“I’m sorry, who did you say?”
“Coburn,” he repeated impatiently. “Lee Coburn.”
After a sustained pause, the woman at the other end said, “That’s impossible. Agent Coburn is deceased. He died more than a year ago.”
Chapter 17
Diego’s cell phone vibrated, but just to be ornery, he waited several seconds before answering it. “Who’s this?”
“Who were you expecting?” The Bookkeeper asked with matching snideness.
“Found your fugitive yet?”
“He’s proving to be more of a problem than originally thought.”
“You don’t say? Those couple of clowns really fucked up, didn’t they? Letting him get away like that.” He wanted to add,
For years after leaving the hair-braiding salon, he’d lived on the streets, finding shelter where he could, scavenging for food and clothing. He’d survived by a wily intellect that had come to him through some unknown contributor to his cloudy gene pool, and it hadn’t taken him long to figure out that barter, theft, and salvaging only got one so much. The only currency that mattered was money.
Diego had applied himself to earning it. He observed and learned and proved to be a quick study. The marketplace for his particular skills was limitless. His business thrived regardless of the economic climate for any other field of commerce. In fact, he was busiest whenever times got hard and the prevailing dog-eat-dog law of the jungle was more strictly enforced.
By his early teens he’d cultivated a reputation for sudden and explosive violence, so even the toughest of the tough respected his slight build and small stature and, for the most part, gave him a wide berth. He had no friends and few competitors because few were as good.
As far as the state of Louisiana was concerned, he didn’t exist. His birth had never been recorded, so he never had attended school. Although basically illiterate, he could read a smattering of English, enough to get by. He spoke fluent Spanish, which he’d picked up on the street. He couldn’t point out his hometown on a map, but he knew it like the back of his hand. He’d never even heard of long division or the multiplication tables, yet he could tabulate amounts of money in his head with lightning speed. Already he was calculating what he would charge for doing Coburn.
“So is the guy caught yet, or what?”
“No. He got Fred Hawkins.”
Diego was surprised by that, but withheld comment.
“Now everyone is really up in arms. If Coburn survives his
“I’ve been ready.”
“I also may need you to take care of a woman and child.”
“That’ll cost you extra.”
“I’m prepared for that.” After a cool silence, The Bookkeeper said, “About that whore…”
“Taken care of. I told you.”
“Ah, so you did. My mind has been on other matters. I’ll be in touch.”
The call ended without another word.
None was necessary. They understood each other. They had from the start. A few years back, someone who knew someone had approached him about contract work. Was he interested? He was.
He called the telephone number given to him, listened to The Bookkeeper’s recruitment spiel, and figured it was the kind of alliance he liked-loose. He did that first job, he got paid. He and The Bookkeeper had been doing business together ever since.
He slipped the cell phone back into the holster hooked to his belt, hunched his shoulders, and pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his pants. The fingers of his right hand closed securely around the razor.
Since Katrina, some areas of the city had become gang war zones. Diego was an independent operator who’d tried to steer clear of the clashes, but it was impossible to remain neutral, and consequently he’d become the enemy of all the gangs.
He appeared to be focused on the grimy pavement beneath the rubber soles of his high-tops, but in truth, his eyes were darting and watchful, suspecting that danger lurked in each shadow, constantly anticipating an ambush.
He didn’t fear much from cops. They were a joke. Sometimes a bad joke, but still laughable and not something he worried about.
In that deceptively stooped posture, he slunk down the sidewalk, turning left into the first alley he came to, scattering cockroaches and two cats on the prowl. For the next five minutes, he wove his way through abandoned buildings filled with rusting industrial equipment or refuse left by homeless people who’d used the structures as temporary camps.
The labyrinth of alleyways was no maze to Diego. He knew every square inch of it. He took a different and circuitous path through it each time, so he could be certain that no one was following him. Nobody could find him if he didn’t want to be found.
After years of living wherever he could take shelter, he now had a permanent residence, although it wasn’t on any postman’s route. He circled the vacant building twice before approaching a padlocked door to which he held the only key. Once he was in, he bolted the metal door from the inside.
Total darkness enveloped him, but it was no impediment. He easily navigated the hallways, whose walls were black with mold. They were perpetually damp. Rainwater trickled down three stories to collect in rancid puddles on the uneven floors.
Deep within the bowels of this former bean cannery, Diego had made himself a home. He unlocked the door to the inner sanctum, slipped inside, secured the deadbolt.
The chamber’s air was cooler and drier due to a makeshift ventilation system that he’d adapted from the building’s original, using scrap materials he’d collected over time. On the floor was an expensive oriental rug he’d stolen off a truck parked in the French Quarter. He’d pretended to be one of the deliverymen. No one had challenged him when he slung the carpet over his shoulder and walked away with it. All the room’s furnishings had been similarly obtained. Twin lamps shed a welcoming glow.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair with a brush that Diego had shoplifted yesterday. He’d paid for the goldfish, though. He’d passed a pet store he’d never taken notice of before. He saw the fish in their tank. Next thing he knew, he was carrying home one of them in a plastic bag. Her smile when he’d presented it to her had been worth triple what he’d paid for the fish.
He’d never had a pet before. Now he had two. The goldfish and the girl.
Her name was Isobel. She was a year younger than he, although she looked even younger than that. Her hair was sleek and so black it was iridescent. It hung straight to her shoulders, forming a glossy curtain against her cheeks.
She was slightly built, with a waist his hands could span. Diego figured he could snap her frail limbs in two with virtually no effort. Her breasts were small, barely tenting the T-shirt he’d stolen for her. And although he’d had many women of all ages and sizes, it was the delicate beauty of Isobel’s small body that made him feel feverish, short of breath, and weak with desire.
But he hadn’t touched her in that way. Nor would he.
Her fragile, youthful features had made her very popular with the massage parlor’s clientele. Men loved being stroked by her small hands. Many requested her. She had regulars. Her delicacy was a turn-on because it made
