Blackjack (36 page)

FROM INSIDE
the front door of the King Hotel, all the watchful desk clerk could see was the back of a medium-height man in a blue jacket. The man looked as if he was waiting for a bus, smoking a cigarette. Only two discordant notes sounded. At the man’s feet was a large cage, draped in black with a brass-ring handle at the top. And a bright-red dot of light holding steady right between the man’s shoulder blades. The red dot tracked the man, moving as he moved.

The Shark Car pulled to the curb. The back door opened. Some words were exchanged. The waiting man climbed into the car, pulling the cage behind him. The car took off.

A few minutes later, the desk clerk saw a slim, fine-featured black man coming down the stairs, a cut-down, double-barreled shotgun in one hand. The desk clerk purposefully did not meet the man’s eyes. When he looked up, the man was gone, almost as if he had never been there.

The desk clerk didn’t react. But it wasn’t the two hundred
dollars sitting atop the desk that earned his silence. The clerk knew what the red dot on the waiting man’s back had meant, and he didn’t want one on his own. Ever.

THE SHARK
Car worked its way through the Badlands, heading for Red 71 as unerringly as the homing pigeon it carried in its back seat. The phone on the seat next to Buddha chirped. The pudgy man picked it up and flicked a switch with his thumb. “Go,” he said.

“All clear here.” Cross’s voice.

“Coming in,” Buddha replied. “ETA ten minus.”

“Roger that. Six still clear?”

“The full one eighty.”

Buddha clicked off the phone, his eyes flicking back and forth between the road and the rearview mirror. He pulled the Shark Car through a fresh gap in the chain-link fence, and parked just behind the back door to Red 71.

He slapped the back door three times with the flat of his hand. It opened immediately. Cross stepped to one side, covering the area with a stubby machine pistol. Buddha entered first. Then the man they had picked up. Rhino was the last to go inside, blocking the only way out with both his bulk and the ridiculous gold Desert Eagle .50-caliber semi-auto that Princess had purchased years ago … because it was so pretty.

In the basement, Rhino hand-searched the courier, his touch delicate and sensitive. When he nodded an okay, Cross came forward and ran an electronic wand over the courier’s body. “Relax,” he said to the man. “Have a seat.”

The man seated himself in an overstuffed chair, reached into his pocket to light a cigarette.

“What do they call you?” Cross asked.

“I am Lopez.”

“Okay, Lopez.
Dónde está el dinero?
”

Lopez’s lips twisted into a thin smile that did not show his teeth. “In the cage,
hombre
. In the bottom of the cage. If you will permit me …”

Cross nodded, and the man got to his feet. He walked over to the cage and gently flicked the black cover off. Inside was the big-chested pigeon Cross had seen before.

“This is
el bailador del cielo
,” Lopez said, stroking the pigeon’s chest, “the dancer of the sky.” He reached inside and removed the bird, cradling it softly. “Pick up the floor of the cage,” he said to Cross.

Cross studied the cage for a long minute, then removed the newspaper from the cage floor, revealing a flat metal plate with a ring in the center. He pulled the ring and the floor came off.

“What the hell does Muñoz think I’m gonna do with gold bars?” he said to Lopez. “All this has to be washed—I can’t just go out and spend it.”

“Money … bills would not fit in such a small space,
hombre
,” Lopez replied. “Señor Muñoz said you would have … resources. And that you could assay the gold yourself, as well.”

Cross nodded, his fingers stroking the strange blue scar on his cheekbone, wondering why it burned at times. Rhino scooped up the gold bars into one giant hand.

“Okay, how do you want to do this?” Cross asked.

“First, I check the chip. With this …” Lopez said, taking a mate from his shirt pocket. “You could never duplicate the chip, and certainly not so quickly. If it plugs into the one I have, we will know you have completed your part of the bargain.”

“Do it,” Cross said; he took the chip from his jacket and handed it over.

Lopez carefully aligned the two chips. They came together with an audible snapping sound. “
Bueno!
This the one.”

“And now …?” Cross asked.

“Now you put the chip right here,” Lopez said, tapping the tiny cylinder on the bird’s right claw, just above the talon. “Then he flies home. Straight home. You will see—if you care to check—that you cannot fit a transmitter into his pouch. And if you attach one anywhere else,
el bailador
will not fly. You understand?”

“Yeah,” Cross said, still stroking the tiny blue scar.
It’s more like a brand
, he thought to himself, not for the first time. After a few moments, he abruptly left the room.

“
WE’RE READY
to go,” Cross said into the cell phone.

“When will you—?”

“I gotta talk to him first.”

“Talk to who?”

“My man. The one you got.”

“I told you—”

“I don’t care what you
told
me,” Cross said. “We’re in the end-game now. You want to talk to
your
man, I can do that. You want to play games, you’re going to force us to do the same.”

“Call back in thirty minutes,” Muñoz said. “And have Lopez with you.”

“
YOU WANT
to speak to your man?” Cross spoke into the phone.

“
Sí
. Put him on.”

“Yes, I am here,
jefe
,” Lopez said, calmly. “Everything was as it should be.” He said
“Sí, sí,”
rapidly and handed the phone to Cross.

“Your turn,” Cross said into the mouthpiece.

“Momentito.”

Another minute passed; then Cross heard the unmistakable voice of Princess. “I’m good,” the armor-muscled man-child said. “These little punks got me trussed up like a turkey, but they haven’t done nothing to me.”

“They feeding you?”

“Just garbage. I’m probably down to three fifteen with all the crap they serve here. They don’t even have any of my special supplements. And—”

“Okay, Princess, just calm down, all right? They’ll be cutting you loose soon.”

“Are you satisfied?” Muñoz’s voice cut in. “Are you ready to release our bird?”

“Tomorrow,” Cross said. “Tomorrow at first light.”

“Why not now,
hombre?
Our bird can fly at night.”

“I need a few hours. There’s some things I have to do to make sure you guys are playing it straight. First light. When Princess shows up, we’ll let your man go.”

“Adios,”
Muñoz said, and hung up.

“
HE’S OKAY?
” Rhino asked, anxiety making his voice even squeakier than usual.

“He said ‘supplements,’ ” Cross replied. “You know what that means. He’s all right, but he doesn’t see a way out of there. If he’d said ‘vitamins,’ he’d have an exit spotted. If he didn’t say
either
word, it would be a trap. So I don’t think they messed with him.”

“You think they’ll actually let him go?” Buddha asked.

“Would
you?
” Cross answered.

THE NEXT
morning, dawn was slowly breaking through a blue-black night sky as Lopez stood on the roof of Red 71, the pigeon in his hands.

“Do it,” Buddha told him.

“Volar!”
Lopez commanded, tossing the pigeon into the air. The bird climbed, then banked, wings working smoothly.

A few seconds later, a tiny bird blasted out of Cross’s leather-gloved hand, its blue-gray wings a blur in the sky, a distinctive
killy-killy-killy
trilling from its beak. The bird soared like an F-16, a blur in the vision of the watchers on the roof who were tracking the bird through binoculars. Cross picked up his phone.

“Airborne.”

Cross closed his phone, said, “Let’s go,” to Buddha. As Buddha turned to follow Cross downstairs, Rhino’s murderous hand curled around the back of Lopez’s neck.