The Collection

One of the flunkies came hurrying up. Pressman asked the maid's name but the flunky didn't know, and he hurried out, returning a few moments later, shaking his head.

The Big Man smiled. 'I guess that means we forgot to pay her social security tax.'

'But the girl's name is Maya?' I asked.

He nodded.

'Maya's mother, then. I'll start there.'

'Do what you have to,' he told me. 'But I want results. I expect people to complete the jobs I hire them to do, and I don't like to be disappointed. Are we understood?'

It was one of those movie moments. He'd probably seen the same movies I had and was playing his role to the hilt, but I felt as though I'd just sold my soul to the Mob, as though I'd jumped in over my head, painted myself into a corner, and was being forced to sink or swim. It was a scary feeling.

But it was also kind of cool.

I nodded, and Pressman and I shook hands. I had to re­mind myself not to get too caught up in the glamour of it all. These were the bad guys, I told myself. I was only working for them on a temporary basis. I was not one of them and never wanted to be.

I drove back through the desert. There was only one per­son I knew who might be able to decipher this: Hector Marquez. Hector was a former fighter, a local light heavyweight who'd gotten railroaded by Armstrong and his goons a few years back for a payroll heist he'd had nothing to do with. I'd gotten him a good lawyer—Yard Stevens, an old buddy who still owed me a slew of favors—but even that had not been enough to counter the manufactured evidence and co­erced witnesses Armstrong had lined up, and Yard had told me, off the record, that probably the best thing for Hector would be if he disappeared. I'd relayed the message, and ever since there'd been a warrant out for Hector's arrest.

I hadn't seen him after his disappearance, but I knew someone who knew someone who could get in touch with him, and I put the word out. I expected a long-distance phone call, expected Hector to be hiding either in Texas or California, but he was still right here in the Valley, and the woman who called on his behalf said that he wanted to meet with me personally.

We set up the meeting for midnight.

South Mountain Park.

A lot of bodies had been dumped there over the years, and though the city had been trying for decades to clean up its image, the park remained a haven for gangbangers, drunken redneck teens, and the occasional naive couple looking for a lover's lane.

In other words, not exactly a family fun spot.

The view was spectacular, though, and as I got out of my car and looked over the edge of the parking lot, I could see the lights of the Valley stretching from Peoria to Apache Junction. Phoenix looked cleaner at night. The lights cut clearly through the smog, and everything had a sweeping cinematic quality that reminded me of how it had been in the old days.

I was suddenly illuminated by headlights, and I turned around to see three silhouetted men standing in front of a parked Chevy. One of them started toward me.

It had been three years since I'd seen Hector, and he definitely looked the worse for wear. He was probably in his late twenties but he looked like a man in his early fifties, and his old smooth-faced optimism had been buried under lines and creases of disillusionment and disappointment. His fighter's body had long since softened into pudge.

'Hector,' I said.

He walked up to me, hugged me. The hug lasted a beat longer than was polite, and I understood for the first time that he had really and truly missed me. I didn't know why he'd stayed away if he was still living in the Valley, but I could only assume that it was because he hadn't wanted to get me into trouble, and I felt guilty for not making an effort to keep in touch.

He pulled back, looked me over. 'How goes it, man?'

'My life doesn't change.'

'Solid.'

'As a rock.'

He laughed, and I saw that he had a new silver tooth in the front.

'I don't know if Liz told you what I'm looking for, but I'm working on a case and I need to find a Guatemalan witch used to work as a maid. Her daughter's named Maya. I thought you might be able to introduce me to someone, set me up.'

Hector thought for a moment. 'I don't know much about Guatemalans. But you talk to Maria Torres. She run a small I bodega on Central between Southern and Baseline. In an I old house by the Veteran's Thrift. Her son married to a Guatemalan girl. She can get you in.'

'You couldn't've told me that over the phone?' I ribbed him. 'I had to come all the way out here in the middle of the night?'

'I wanted to see you again, bro.'

I smiled at him. I'm not a touchy-feely guy, but I grasped his shoulder. 'I wanted to see you too, Hector. It's good to see you again.'

We caught up a bit on our respective lives, but it was clear that Hector's friends were getting antsy, and when the lights flashed and the horn honked, he said he'd better get going.

'I'll call,' I promised. 'We'll get together somewhere. In the daytime. Away from Phoenix.'

He waved.

The next morning I learned that Hector had been fol­lowed.

Armstrong was the one who called me. Gleefully, I thought. He told me they'd found Hector in a Dumpster, burned beyond recognition. His teeth had been knocked out first and his fingertips sliced off so there'd be no possibility of positive identification. The cops had been able to ID the men with him, however, and one of the women who'd come down to claim the body of her husband said that Hector had been hanging with these guys and had ridden with them last night and was in all probability the other man.

The lieutenant paused, savoring his story. 'That Dump­ster smelled like a fuckin' burnt tamale.'

I hung up on him, feeling sick. Immediately, I picked up the phone again and dialed the Big Man's number. I was so furious that my hand hurt from gripping the receiver so tightly, and when he answered the phone himself and gave me that silky smooth 'Hello,' it was all I could do not to yell at him.

'You killed Hector Marquez,' I said without preamble.

'Is this—?'

'You know damn well who this is, and you killed Hector Marquez.'

'Sorry. I don't know anyone by that name.'

'I'm off this case. You can find some other sucker to do your dirty work.'

'I wouldn't do that.' The Big Man's voice was low, filled with menace.

'Fuck you.'

He sighed. 'Look, I'm sorry. If something happened to someone you know—and I'm not saying it did or that I'm in any way involved—then it was probably a mistake. If you'd like, I could look into it for you.'

'I want you to make sure it never happens again. If I'm going to continue, I need to have your word that no one is going to be murdered, no one I talk to is going to be at­tacked. You want to follow me, fine. But just because I'm getting information from someone doesn't mean they're in­volved with this. You let me handle this my own way, or I'm off. You can threaten me all you want, but those are my terms, those are my rules, that's the deal. Take it or leave it.'

'I understand,' he said smoothly. 'A slight misunder­standing. As I said, I am in no way connected to the death of your friend, but I think I have enough clout that I can assure you nothing like it will ever happen again. You have my word, and I'm sorry for your loss.' He paused. 'Do you have any leads?'

'Hector was a friend.'

'I said I'm sorry.'

I was still furious, but I knew enough not to push it. I might be brave when I'm angry, but I'm not stupid. I took a deep breath. 'Hector gave me the name of a woman who might offer me an in to the Guatemalan community. I'll ask around. See what I can find out about this Maya and her mother.'