Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

Matt whipped out the papers and handed them to her.

“You’ve been served, ma’am.”

She backed away, waving her hands at the paper like it was an angry insect.

“No, I haven’t. I haven’t taken these.”

“That’s TV, ma’am. You answered to the name, you match the description, you live at the right address. You’ve been served.”

Matt dropped them at her feet. “I’d advise you to read them and call a lawyer. Have a nice day.”

“I hope your dick falls off, you miserable little bastard.”

“Duly noted, ma’am, and my affidavit of service will include your kind words.”

Matt jumped into the car and it pulled away. “What next?” he asked.

“Our Latino lady-killer, over in Arlington.”

“Where are we serving him?”

“Work. He’s a janitor at a motel in Arlington.”

Their cell phone rang.

“Hello?” Sean said.

“Sean, is that you? It’s Chuck Pruitt. You and your brother want to do some surveillance?”

“Hold on, Chuck, I’ll ask him.”

He covered the mouthpiece, “Matt, it’s Chuck Pruitt, he wants us to do surveillance. What do you say?”

“I say no. He hasn’t paid us for our last two jobs. Working for him is working for free. It’s been over two months he’s owed us.”

“You sure? It’s work.”

“Work? It’s charity. Slow pay is no pay. You can do it. I’ll pass.”

“Uh, Chuck, we’ll pass. You still owe us about two hundred and fifty bucks for work we did in May.”

“Hey, guys, it’s not me. I bill the clients. I’ve gotta chase them to pay me so I can pay you. Every check I get that you’re owed a piece of, I pass it straight on.”

“Chuck, I’m not saying you’re stiffing us. But none of this is gonna pay my tuition bill. Summer’s almost over. I need money now. The school could give a damn. It’s due when it’s due. Sorry.”

“I hate being the asshole of the food chain. The pate’s at the other end, down here it’s all bullshit,” Sean snapped.

“Well, we’ve got two more chances for today. Let’s make ’em count.”

Gustavo Martin was a janitor at the Arlington Inn, which operated on the same principle as its neighbor the Pentagon: Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

“You take the front desk, Matt. I’ll find a maid, see if she knows where he is.”

“Wait for me if you find him. He might think twice about going off.”

“Sure.” They exited the car, Matt going to the office, Sean heading upstairs where he had seen a maid’s cart in the hallway. He went up the stairs three at a time, grabbed the rusting metal railing, and swung up and around onto the second floor. The ice machine had its bin door open and a sign taped to the front that said Broken. He walked down to the maid’s cart and looked into the room it was parked outside of.

“Excuse me, can I talk to you?” he said into the darkened room.

“¿Si, quién es?” a woman replied. She was bent over, making the bed.

“¿Dónde está Gustavo Martin?”

“No entiendes ni jota.”

“I know he works here. Just tell me where he is?”

“He’s around. I don’t know.”

“Okay. What does he look like?”

“He’s short, curly black hair, moustache...”

As she spoke, her words coalesced in the space at the end of the hall. The man looked at Sean, saw him take a step towards him, turned, and started down the stairs. Sean leaned over the railing and saw his brother step out of the motel office.

“That’s him, Matt.”

Glancing over his shoulder at his second pursuer, the man ran across the parking lot towards the high grass along the railroad tracks. There were no trains in sight. He would have to run all the way to El Salvador. Matt took off after him. The guy was wind-milling his arms through the high grass, bobbing back and forth above his churning bowlegs. Matt had no speed to speak of, but he and his brother ran five miles a night through their neighborhood. The longer Gustavo ran, the better Matt’s chances of catching him. He heard the slap of footsteps behind him, each one louder than the last. He came out on the dusty path alongside the tracks.

“Hold on, Matt. I’m coming.” Sean ate up ground, each stride longer and faster than those of either of the others.

Committed to a sprint, Matt accelerated. Even if he didn’t catch Martin, he’d make him run flat-out to escape him, and then watch his brother run him down, even if it took ten miles.

Matt figured Martin for a chain-smoking couch potato who’d smack Mirabella if she didn’t get him a Dos Equis with each trip to the kitchen. Four hundred yards in his boots with their two-inch heels and he was doubled over, holding his side and gasping for breath.

Matt and Sean slowed down and approached him.

“Gustavo Martin?”

“No. Yo soy Carlos Gonzalez.”

“Bullshit. We’ve got something for you, Mr. Martin.” Matt reached for the papers in his pants pocket.

“No, no.” Gonzalez spun towards them, his hand digging into his pocket.