of a price?”
“Yes,” Austin said casually. He looked around, hoping Gomez was serious about his backup, and said casually, “I need some in formation.”
The Mexican’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand,” he said warily.
“I’m in the market for some property myself. There’s a tortilla factory in the Baja. I understand that it might be available in a fire sale.”
“You’re mistaken,” Pedralez said coldly. He snapped his fingers. The men lounging at the surrounding tables came to alert. “Who are you?”
“I represent an organization far bigger than yours.”
“You’re a policeman? FBI?”
“No. I’m with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I’m an ocean scientist, and I’m investigating an explosion near your plant. In return for information I’d like to make these pistols a gift.”
The avuncular smile had vanished, and Enrico’s lips were curled in a humorless and ferocious grin. “Do you take me for a fool? I own this restaurant. These men, the waiters, the cook, they all work for me. You could disappear without a trace. They would swear you were never here. What do I care for your pistolas?” he said with contempt. “I have dozens more.”
Austin kept his gaze leveled on Enrico’s face. “Tell me, Mr. Pedralez, as a fellow collector, what is your fascination with these old weapons?”
The Mexican seemed amused at the question. The heat went out of the fierce glitter in his eyes, but the temperature went down only a few degrees.
“They represent power and the means of power. Yet at the same time they are as beautiful as a woman’s body.”
“Well said.”
“And you?”
“Aside from their fine workmanship, they remind me that lives and fate can be altered by chance. A trigger squeezed pre maturely. A gun raised too quickly. A single shot missing a vital organ by an inch or two. They represent the luck of the draw in its most lethal terms.”
The Mexican seemed intrigued by the answer. “You must consider yourself very lucky to place yourself in my hands, Mr. Austin.”
“Not at all. I took the chance that you would be willing to chat.”
“You made your gamble. I applaud your audacity. Unfortunately this is not your day. You lose,” he said coldly. “I don’t care who you are or who you represent. You have drawn the death card.” He snapped his fingers again, and the men rose from the tables and began to move in. Austin felt like a fox outfoxed by the hunters.
With an ear-splitting roar of its unmuffled exhaust system, the battered yellow cab squealed to a stop in front of the restaurant. The car, an ancient Checker, was still bouncing on worn shock absorbers when the cab driver got out. Except for the soiled seer sucker sports jacket over a Hussong’s T-shirt, the driver behind the reflecting silver lenses looked suspiciously like Joe Zavala.
Joe stood on the sidewalk and called out in heavily accented English. “Anybody here call a cab?”
One of Enrico’s men went over and growled at Joe in Spanish.
“I’m looking for an American,” Zavala said in English at the top of his voice, looking past the thug’s shoulder. “Sergeant Alvin York.”
The man put his palm on Zavala’s chest to emphasize his point.
“Okay, okay! Damned gringos.” He stalked back to his cab and lurched off, trailing a purple cloud of exhaust fumes.
The thug turned around and laughed.
Austin breathed a sigh of relief. His eyes roved the low rooftops, and he smiled.
Zavala was passing on a message, not very subtle but effective. Sergeant York was the Kentucky sharpshooter who got the
Medal of Honor for capturing German prisoners during World War I. “An amusing fellow, eh, Mr. Austin?” “Very amusing.”
“Good. Now I must go. Adios, Mr. Austin. Unfortunately we will not be meeting again.”
“Wait.”
The Mexican scowled at Austin as if he were a bit of lint on his shirt.
“I wouldn’t move if I were you. You’re in the sights of a sniper. One wrong move, and your head will explode like a ripe melon. Look up on that roof if you don’t believe me, and that one over there.”
Pedralez swiveled his head like a praying mantis and scanned the low rooftops. Three snipers, placed at different locations, made no effort to hide. He sat down again.
“It seems you don’t believe entirely in the forces of fate. What do you want?”
“I simply want to know who owns the Baja Tortilla factory.”
“I do, of course. It’s quite profitable, really.”
“What about the underwater laboratory in the cove? What do you know about that?”
“I’m a busy man, Mr. Austin, so I will tell you the story, and then we will part. Two years ago somebody came to me. A lawyer from San Diego. He had a proposition. Someone wanted to build a factory. They would pay for its construction, and I would take all the profits. There were conditions. It had to be isolated, and it had to be on the water.”
“I want to know what was built in the water.”
“I don’t know. A large ship came. There were guards. They brought something into the cove and deliberately sank it. Connections were made to the factory. People came and went. I asked no questions.”
“What do you know about the explosion?”
He shrugged. “Someone called afterward and said not to worry. They would make good on my loss. That’s all I know. The police don’t care.” “This lawyer who handled the deal, what was his name?”
“Francis Xavier Hanley. Now I must go. I have told you all I can.”
“Yes, I know, you’re a busy man.”
Pedralez waved his hand. The men got up from the tables and formed a corridor to the sidewalk on either side of him. The Mercedes appeared out of nowhere; the door opened with machinelike precision. The bodyguards piled into two Jeep Cherokees ahead of and behind the Mercedes.
“Mr. Pedralez,” Austin called out. “A deal’s a deal. You forgot the pistols.”
Enrico answered with a mirthless smile. “Keep them,” he said, and added a few more words. He got into the back of the car, shut the door, and zoomed down the street. Austin was sweating, and it wasn’t just from the heat. The junky cab pulled up in front of him and tooted the horn.
Austin slid in the passenger side and looked around in amazement. “Where’d you get this rig?”
“Agent Gomez was nice enough to have it waiting for me. It’s got a hot engine and all kinds of radio gear I used to let our friends know where you were. I’m going to hate to give it up. Did Mr. Pedralez say anything?”
Austin held up the pistol case. “Yeah, he told me the next time I came to Tijuana to be sure these things are loaded.” He’s killed people for less.”
“Look, Agent Gomez, we haven’t cornered the market on foolhardiness,” Austin said. “We tried other avenues first. The Mexican police say the steam pipes caused the blast. Case closed. We thought the owner might have something to tell us, so we called the Department of Commerce. They did an uh-oh, said the plant was owned by Enrico, and suggested that we get in touch with Gomez in the San Diego field office. That’s you. Now we’d like to take the next step. Does he have an office in the U.S.?”
“He won’t cross the border. He knows we’ll grab him.”
“Then we’ll have to go to him.”
“This won’t be easy. Pedralez used to be a Mexican federal cop, and half the police are on his payroll. They protect him and turn over informants, competitors, or anyone else who might cause him trouble.”
Gomez unlocked a drawer in his desk. He pulled out two thick files and laid them on the desk blotter. “This is the file on Enrico’s dirty stuff, and the other has information on his legal operations. He has to launder that dirty money somewhere, so he’s set up or bought legitimate businesses on both sides of the Mexican-American border. The tortilla business is the leader. Tortillas have become worth millions of dollars since the U.S. market opened up and people on this side of the border started eating the things. A few companies control the business. Just look in
