Ozburn went to the window and looked out at the gray-green Pacific. Even with his sunglasses on the scene was punishingly bright. Surfers rode a small rolling break and two boys sat their horses bare-back and swayed slowly down the beach. Ozburn could see the door guard's boots dark in the long sunlit sliver between the door and the paver tiles. The guard and Mateo had checked him for guns and knives before allowing him into the room, which Ozburn had found funny, considering he was carrying seventy-five thousand dollars to give to Mateo for his boss. It was half the money for the hundred guns, the other half due upon delivery of the finished product.
— You smell sick.
— I've been feeling really good, Mateo. Good enough to fight a bull.
— Gringos don't have the balls to fight bulls.
— A man can learn plenty of things in his life. There's no reason I can't fight a bull.
— You should fight your dog. That would be a fair fight.
Ozburn looked at Daisy, then at Mateo. He growled lightly and saw the sleepiness return to the man's expression. Mateo pulled a handgun from the rear waistband of his Wranglers, slid it back into the pants right up front where he could get to fast. Ozburn laughed at him.
— When will the other ninety weapons be finished?
— Friday. Four days from today. Delivery will be in Los Angeles.
Strange, thought Ozburn. But a lucky break for me and the Blowdown team. I'll take luck. I have no problem with luck. The North Baja Cartel's skill at crossing the border must be highly developed by now. What were ninety guns, considering how many tons of dope they smuggled north?
— Why Los Angeles?
Mateo smiled joylessly.
— Because it is safer. Because there are not thousands of soldiers and federales searching for us in California. I joke to El Tigre. I said you would like it in California because you would be near to Armenta's Maras in L.A. Easy for you to sell the Loves to our enemies.
— You have a wild imagination, Mateo.
— I have no imagination at all. Four days. Friday. You need to be in Buenavista at the Gran Sueno Hotel and we will call you and tell you what is next.
— I'll need to see them.
— I'll need to see the money. The remaining half.
— Next time, I deal with Herredia, not you.
— He will never deal with you. Ozburn packed the guns and ammunition in his duffel and whistled up Daisy and they walked down the colonnade through slats of shadow and light to the far side of the parking lot where his car was waiting. It was a loaner from Father Joe, just a humble Crown Victoria, but the registration was up-to-date and the air conditioner blew cold and Daisy could lie down on the bench seat beside him and rest her muzzle on his thigh and there was plenty of room for both of them.
He drove back toward the Estero Beach Hotel feeling in control of himself and of the things around him. Things were finally lining up. He'd cleaned out the Augean stables-both the Buenavista and San Ysidro safe houses- five fewer murderers living in the United States as guests of the ATF. He'd talked to Hood and brought Blowdown in on the act. He was surprised that Hood had given up on him so quickly, that Charlie just wanted to bring him in and charge him with the safe house killings. Shortsighted. Ye of little faith, thought Oz. Moreover, he'd gotten half the money from Paco and passed it-minus his two hundred fifty per unit-to Mateo. He'd just received his first ten weapons. He had overcome the temptation to whack Mateo and Herredia and some bodyguards, taking a longer view of his mission. He'd been feeling better the last few days, too, likely due to increased vitamins and supplements and plenty of rest. It was nice to be less prone to cramps and spasms and even convulsions. And he loved his otherworldy physical strength.
Ozburn sped along. Then he spotted some vendors and their wares outside a beachfront hotel, and pulled over. He needed something. Daisy waited in the car while he examined the crafts and curios, asking questions about manufacture and price. There were paintings, ironwood carvings, pottery, silver and turquoise, boot-leg CDs, wristwatches, lacquered-wood posters of Jesus, the Virgin Mary, Elvis, Mick. He settled on a bouquet of large paper flowers and a beautifully glazed and fired vase to hold them. The flowers were purple and orange and red and yellow and the vase was black with molten red runners, like something melting down it, like Arenal, he thought.
A young woman was selling Chiclets and cigarettes. Her small son had a baby opossum tethered by the neck with a string of old shoelaces to a big iron birdcage containing a red macaw. The opossum looked at Ozburn as he approached, and when he knelt down in front of the animal it hissed at him. There were small bubbles on its chin whiskers and Ozburn could hear it wheezing and see the straining in its flanks.
— Is hurt, said the boy.
— Yes. I will hold it.
— He bite.
— No, he will not.
Ozburn gently lifted the animal and cupped it in his big hands and bent his face forward to it, his nose just inches from the pink, dribbling snout.
— Dogs almost kill.
— He's terrified. Does he eat?
— Rice and churros.
He got his Flip from the car and showed the woman how to work it. When she began shooting video, Ozburn closed his hands over the tiny opossum and looked at its face staring up at him through the bars of his thumbs. It was swinish and ratlike at once and Ozburn marveled at its strange design, the hybridized oddness that somehow worked in this world. He felt his great strength flowing down into and consolidating in his hands. He let the strength gather and then he tensed his muscles until they trembled and he continued to watch the opossum as it watched him.
— You hurt him.
— I cure him.
Ozburn glanced at the camera. Then his fingers began to shake and the veins on the backs of his hands stood out and it looked like he was being electrocuted and that whatever was in his grip was being electrocuted also. He pressed his hands together more tightly. He could feel the astonishing lightness of the thing and the tactile throb of life that was inside it: ribs flaring, heart tapping away, muscles rippling.
— I used to pray to God when I healed. Now I don't pray to anybody or anything. I don't need them.
— God is good, said the boy.
— I make the life inside me flow outside of me and enter the injured being.
Ozburn looked down at his shivering hands and saw the opossum looking up at him. He summoned a last surge of life all the way from his heart to his hands and he felt it flowing from his fingertips and into the animal. He growled softly and the boy stepped back from him. When he opened his hands the animal was on its side, limp, mouth open, tongue out. The tail spilled deadly over Ozburn's palm.
— Good.
— Dead.
The boy's eyes filled with tears.
— Watch.
He set the opossum down on the ground, then sat back on his haunches and waited. The boy did likewise. Ozburn looked out at the fine October day, cool and sunny and the air smelling of ocean and sagebrush. He smiled at the woman shooting the video. He couldn't wait to share this with Seliah. He thought of Seliah and traced an S in the sand with his finger and wondered what he could do for her, the suffering love of his life.
Then the opossum's eyes opened and its tongue retracted and it lifted its head. The boy smiled and blushed at his own gullibility. The animal gathered itself and stood up wobbly but found its balance. Its tail rewound into a neat, loose coil. Ozburn brought a tissue from the pocket of his leather biker's vest and wiped the foam off the animal's chin. It tried to walk toward Ozburn but its leash ran out. It strained for a moment, then looked up at Ozburn with its weak, small eyes. It was no longer wheezing or laboring to breathe. He pet it a few times, then stood.
— When it is strong you should let it go. It is a wild animal and won't do well with you.