”
“No you didn’t. I’ve got the GPS record right here.”
“Jesus.” He was pacing again, not in a good way. “What do you want?”
“I want my three million back. Or three point one, whatever it is.”
“So let me the fuck out of here, or I’ll burn it.”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea at all. Have a good day, Troy. Vance’ll be along soon. Don’t leave the room.”
End of call. He pictured a heart-rate monitor, every time. That flat tone sounded like doom.
He dropped the phone on the bed, pulled his shirt on, so frantic he almost ripped it. There’s got to be an angle. He crouch-walked to the window, risked another glance. Just a normal-looking morning out there. They could be anywhere.
Jesus Christ.
He checked the lock on the door, and then pocketed the phone and knelt beside the bed. He heaved and turned it up on its long edge. Pillows tumbling to the floor. He steadied it and moved to the end and gripped the base, hands and knees both, and dragged and shuffled and leaned the thing against the window. A few good kicks along the bottom edge, get it sloping even, a solid backstop for the glass.
Relax, you’re safe in here.
The shirt clinging to his back, probably more sweat now than shower water.
The room suddenly dark, he almost needed the light. Things were going to get warm, trapped in here with closed windows.
There’s got to be an angle.
He thought for a moment. Then he took the phone from his pocket and dialed a number. Straight to voice mail.
“Shit.”
He jammed it in his pocket again and drew the Colt and checked the bathroom window. Frosted glass, hanging open an inch. He tugged it closed, a sudden furtive flick, like testing an electric fence.
He left the bathroom door open so he could hear a break-in and sat with his back against the partition wall, facing the entry. Legs in a V-shape like some mannequin dumped there. He leaned and pulled a chair over from the table, used it to prop the Anaconda, keep the door handle in his sights.
The phone rang again.
He fumbled it without looking, scared to take his eyes from the entry, hit the button.
Marshall said, “Troy, just returning your call from a moment ago.”
Like they were fucking pals.
Rojas said, “Hey, look, things have changed, I’ve got a deal for you.”
Relief in his voice, faint and breathless, sounding like a little bitch.
The guy said, “Uh-huh.”
Relaxed and smooth, like this wasn’t a new dance. It made him want to spill it all the faster:
“Shit’s been shaken up, forget about what I said yesterday. Look. I’m at a motel down in Bernalillo, I’ve got three million cash right here, if you get me out I’ll split it with you.”
“What’s the situation, Troy? You’re sounding kind of wired.”
“Shit. It’s kinda complicated. The guy me’n Cyrus were working for’s gone kinda funny. I’m stuck here in a room, he’s got cartel guys staking it.”
“Because you stole three million dollars from him?”
“Yeah, you’re a fast learner. Jesus, look, it’s easy. He says he’s got two guys in the upstairs of a motel across the street, probably with a long gun on me or something, someone else in a parking lot out back covering the rear.”
“How does he know where you are?”
“He tracked my fucking car, okay?”
Marshall said, “That was silly.”
“Yeah, fuck you. Listen. If you come and get me the fuck out of here, I’ll tell you everything you want to know. About the girl, where she is, everything. And I’ll cut you in on the three mil. But you need to get here literally now, otherwise I’ll be dead and you’ll be too late.”
“I don’t care about the money. I just want to find the girl.”
“Okay. All right. I promise, you get me out of this, I’ll give you all of it. Anything you want to know, I’ll talk till I fucking bleed. But you gotta get me out of this. They’re going to kill me.”
“Is she alive?”
“Yes, she’s alive. I promise you. I promise you she’s alive. But please, you gotta hurry, he’s sending Vance to kill me.”
“Who’s Vance?”
“He was at the house yesterday, you musta seen him.”
A long, awful quiet on the line, and then the guy said, “Where exactly are you?”
Marshall
When he went inside to pay, he’d reassembled the phone and discovered Rojas’s one-word message: Shit. He stepped outside and stood by the table and called him back, Cohen in the car with his window down, watching the little exchange. After he clicked off, Marshall walked across the street and stood with a hand against the edge of the roof, one leg crossed and tiptoe.
Cohen nodded at him. “You still got the moves.”
“Like what?”
“Like how you’re standin’. Probably straight out of the NYPD manual of how you talk to a feller sitting in a motor vehicle.”
Marshall didn’t answer.
Cohen said, “Who was that on the telephone?”
“Guess.”
“Huh.” He put a hand on the top of the wheel. “Speak of the devil. He say where he was?”
Marshall said, “Can you and I arrange a little deal?”
Cohen smiled at him pleasantly. “I thought we just did. You arranged to help me.”
“He’s holed up in a motel, says if I come see him he’ll answer some questions.”
“Questions about what?”
“Alyce Ray.”
Cohen worked his jaw, savoring the breakfast, pondering this and that. “So he does know.”
Marshall didn’t answer.
Cohen said, “And what’s the catch?”
“If I bring anyone, he won’t cooperate.”
“Well now. That’s an absolute classic, isn’t it?”
Marshall nodded. “It is something I’ve heard before.”
Cohen started the engine. “Where is he?”
“Are you and I just going to have a quiet look?”
“We’ll reassess when we get there. I ain’t making no promises about a thing I never even seen. But you can ride shotgun, I’ll grant you that.”
“If you call people in and he makes them, he’ll take off. Or get ugly, might be his more likely reaction.”
“So we’ll check it out first. I got no problem with that.”
It sounded honest. Marshall looked at him a while, trying to see the hidden angle, but didn’t feel he was being taken for a ride. He hoped Cohen wouldn’t hold a grudge. He said, “He’s in Bernalillo.”
“Get in.”
“I’ve got a .45-caliber pistol in my jeans, that going to be an issue?”
“You got a concealed carry permit?”
Marshall said, “I’m a skilled and responsible owner.”
Cohen whistled through his teeth. He said, “Get in the car.”
Marshall
Santa Fe to Bernalillo was only a forty-five-minute drive south and west. Cohen took the 84 out of town, called the New Mexico State Police when they turned onto I-25. He said they had a possible Rojas-related situation developing down in Bernalillo, please have people on standby, further details coming.
When he hung up he said, “What exactly did he tell you?”
“He told me where he was and said come and have a talk.”
“Seemed you were talkin’ a while.”
“He didn’t have time to be more concise.”
Cohen thought about that. “Right.”
Marshall looked out his window. He had a few dilemmas going, namely how he was going to handle these motel watchers, how best to put some questions to this Vance character, lastly and most crucially, how to keep Rojas in one place while events were unraveling, run some queries by him once things were tidier.
Cohen being nothing if not astute, Marshall worried he could sense the issues percolating. That knowing look in his eye, like he couldn’t tell you the details, but all the same he guessed it was something noteworthy.
He thought it was best to avoid silence, cut down on Cohen’s thinking time, so he said, “I didn’t know you had kids.”
Cohen nodded. He liked things laid back, drove with his elbow on the sill, a thumb hooked in the wheel. He said, “Well, I do. Think my oldest was still cookin’ when we first met. Would’ve only had my Mrs. Cohen a small while, too.”
There were some business cards in the center console. Marshall took one and read it like he was interested and put it in his shirt pocket. He said, “Does Mrs. Cohen have a first name?”
“She does. In fact it’s Loretta. And she’s not actually a Mrs. Cohen. Kept her maiden name, but I just like to call her that to wind her up a little.”
Marshall didn’t answer, hoping Cohen would get some momentum, let him just sit there and muse.
Cohen said, “Funny the way I met her, actually. Was at the sheriff’s Trivial Pursuit night, Duke Garrett useta run it on a Thursday before his kidneys got bad. And I think it was down to the last question, sudden death. Forget what they asked, but anyway it got read out and straightaway she goes: ‘Robert Louis Stevenson!’ Which they noted down as correct, and I have to say I took my time, but after a while I shook my head and said, ‘No, it’s Robert Lewis Stevenson.’ Because that’s how you say it: Lewis. Even though it’s written down ‘Louis’ you say it ‘Lewis,’ because that was his name originally until he changed the spellin’, but of course he kept the pronunciation. Lot of folks don’t actually know that. And I guess she was one of them.”
Marshall said, “So who got the point?”
“Well I don’t actually recall which way the score fell. The critical thing of course being that I was correct, so in all strictness I should’ve won.”
“Should’ve.”
“Well, like I say. I don’t recall.”
A mile or two of not talking. Marshall said, “You ever think about that Farmington guy you killed?”
Cohen studied his side mirror. “I think about what might’ve happened if I’d missed. But I don’t go losing any sleep over him if that’s what you mean.”