make sense. Al had been using the salon as a base for a gun-running operation. All Carlos did, he just took his concept up a league. Gave it the balls that fat verga never had.
Carlos didn't kill people. He made the arrangements for someone else to do the killing. He was a broker, a go-between, an intermediary, an agent. At various times, he'd called himself by all these names.
But he wasn't a killer.
Plenty of people knew how to contact him directly. Receiving the package hadn't been that much of a surprise. The fact that someone knew that Valerie Anderson was Carlos Morales's mother worried him. He was careful to hide that, never spoke to anyone about his private life. But what was deeply troubling was the fact that the letter had arrived addressed to Charlie. There were only two people who called him Charlie: Maggie, and his mother.
He'd discussed the situation with Maggie and they'd agreed he had no choice. He had to ask his mum straight out. ' M ama,' he said. 'Why would someone want you dead?'
She shuffled in her seat. 'Why what?'
'You heard me.'
She picked up her cup, took a large sip. 'What nonsense is this? It's not funny.'
'I'm perfectly serious.'
'Why would you think someone wants me dead?' she said.
He couldn't answer that. Not now.
When he got home, Maggie was alone in the sitting room watching TV. Carlos noticed she'd been biting her fingernails.
'How did it go?' she said.
'Where's Sofia?'
'Sleeping. How did it go?' she repeated.
He told her what had happened.
Maggie shook her head. 'You have to tell her.'
'Tell her what?'
'The truth. About you. About the business.'
'I can't do that.' His mother had no idea what he really did for a living and Carlos wanted to keep it that way.
'Then what? This is eating you up, Charlie.'
Was it? He hadn't noticed. She was probably right. He was trying not to notice, but he did want to find out who'd paid for the contract. It wasn't just curiosity either. His mother could be a pain in the arse, sure, but he couldn't believe someone would hate her enough to want her dead. And at a very decent price, too.
'What are you going to do?' Maggie asked.
'I'm going to look in on Sofia,' he said, watching Maggie tighten her lips, shake her head fast, like she was trying to dislodge water from her ears. A familiar gesture that had become more exaggerated since Sofia was born.
'And then what?' Maggie said.
'One step at a time, mi esposa impaciente. Patience, love.'
Back at his mother's a few days later, sitting on the settee with another cup of coffee. She sat forward in one of the bucket seats to refill her glass from the bottle of vodka on the coffee table.
'I've been worried,' she said. 'You got me flustered, all your talk of people wanting me dead. I haven't slept.'
'I'm sorry,' he said. She looked tired. But then she'd looked tired for years.
'Thanks. But that hardly helps.'
'I know.' He shifted in his seat, leaned closer. 'I need to tell you something.'
She glanced away. Took a sip. 'Why do I feel like I don't want to hear this?'
He could leave now. He could walk away. Everything could stay as it had always been.
Instead, he told her everything. It was the only way he could be sure.
She listened in silence.
When he'd finished, she said, 'I don't believe a word of it.'
He nodded. 'I don't blame you.'
'You've been doing this for years?'
'Long time, si.'
'How could I not have known?'
'I'm careful.'
'But still. You'd think a mother would know that her son was a… a monster.' Her face was even paler than usual, her lips like hungry worms. 'I should call the police.'
'I can understand how you feel,' he said. 'But there would be no point. I'd just deny it. You'd sound like a crazy old drunk.'
'You think that's what I am?' She placed her glass on the table, carefully. It made only the tiniest sound. 'What about you? What happened to your sanity? What happened to your conscience, for God's sake?'
'Please, Mum. I can do without the moralising. I don't mention your drinking, do I?'
Her eyes widened. 'You just did. Anyway, there's a bit of a bloody difference between… killing people and enjoying a drink.'
'Maybe,' he said. 'Although I don't think Maggie sees it that way.'
She wiped a drip off her glass with her forefinger. 'She knew what you did when she married you?' She licked her finger, wiped it against her thumb.
'Oh, yeah. Sometimes I think that was the reason.'
'Yet she hates me drinking?'
'Never mind Maggie, Mum.'
'How can I not mind? She won't let me see my own granddaughter.'
'I know.'
'She's never liked me.'
'I know. But just try to focus. Tell me if you can think of anyone who'd want you out of the way.'
'Out of the way.' She closed her eyes. 'Jesus,' she said. 'Why should I give a hoot about helping you? Not as if you're helping me.'
'You could help yourself by not drinking.'
'Listen to yourself.'
'You're missing the point.'
'You may think so.'
'Mum, shut up.'
'What did you say?'
'You heard.'
She shut up.
'Somebody wants you dead,' Carlos said. 'Enough to pay me a substantial sum of money to make that happen. You can get all moral on me after we've figured out who it is. Unless you don't care.'
She stared into space, said nothing.
'Well,' he said. 'Do you?'
'Of course I do.' She picked up her glass again. 'Of course I want to know who hates me that much.'
'That's what I thought.'
She gulped down the rest of her drink. 'So how do we find that out?'
Carlos took the long way home, listened to some flamenco for a few minutes, but it was too tortured and mournful for his mood. He stuck on one of Maggie's compilation CDs instead. Good driving music. Nice tempo but relaxing too.
And Carlos needed to relax. Seeing his mother at the best of times was a strain. Tonight, well, he'd felt the
