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When the CIA makes this bust, news agencies from Sydney to New York will be scrambling to cover it. This time, I’ll be on the inside looking out. In possession of a comprehensive body of work they’ll be begging me for instead of the other way around.
I’m approaching this assignment from multiple points of view. El Chulo and his men are keeping an eye on things in Acapulco. I paid a hefty sum for the gang leader to notify me the second the weapons are moved or if Señor Fahder makes an appearance at the warehouse.
Things should start shaking up soon because I’m nearly certain Señor Fahder has already sold the goods. After culling through shipping log after shipping log searching for information, I discovered a cargo ship is scheduled to arrive in Acapulco three weeks from now. Not so unusual. What raises an eyebrow is there’s no record of what’s scheduled to be on the ship, where it will head next, or even why it will remain in port until the twenty-second. There are hefty transportation costs for detaining the cargo ship for a significant time period. And those costs were paid in advance—in hard currency. The best leads often come about from what’s not being said. Fahder, the weapons, and that ship are far too coincidental not to be linked.
I’ll be revisiting the port closer to the ship’s arrival date. In the meantime, I’m doing what reporters refer to as “cultivating a source”— that is,this CIA agent. I plan on giving the broadcast networks a heroes-conquer-evil story they’ll be fighting to air. “We won’t air it if viewers won’t watch it,” I’ve been informed time and time again. Exposing the ugly truths and giving voice to the moved and the shaken is what motivates me as a journalist. But if viewers adore happy endings, that’s what I’ll offer them as well.
Like me, I suspect the CIA is waiting for confirmation on the foreign buyer’s identity. Lining up all the eggs in play then swooping in before they hatch. What will it take to get “Antonio” to trust me?
I bite my lip, trying to erase the image of his beard from my head. Focus on his eyes ...
Yes, he’s repulsive. Yet, in a far less obvious way, he’s attractive. I don’t know what to make of him.
With a sigh, I make my way into the kitchen and rinse the glasses out in the sink. I open a kitchen cabinet in search of a dish towel and find several neatly folded in a pile. Surprise, surprise, there’s not a single one cockeyed. Curiosity rising, I open the refrigerator to make a quick assessment of what’s inside.
You can tell a lot by what people eat. Protein and greens, he’s health conscious. Leftovers and tin-foiled wrapped slices of pizza, he’s careful with his money. Store bought, prepackaged or to go foods, and he follows a busy schedule. Uncovered containers of foods, no longer identifiable, and he’s gross on top of careless.
I open the refrigerator, fully expecting to find the latter. A man like him could give a rat’s ass about a tidy fridge.
But I’m wrong.
His refrigerator is nearly empty. A neat stack of plain yogurt sits in the door. Bottles of Guinness are lined up like soldiers across the bottom rack. And there’s one plastic container with a rubber band fastened around its lid to hold it in place. Store bought ... or homemade food?
I place the glasses on the counter then carefully remove the rubber band and pry off the lid.
It’s some type of chicken dish with rice in a brown sauce. I dip my finger inside and bring it to my lips for a taste.Curry?
Where in Mexico City do they sell curry?
“Looks like I snared a rabbit.”
I freeze, guilty finger midair. He reappeared so quietly I didn’t hear him approach. “I was ... um ... hungry.”
“So you poke your finger inside my supper?” He shakes his head. “Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”
“Fine,” I say, deciding on a different tactic. “I wasn’t hungry but curious about what kind of brown sauce this was.” I turn my attention to recovering the curry and placing it back inside the refrigerator.
“And what kind is it?”
I blink. “Um ...”
“Where’s the bottle of Jamie?”
“On the coffee table, where you left it.” I pause. “Why?”
“It empty?”
“No.”
A broad smile spreads across his face. “So, you’re not twisted?”
“Twisted?”
“Drunk off yer ass. Bolloxed.”
Is he upset I stuck my finger in his curry?I bite my lip, deciding on the best way to handle this.
“You going to be asking me next for my recipe?”
