to attach another. AVERY BARTHOLOMEW PENDLETON — PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR FOR HIRE — GOVERNMENTS TOPPLED — TERRORISTS’ PLOTS FOILED — MURDERS SOLVED — OCCASIONALLY, LOST CATS FOUND.
The Padre wore a jumpsuit. His hands and feet were shackled. His shoulder hurt from the bullet he’d taken from the Ukrainian bodyguard. He sat in a plastic chair in front of a folding table. The rest of the windowless room was empty. His immaculately polished boots, his Italian suit, and Roman priest’s collar were all gone. He sat in the cold room, alone. The door opened. A man with a briefcase came in and stood in front of him. From his suit coat, he produced a thin cigar. He handed it to the Padre. The Padre held it up and looked at it. He smelled it. The man with the briefcase took out a gold lighter and lit the cigar for him. The Padre inhaled deeply. He looked at the man standing in front of him.
“When am I getting out?”
“I’m… sorry, Padre.”
The Padre was silent for a few moments. “So that’s it?”
“I’m sorry.”
The Padre looked at his smoldering cigar. The tip burned red hot. “Carnicero?”
“He’s dead,” the man in the suit replied.
The Padre stared at the cigar. One part was on fire, one part was not, but the whole thing was consuming itself. The Padre held the glowing tip under his nose. The smoke rose in a spiral. He closed his eyes and inhaled.
Later that evening, in Monterrey, Barquero slipped through the throng of people on the sidewalk. They were lined up for the street vendors who boisterously hawked their food from small stalls to the late-night crowd of revelers. Time and time again, he looked back over his shoulder. No one was following. Barquero was a large man, but no one seemed to notice him. He found a taxi and got in. As the car pulled away from the curb, Barquero closed his eyes.
A lone coyote sat on a ridge above the Mexican desert. The pale moon cast an eerie light over the hungry animal as its tongue hung from its jaws. The beast wasn’t full. It wasn’t yet satisfied. It just sat, watching. Waiting patiently for the right moment…
EPILOGUE
To: President of the United Mexican States
Dear Mr. President:
You don’t have to thank me. You don’t even have to apologize, although it would be nice. We both know I saved your country and your position in the government. What I want, besides the rest of my rightful reward for locating and delivering to you one of Mexico’s most highly sought-after drug cartel lords, is the full and complete reimbursement of my out-of-pocket expenses. Heretofore, listed in no particular order:
1) Three cases of Mountain Dew. Original flavor only.
2) One new “Bruce Lee” yellow tracksuit. XXL size only.
3) One Motel 9 “All You Can Eat” breakfast buffet voucher.
P.S. — The New York Yankees won’t lose forever. You should keep my phone number handy. The chupacabra will have its revenge…
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Stephen C. Randel
Published by Knuckleball Press
All rights reserved
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of Stephen C. Randel except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Also by Stephen Randel
2012, Knuckleball Press
