Page 73 of Hit Man
“I’m reacquainting myself with my Lobos compadres. Is there somewhere close by we can talk? Like I said, it’ll be worth your time.” I arch my eyebrows and peer around at the nearly empty street as if the thin walls of the ramshackle buildings have ears.
Their leader angles his head in the direction they’d come from. “Follow us.”
We ride our bikes along the narrow streets until we arrive at a large rectangular clearing. It’s startling to see after being surrounded by so many people living in such close quarters. In the center of the clearing is a long warehouse-like building made of truck tires and scrap metal hammered together.
Paradise compared to the squalor surrounding it. Motorcycles of all shapes and styles are parked outside the Lobos social club, along with a few small cars that look to be brand new and that clearly don’t belong in the heart of the world’s largest ghetto. I peer inside one of them as I follow the crew to the entrance. A helmet sits on one of the seats, with a wolf and crossbones smiling a warm welcome at me.
I blink my eyes, trying to adjust to the dark, smoky room I’ve entered. Several long folding tables riddled with empty bottles of liquor and beer are lined up to my left. An impromptu bar. The bartender behind it relaxes his shoulders after he checks out my jacket.
Perfecto. I’d prefer not to have to shoot my way inside.
A curtain is to my right, laughter filtering in from whoever is gathered in the space behind it.
I follow my newfound friends across the dirt floor.
The curtain separating the spaces is pulled aside.
A poker game is in progress. Six men, with piles of money on the table. Except one man at the head of the table with three times the amount in front of his smug face.
Goddamn McDuff.
Inside the Lobos’s social club. And not where I expected him to be, in Acapulco.
He’s dressed like a peasant, in a colorful serape draped over his large frame and a shit-eating, well-if-this-doesn’t-beat-all grin. And for all outward appearances, he seems to be running this poker game.
“Qué pasa con el gringo?” I ask the nearest man, nodding toward Finn, as if I have more of a right to be seated and playing poker with them than the smug Irishman does.
“Él es un compadre,” someone offers.
“Con el dinero,” another man adds.
“With your money, amigos. Because you keep losing,” the Irishman speaks up, clearly following what’s being said. “But your friend is too late. The game is already in play.”
Payaso.
I turn away from the clown. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?” I ask the man I’d shot at. I don’t know how Shamrock infiltrated the toughest cartel in Mexico so damn easily, but I’ll be damned if he outplays me on my own turf. Let him waste his day digging for information over poker. Within cartels, there’s a hierarchy, with the big boss, in this case El Chulo, holding all the valuable information. I’m here to simply grease their palms, arrange a meeting with their boss, and head out.
Five minutes, tops.
Hell, I’ll even toss a few pesos onto McDuff’s pile on my way out.
I ignore his taunting stare as I step through one curtain after another until I’m inside a section of the warehouse where two couches set in anLshape face an enormous flat-screen television. A group of men are seated and watching a localfútbolmatch.
I dig into my pocket, retrieve a thick wad of pesos, and toss it onto the filthy plastic coffee table before them.
“Is your boss in?” I ask in Spanish.
“El Chulo? No.”
“He still in Acapulco?” I take a wild guess. With so much money involved in that weapons exchange . . .
My question surprises a few men. But fortunately, not everyone. “You part of that crew?”
“Kind of,” I answer vaguely. “When is he returning? I have information for him.”
Or rather, I need information from him.
“I will pass on your message.”
