window. Through a crack in the blinds, I can see Julio outside chatting it up with one of their guards. Herman has lifted the rear door of the Suburban and is sitting in the back with his legs dangling over the bumper, his arms folded, sweating with his jacket on, one hand not too far from the automatic under his coat, assuming they haven’t lifted it from him.
From here I can also see a small corner of the item on the floor where the blanket is folded back. It is white and looks like gypsum, rough edges like stone.
“What would you like to drink? We have bourbon.” He pulls a few more items from our wallets, what look like driver’s licenses, and checks these against the business cards already out.
“Sounds like it’ll be bourbon,” says Adam.
“And you?” He looks up at me.
“The same.”
Jorge leaves to get the drinks.
The man behind the desk fixes Adam with a stare. “You gonna stick with this bullshit?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The real estate bullshit?”
“I assure you…”
“You can keep your fucking assurances,” he tells Adam. “What I wanna know is what you’re doing here.”
“I’m telling you we’re looking for property.” Adam is holding a leather folder with a pen and paper for effect.
“Fine. You want to talk about property. We got property. We got a nice cliff over here, goes way out over the ocean. Maybe you like to see it? Lot of rocks at the bottom.”
“We were thinking perhaps a nice beach,” says Adam.
“I’ll bet you were.”
“I’m telling you we represent investors, a consortium up north.”
“That’s right. A company called Jamaile Enterprises,” I say.
I can feel a palpable wince from Adam as I say the words. If looks could kill, I wouldn’t have to worry about the man behind the desk. But I figure we have nothing to lose. I want to see if I get a rise, but he doesn’t seem to recognize the name.
I’m guessing this is the business side of the brothers Ibarra, Arturo, who is threatening to drop us off a cliff, which leaves me to wonder about Jaime, the one Metz called the Neanderthal.
“To buy land down here, you need a Mexican partner.”
“We know that,” says Adam.
“I have had enough American partners to last me a lifetime,” he says. “They never seem to work out. Last ones got cold feet. Left us high and dry.”
“How did you deal with it?” I ask.
He looks at me, makes a face, and glances at Jorge who has now rejoined us holding two glasses, bourbon on the rocks. “We had to sever the relations, you might say.” He smiles, thin lips, tight and sinister.
“Well, I can assure you that that would not happen here,” says Adam.
Jorge deposits one of the tumblers with iced bourbon on the desk in front of Adam and hands the other one to me. Then he takes a seat at the other end of the couch, staring at the back of Adam’s head through dark, dead eyes. Occasionally he glances over at me with the affability of someone measuring you for a coffin.
“I told them you might want to take them over and show them the cliff.” Ibarra is talking to Jorge. “Of course, we let them finish their drinks first.”
“I’m telling you we’re just exploring for property.” I can hear the strain in Adam’s voice as he tries to convince him. A man of influence, suddenly without any.
“Esploring,” he says. “That’s a good word. It looks like you are esploring all right. You come here with men who are armed.” He nods out toward the cars, toward Julio and Herman, leaving us to wonder whether Ibarra’s men outside have taken their weapons.
Someone raps on the door from outside.
“Yeah, what is it?”
One of guards comes in. It’s the man in the yellow shirt, a rifle slung over his back. He crosses the room to the desk and leans over, whispering something into Ibarra’s ear.
The loafers come off the desk and Ibarra sits up straight. There’s a quick conversation in Spanish, whispered and hushed tones. Then Ibarra waves the man away with the back of his hand. The guard leaves.
“I am told you have other cars with more men out there somewhere. You say you come looking for property, but it sounds like you don’t trust me. That’s not good for business.”
“One can’t be too careful,” says Adam.
“No. You want to call these people, tell them to come in here so we can all sit down and talk?”
“I don’t think so.” Tolt smiles at him.
“I didn’t think so.” Ibarra is left to figure his next move.
“Salud.” Adam lifts his glass and takes a drink.
The Mexican joins him and I follow. The whiskey is smooth, something expensive, just warm enough to give that amber glow as it spills down my insides, anything to keep the joints at my knees from clattering against each other.
Ibarra continues to finger our wallets, pulling every scrap of paper out. He takes his time. My eyes wander to the slab of stone, with its gypsum edge exposed, leaning against the wall across the room. Then something hits the window outside near where I’m sitting.
Jorge hears it and pulls one of the blinds with a finger to look outside.
“Que es?” says Ibarra.
“Nada.” Jorge lets the blind close, then looks at me.
I shrug.
As he turns to look at his boss, I sneak a peek over my shoulder out toward the cars.
Julio, who sees my eyes through the slit of the blinds, gives me a furtive gesture, head nodding and a thumb below his waist, pointing vigorously in the direction of the cars.
An old model Buick is stopped in a cloud of dust just this side of the black Suburban. Two men get out. One is Hector Saldado.
“If you’re finished with us, we’re gonna go.”
“You’re gonna go when I tell you,” says Ibarra.
I look at my watch. “You’ve got less than a minute and our people are gonna be in here. Make up your mind.”
Adam is looking at me, wondering what I’m talking about.
I walk over to the desk and pick up the two wallets along with our licenses and papers Ibarra has spread around on top of it. He doesn’t try to stop me.
“Come on, we’re leaving.” I head for the door. Tolt gets off the chair and follows me. I hear footsteps on the plywood platform outside, the voices of two men speaking in Spanish just beyond the door. Another second and Saldado will be inside with us.
Jorge is off the couch. When I look up, he has planted himself like a boulder between us and the door. He looks at Ibarra for direction. Arturo hesitates for a second, looks at us, little slits, then nods to Jorge. He steps out of the way and opens the door.
In the time it takes him to do this, I reach behind me like a relay runner grabbing for a baton and take the folder out of Adam’s hand. I raise it to my face just as Jorge opens the door, shielding my eyes from the sun, and my face from Saldado’s view.
“Jaime, como esta?” Arturo Ibarra is greeting the other half.
As I step out onto the platform, I glance down and see two feet in pointed cowboy boots directly in front of me. I step around them.
“Excuse me.”
Adam follows along.
By the time we step off the platform, Julio already has the car door open. Herman is inside behind the wheel
