time without any clear destination. Killing time. The air was warm and moist and oily like air that was vented from a low-class kitchen, and the cab smelled of sweat and body odor. Maybe the cab smelled like fear, too, but I was trying not to think of that part of it. Elvis Cole, Fearless Detective. I glanced over at Pike and he appeared to be sleeping. Passed out from fear, no doubt.
Pretty soon the neighborhoods became nicer, and we were driving along a beautiful emerald golf course and a sculpted canal, and then we were at the lake. The levee was lush and well maintained, and Jesus wound through streets now lined with mansions, some behind walls and gates but most not. We turned into a cul-de-sac fronting the levee and stopped at an enormous two-story brick home with oak trees in the front and along the sides. A couple of Japanese mountain bikes were lying on the lawn, and a Big Wheel was in the drive. You could look down the drive and see a four-car garage in the back, along with a pool house and a pool, but it seemed pretty quiet. Jesus stopped the car and said, 'Just go to the door and knock. It's set up.'
'Thanks, Jesus.'
Jesus said, 'You got a gun this time?'
'Yeah.'
He nodded. 'Good.'
Pike and I got out of the cab, and Jesus drove away.
Amazing how alone you can feel in somebody's front yard. I looked at the bikes and the Big Wheel. 'Helluva house for a hood.'
Pike grunted.
The door opened before we reached it, and an attractive dark-haired woman smiled at us. She was wearing a tasteful one-piece swimming suit with a towel wrapped around her hips like a skin. She was barefoot, and her hair was wet as if she'd just gotten out of the pool. She said, 'Are you Mr. Cole?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
Beaming, she offered her hand. 'I'm Holly Escobar. Please come in. Frank's in back.'
Pike offered his hand and introduced himself. Holly Escobar said that she was happy to meet us. A little boy maybe five years old raced out between us, hopped aboard the Big Wheel, and roared around the cul-de-sac, blurrping his lips to make engine noises. He was as brown as a walnut, and wearing only baggy red swimming trunks. Holly Escobar closed the door. 'He's all right out there. We don't have any traffic.'
She brought us through a house that looked like anyone else's house, past family photographs and a very fine collection of riding trophies (which I took to be hers) and two older boys planted in front of a television and into a bright, homey island kitchen where a man in baggy plaid shorts was stacking sandwiches on a plastic tray. He was about my height, but younger, with heavy muscles and slicked hair and blunt fingers. He looked at us when we walked in and Holly Escobar said, 'Ronnie, these are the men Frank's expecting.
Why don't you take them out and I'll finish here.' She smiled back at us. 'Everybody's in back.'
Ronnie led us out through a couple of French doors. Three men were sitting at a round table by the pool, drinking, and a woman was on a chaise lounge, sunning herself. Like Holly Escobar, she wore a one-piece, and she looked like somebody's wife. No bimbos at the house. Two of the men were wearing baggy shirts over their shorts, probably to cover weapons, but one of the men was shirtless. Ronnie said, 'Frank?'
Frank Escobar was shirtless. He was short and wide and maybe in his early fifties, with a powerful, thick- bodied build. The hair on his head was streaked with gray, but his chest hair had already gone over, a thick gray thatch. He looked over at his name, and stood up when he saw us. 'Oh, yeah, hey, let's go in the pool house for this.' There was a slight accent, but he'd been trying to lose it. He held up a short glass. 'We're doing gin and tonics. You guys want one?' The gang lord as host.
'No. Thanks.'
He said, 'C'mon. We'll have some privacy in here.'
He staggered when he got up, and one of the shirted guys had to catch him. Middle of the day and he was zorched. The gang lord as lush.
We filed into the pool house. Pool table. Bar. Couple of slot machines and video games. A life-sized portrait of Frank Escobar from the old days, wearing an officer's uniform in some Central American jungle, close-cropped hair and bandito mustache. The real Frank Escobar slumped into a tall chair and waved his hand at Ronnie. 'Check these guys, huh? See what they got.'
I held my arms out. 'It's on my right hip.' Ronnie took it, then gave me a quick pat. When he was done with me he moved to Pike, but Pike said,
'No.'
Frank Escobar frowned and said, 'What do you mean no?'
Pike held his hand palm out toward Ronnie. 'You want me to wait outside, fine. But he's not going to touch me, and I'm not going to give up my gun.'
Escobar rubbed at his eyes. 'What the fuck.' He finished the rubbing. 'You wanna keep your gun, tha's fine. We'll do it another way.' Frank Escobar reached under one of the shirts and came out with a little Beretta.380 and pointed it at my head. He said, 'Keep your fuckin' gun, you want. We'll do it like this.' He waved at the shirt. 'Leon, hold on this guy, okay, this other asshole wants to keep his gun.' Leon took the.380 and held on me, and Frank Escobar glared at Pike. 'There. You happy now, you with your gun?'
Pike nodded. Some friend.
Escobar looked back at me. 'Okay. What do you have for me?'
'Donaldo Prima.'
Escobar's left eye narrowed, and he didn't seem drunk anymore. Now, he seemed as dangerous as the man in the life-sized picture. 'What do you know about Prima?'
'I know how he's getting his people in, Frank. He's working with a friend of mine. My friend provides the transportation and the secure location, but the money's not there.'
'Who's your friend?'
'A guy named Rossier. He's got the land and the water. A very secure location for delivering goods. Prima approached him and set up the deal, but now we're dissatisfied. You know what I mean?'
Escobar said, 'How much he gettin'?'
'Grand a head.'
Escobar laughed. 'That's shit.' Exactly what del Reyo had said.
'We think so.'
'Why doesn't your friend just go into business for himself?'
'Prima has the goods, Frank. Like you. Two grand a head and Prima's out. We've got people coming in now, and we'd like to increase our take.'
'Just like that? It's that easy?'
'Whatever you want.'
Frank Escobar wet his lips, thinking. He had some of the gin and tonic. A drop of it ran down from the corner of his mouth to his chin. He said, 'Prima.'
'That's it, Frank. You want to think about it and ask around, fine. We've been in business with Prima maybe six months. He brings up the money personally with every shipment. Like that.' Giving him Prima. Saying, here, take him.
Frank Escobar nodded at me.
I said, 'Think about it, Frank. You want to get me, I'm staying at the Riverfront in Baton Rouge. You want to give me a number I can call you, that's fine, too.' I spread my hands. 'Whatever you want. What we want is two grand a pop.'
Holly Escobar stepped in out of the sun with the tray of sandwiches, smiling the pretty smile, saying, 'Would you guys like a sandwich?' She froze in the door when she saw the guy in the baggy shirt pointing the gun at me, and the smile fell away. 'Frank?' The guy lowered the.380.
Frank Escobar lost the grip on his drink, and it fell. His face went as purple as overcooked liver and he came off the chair. 'Didn't I tell you never walk in on me?'
She took a single step back, trying to rebuild the smile, but the smile was clouded with fear. 'I'm sorry, Frank. I'll wait outside.'
The guy with the shirt whispered, 'Oh, shit.'
Frank Escobar rushed at his wife and yanked her back into the pool house. The big plastic plate and the
