Power and Empire

Clark let the Glock speak for him, sending another round slamming into the CZ, this one shattering the plastic magazine. Even if it was still operable, he’d just turned the SMG into a single-shot.

“Tell me who is there!” the woman screamed. The sound of the suppressed Glock was about as loud as an energetic hand clap, but Clark was close enough that she’d zeroed in on the pool house.

It had been a good three minutes and there was still no sign of anyone at the back door. Her boyfriend didn’t care about her, or he was too deep of a sleeper to worry about, or he was gone. Not once had this woman looked toward the house, which led Clark to believe it was the latter.

The woman started toward the gun again.

Clark put a round into the water beside her. “Keep going,” he barked. “Makes my job a lot easier.”

She swished bronze arms in the water, swimming away from the splash of the shot. “Who are you?” She turned, treading water again. “Did Zambrano send you?”

“Suppose he did?” Clark said.

“Ernie left already,” she said. “He has the girl and the money with him.”

“I see,” Clark said. He let her stew awhile, then said, “And suppose Zambrano didn’t send me?”

The woman shook her head. “You are not police,” she said. “Police would let me put some clothes on.”

“Lady,” Clark said, “the last thing I want to do is sit here and look at your fat ass.”

The words seemed to bother her worse than the shooting.

“Who, then?”

Clark decided to drop a bomb and see how she reacted. “I think you may know something about my little girl.”

The woman gave a tremulous shake of her head — but she couldn’t help another glance at the sorghum field. “I don’t know—”

“Cut the shit!” Clark barked. “Who else is in the house?”

“No one.”

Clark put another round into the water, half hoping it would hit her. It didn’t, but it had the desired effect.

She held up both hands, kicking with her legs, barely keeping her head above water. “Who is your girl?”

“Magdalena,” Clark said, gambling again.

The woman sputtered. “You lie.” It would have been a scoff, had she not been working so hard. “She comes from Parrot, who got her from Dorian. I know all about her. She has no friends in the States. Anyway, she is gone.”

“Where?”

“Why should I tell you?” The woman said. “You will only kill me.”

Clark gave an honest chuckle. “I’m a half a breath from killing you anyway. Let’s try this. What’s your name?”

“Lupe,” the woman said, coughing from a mouth full of water.

“And you work for Matarife?”

“If you can call it that,” Lupe spat. “I am his prisoner, like all the other girls.”

“Is that right?” Clark nodded despite the fact that the woman could not see him. “You sure as hell look like a prisoner, sitting around in the pool drinking fruity umbrella drinks.”

“I am… how do you say it, the girl in charge,” Lupe said. “His bottom bitch.”

“I can believe that last part,” Clark said. “Okay, Lupe. Tell me again where Matarife… Ernie is.”

“He has gone to deliver your girl, Magdalena.”

“Deliver her to who?”

“Zambrano,” she said. “Can you believe it? The man can buy any girl he wants and he picked that little whore.”

“Where is Zambrano?”

Lupe laughed hysterically. “They do not tell me those things.” She pointed to a ring of purple bruises on her neck. “I told you. I am a prisoner myself.”

Clark groaned. “Ernie’s cell number, then.”

“He calls me,” she said. “Not the other way around. He is a very careful man.”

“Let’s say you needed to tell him something important,” Clark said. “Where would you start?”

“He will come back home, eventually. Probably not for a few days, though. I like it when he is away.”

“I’m sure,” Clark said. “Who would know where to find him?”

Lupe raised her hands again. Grinning stupidly, thinking she’d use her body since it had served her in the past, she kicked upward, bringing her breasts above the surface. “Search me, señor.”

Clark sent another round zipping into the pool, inches away. The smile bled from her face.

“Last time I ask,” Clark said. “How do I find Zambrano?”

She spat into the water, then wiped a hand across her face. “I am telling you I do not know,” she said.

“Then you’re no good to me—”

“Wait,” the woman said. She was accustomed to being threatened but smart enough to hear the hard edge of resolve in Clark’s voice. “Dorian. Dorian would know how to reach him. They do business sometimes.”

“Dorian?”

“He gets girls from South America… and other places. People trust him because he looks handsome and kind, like a model from a magazine.”

She gave him the location of a hotel in Fort Worth that Dorian frequented, then described him. Clark committed it to memory, deciding on his next move. He needed to find out what she knew about Vincent Chen, but he wanted to check inside first.

“Who else is in the house?”

Lupe pushed a lock of wet hair from her face, black eyes casting back and forth for any avenue of escape, a cornered she-wolf — except wolves had souls. “There are two girls,” she said. “Matarife’s prisoners. Take them. They are yours.”