Finally he says, “You won't be dealing with any actual product. You'll never even see it. You will take our terms and negotiate them, you'll help us communicate with them. And you'll do it according to their customs.”
Because if I don't, Abuela will dispose of me before Carlo and Co. get another chance. If I've ever once in my life believed I was in a shitty spot, I was so wrong compared to this. I prop my elbows on the edge of the table, just because he thinks it's rude, and clasp my hands together.
I say, “And what happens when the deal is made?”
He smiles again, like he might smile at a charity event as a celebrated donor. He takes a prim sip, and says, “That remains to be seen.”
The rage stirs again, swimming around in my gut with the acid of the orange juice and expensive champagne. For a moment, I'd love to heave it all up and over his fancy table – the drink and the hate.
He doesn't care to tell me all this dirt, both camps have to know that I'll never take this to the Feds. Sure, they'd cut me a deal in exchange for the details, but I'd quickly meet the cartel assassins I never did when I was in.
“You might as well shoot me now. I don't want to be a part of this,” I say.
OK, the situation is hopeless, but I won't take my shackles without a little resistance. A little is all I can give before toeing the line. Carlo sits back against his chair, his double chin pronounced under his self-satisfied close-lipped smile.
Mona reaches a hand across the table, reminding me that she's still here, and pats my arm patronizingly. She says, “Then be a good puppy, and we'll be good to you.”
I pull away from her touch, turn a hard glare on her, and say, “Fuck you, Mona.”
Her lips twist in amusement, and she says, “That's not in your benefits package, but we might be able to negotiate something.” She takes a dainty sip of mimosa, and adds, “Now, we have a busy day still ahead of us. We should get going if we don't want to miss the meeting with finance.”
I bite back my reply, and it sours on my tongue. There's no point, no point in resisting, or even speaking. I'm an indentured servant, the best I can hope for are a few lashings, not death or freedom. Not yet.
Chapter 8 Partners in Crime
Isaiah
The drive along the coast would be nice if it were just me, if I wasn't stuck in the back of a Benz with the Queen of the Cunts. Out in the Gulf, there's a bank of clouds piled impossibly high, its gut blackening into the beginnings of a storm. I'm not familiar with this coast or these waters, so I can't even count on the damn rains to come.
I should be on the trawler right now, should have been there for several hours already. I told my boss I had a family emergency, which is a bitter truth and a shameless lie. I couldn't exactly explain to him that I'd rather pull seven twelves than have to deal with this shit, so I let him shake my hand and be surprisingly understanding. Fishermen come and go, I've seen it enough.
I don't know where we're going, and I'm not gonna ask. Mona said finance, so I guess this is the part where they tell me a bunch of numbers and details that I need to remember, and eventually present. We're not wasting any time, so I can also guess that I'll be on my way back to swamp country pretty soon. I can't say that I've missed it.
I'd love to say the thing that's bothering me the most isn't Maria. I wish it were the drugs, the cartel, the Feds – anything but that fact that it's likely I will see her again. It's a mixed bag of emotions that comes with the subject. I'd actually like to know she's doing well, to see it myself that she learned to cope with losing Charlie. But to see her, how could I not think what it felt like to fuck her?
The car pulls into the lot of a beachside cafe. Of course. How quaint.
I kick my current thoughts as far away as possible. I didn't ask for this, but it's still business. I never did the negotiating, but I was always there. I know my shit, and Mona has so kindly dressed me for success. Time for some poker face.
I step out of the car as Mona waits for the driver to open her door. My adrenaline spikes precariously, and I feel like I could run a marathon. If I don't get high soon, someone is gonna get hurt. Weed smoke is the only thing these days that keeps my quiet violence at bay.
I flank Mona by habit, but it doesn't feel right. She sways through the door like she owns the place. The host makes a big to-do about her presence, and it occurs to me that she might own the place. We're led through a posh little dining room to a deck on the beach. There are a handful of tables, all empty save one.
I'm sizing him up before he even sees us. Young, maybe twenty-five, light blond, thin, probably soft. He's wearing a short-sleeved button-up, khaki shorts, and boat shoes. Definitely soft. He probably goes to ballets and sips scotch
