Gun Work

Barney heard the sound of Carl punching their captive in the face, more than once, sort of as punctuation as he spit invective. It was not necessary, in fact, it was badly advised, but Carl needed a place to put his rage and the impotence of the past few days. You vent the rage, you get it out of yourself, then you can assess more clearly. The downside of shedding your rage is usually that somebody else has to absorb the burden, in this case, one tooth-loosening knuckleblow at a time.

“Hey! ¿Como se llama, puto? ¡Digame, pinche cabron! ¡Repuestame!”

Thud. Thud.

Hurting them first generally got answers more briskly than asking them first, then hurting them. It was the same as the kidnapping theory: Pay us or we’ll kidnap your wife would not work nearly as well as the other way around.

“¡Oigame, pendejo!” Thud.

“I didn’t know you knew so much Spanish,” said Barney.

“What about the goddamned bag?” Thud.

“Driving toward it now.”

“¡Nombre, joto!” Thud, thud.

Their guest tried to respond, in a spray of tooth chips, flecks of blood and bits of his tongue, but Carl was enjoying hitting him too much. Apparently the fellow’s name was Jesús.

“¡Me llamo Jesús, Jesús, chinga tu madre, Jesús! ¡No molestarme!”

“¿Se hábla Inglés?” Carl cocked but didn’t strike, and it got the desired response.

“Si, un poquito,” said Jesús, quickly recognizing a wonderful opportunity not to be hit again. “I speak a little. Please, por favor, no —” He had his hands up, defensively.

“The guy’s just a bagman, Carl; lighten up,” said Barney.

“He shot at us.”

Point, Barney thought.

“Better start a conversation with my amigo back there,” said Barney. “He might keep punching until he breaks on through to the other side.”

“... me cago en la tapa del organo y me revuelco encima de la mierda,” Jesús muttered.

“What was that?” said Barney.

“Ole Jesús here thinks his world just turned to shit,” said Carl, pulling back for a definitive haymaker that caused Jesús to start talking faster.

“Those guys! The guys!” he said. “They just hire me! Pay me to do job!”

“Bullshit, Jesús — you haven’t got any dinero on you. If they agreed to pay you and you don’t have any money, that means you’re going to see them again.”

“They kill me super-bad if...”

“I’ll kill you super-bad right fucking now, Zorro!” Carl was not screwing around. The whites of his eyes had pinked in anger, Barney saw in the rearview.

They circled wide and caught up with the bag where it had been dumped, about five miles from the bridge. At least it proved Barney’s little GPS trick could work, and gave them a general direction they could employ to strike some good, clean Catholic fear into Jesús.

“Nobody has called,” said Carl.

“They’re going to sweat you,” said Barney.

“Sí, es verdad,” said Jesús. “They make you wait.”

“So what do we do?” said Carl.

“We clear out of the hotel,” said Barney, “because we’re all the way made. If Jesús’ homing skills don’t improve, we’re going to have to kill him all the way dead. ¿Comprende?”

“Claro,” said Jesús.

Somebody had already visited the hotel room. Barney had expected that. What came as a shock was what their nocturnal visitors had left behind.

Estrella was completely naked, duct-taped to a tubular metal chair, her neck opened ear-to-ear with a razor. About a gallon of blood saturated the note that had been left nailed into her chest.

Rescate = $2M ahora

We Do This to Bitch

Estrella’s eyes were wide-open, unseeing. She had gotten her party, all the way, with no pestersome hangover.

“Hustle,” said Barney. “Cops are probably on their way.”

The limo was riddled with dents where bullets had hit but they had no time for anything fancier. Once they were back on the road, they looked for someplace they could base themselves with a simple cash payment and no annoying questions. Their gear was piled in the back of the limo since Jesús occupied the trunk. Barney had estimated Jesús was in no danger of bleeding to death; in fact, the wounded bagman told them freely that he had been shot before, that they shouldn’t worry about that.

What they found was a downscale sex motel called La Pantera Roja, complete with a gated courtyard (to discourage private investigations), individual garages with roll-down doors (so your spouse could not spy your car in the lot), and even a bizarre kind of room service — microwaved pizza or a limited beverage menu could be discreetly delivered to your room via a little revolving airlock-style compartment, like the door on a darkroom. In case the occupants were naked, identifiable, or otherwise tied up.