Born Bad (14 page)

"This isn't a diss," Cross told the leader quietly. "Like you said, it's your phone. I'm waiting on this important call, okay? Soon as it's over, you got your phone back. Okay?"

"Yeah, all right, man," the leader said, his eye on the pistol.

"Only thing, I need privacy for my call, understand?"

"Yeah. Yeah, man. Don't get crazy. We just jet, all right?"

"Thanks," Gross said.

The leader backed away toward the Jeep, He climbed behind the wheel, keeping his hands in sight. The other two climbed in the back. The Jeep took off, scattering gravel.

Cross stood next to the phone booth, visually confirming the large red circle spray–painted on its side. He picked up the phone, listened for a dial tone to confirm it was working and quickly replaced the receiver. Cross lit a cigarette, took a deep drag.

Traffic was still sporadic. The party–goers were all off the street and the commuters hadn't yet made their appearance. Cross took a second pull on his cigarette, then snapped it away.

The sky continued to lighten. Cross and Buddha didn't speak, didn't move from their spots. A lustrous gray–white pigeon swooped down and perched on the top of the phone booth. Cross eyeballed the pigeon–it was different from the winged rats that so thoroughly populated the city–this one had the characteristic small head, short neck, and plump body, but its bearing was almost regal. Cross nodded to himself as he spotted the tiny cylinder anchored to one of the pigeon's legs. He approached cautiously, even though the pigeon showed no signs of spooking. Cross reached up and stroked the pigeon, pulling it gently against his chest. He opened the cylinder, extracting a small roll of paper. The pigeon Buttered its wings once, hopping back onto the phone booth.

Cross unfurled the paper, eyes focusing on the tiny, precise writing.

We are both professionals. A meeting must be made safe for us both. We will not come to your place, and you do not know where we are. We will meet you at noon tomorrow on State Street, at the outdoor cafe Nostrum's. You know where it is, I am sure. If you are coming, you must come alone. Write your decision on this paper and it will come back to us.

Cross took a felt–tipped pen from his jacket, scrawled the single word "Yes" on the bottom of the note, and replaced the paper inside the pigeon's courier pouch. The bird preened itself for a few seconds then took off, climbing into the sky with powerful thrusts of its wings.

"You went by, right? What's it look like?" Cross asked Buddha.

"I don't like it, boss. The tables are all outside, pretty spread out. It's only set back maybe fifteen, twenty feet from the sidewalk. I don't think they could do a drive–by…not without hitting a lot of people. But they could just
walk
it by. You'd never see it coming."

Cross turned to the giant, who was standing against the wall, watching. "Rhino?"

"The roof across the street's even worse. No way to cover it all. Fal says he could get up there easy enough. But he might not be the only player."

Cross drew a series of intersecting lines on the pad in front of him, eyes down. He took two drags from a cigarette before he snubbed it out.

"Here's what it comes down to…who's gonna make the meet for their side. If it's Muñoz himself, he's got to know we can take him out if he makes a move. If it's some Hunky, he wouldn't care."

"So…?" Buddha queried.

"So this. We get Fal up on one roof, leave him in place. We get Ace to work the sidewalk. I don't think they'll make him for our crew–he wasn't on the bust–out down there. Buddha, you get us a cab from someplace, all right? You cruise by. Short loops, okay' Rhino takes the rear seat."

"But what if they–?"

"Listen, Buddha, that's where you come in. I'm gonna roll up just at noon, like they said. I see Muñoz at the table, I go ahead and sit down. You don't see me take a seat, it means it's me they want–get ready to lay down some cover fire."

"You think it's like that? Personal?" Buddha asked.

"It could be," Cross replied. "Muñoz always was unstable."

Cross sat down across from a copper–complected man who wore his thick hair pulled straight back, tied in a ponytail.

"Cross," the man said, not offering to shake hands.

"Muñoz," Cross replied.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," a voice said. Both men continued to stare at each other. "My name is Lance. I'll be serving you today," the voice continued. "Our house specials today are a spinach salad with a mild vinaigrette dressing, together with–"

"That sounds perfect," Muñoz said, his English laced with a regal touch of Castilian. "Bring us two of them. But first…you have Ron Rico?"

"Yes, we do," the waiter replied. "But if I could perhaps suggest–"

"Bring me a double," Muñoz cut him off again. And for my friend here…"

"Water," Cross said.

"We have Evian, Perrier, and also a new–"

"Just water," Cross said.

The waiter flounced off. "I hate them," Muñoz said.

"Who?" Cross asked.

"Maricons. You know what I mean. You must know. After all, one of your own crew–"

"You trying to tell me you took Princess easy?" Cross asked, his face blank.

"Mio dios, no." Muñoz smiled. "That is one hard man, no matter that he is not
really
a man at all. He took out two of my best men. With his hands. I held a pistol on him, but he only laughed. If Ramon had not shot him, we would still be–"

"You shot him?" Cross asked, soft–voiced.

"With a tranquilizer dart, amigo. Like you would use on a mad dog. Even with the serum in him, he continued to fight. I wonder how such a man–"

"What do you want?" Cross interrupted, no impatience showing in his voice.

"I already told you, hombre. I want you to do a job for us.

Then you get your merchandise back."

"What job?"

"You see this?" Muñoz asked, sliding a,tiny microchip across the marble tabletop.

Cross didn't touch the chip. "So?"

"So this is what we need. Watch," Muñoz said. He grasped the chip with the thumb and forefinger of each hand and pulled it apart, revealing one male and one female coupling. "We have this one," he said, holding up the male piece. "The other one, the mate, that is in the hands of another."

"Who?"

"Right to the point, yes? You know Humberto Gonzales?

He works out of a bunch of connected apartments in the Projects."

"I never met him."

"Okay, sure. We will tell you where he is, and you will take

our property from him."

"How can you be sure–"

"It is always with him, Cross. Always on his person. There is no one he could trust with it. But we have very good sources. We know exactly where to look his right arm."

"I don't get it."

"On his right arm, right here," Muñoz said, patting his right biceps. "He has a big tattoo. Of a dancing girl. Very pretty. The chip is somewhere in the tattoo. Implanted. A fine piece of surgery. After you drop him, we need his arm. You bring it to us, your job is done."

"No go."

"What do you mean, no go? Why do you say this?"

"I'm not sending a goddamned arm through the mails–

you wouldn't give me an address anyway. And I'm not meeting

you to hand it over. Send your carrier pigeon–the chip would fit in his carry–pouch easy enough if it's this size," Cross said, pointing at the microchip lying on the tabletop.

"That is a good plan, hombre. As soon as our bird is home, we will release your man…or whatever he is."

"What's on the chip?" Cross asked.

"That is not your business, my friend."

"Then get somebody else to do it."

"I don't think you understand…"

"Sure, I understand just fine. What's on the chip?"

Muñoz stroked his chin. Cross lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. A long minute passed. Cross took another drag and snubbed out the cigarette. The waiter approached, a pair of glasses on a tray. "Here you are, gentlemen. Your salads will be along in a few minutes."

Muñoz waved him away, leaning forward so his eyes were locked on Cross. "Herrera had a couple of dozen locations. Where he stashed money. Money and product. He and I were partners. He gave me half of the microchip–it only works with his half. Herrera, he was having a problem. He paid you to retrieve a certain book. I heard nothing after that, until I learned Herrera was blown up. His car, his bodyguard…everything blown to pieces. I figure you got paid for that. Paid twice. Now I know Humberto has the chip. He must have been secret partners with Herrera, but partnerships mean nothing to such a savage–I figure he paid you to take Herrera out. Humberto and I, we have been warring for months. Now it is getting too public. The newspapers are nosing around. We each have several dead soldiers, but we have a man in his camp. This is how I know about where he keeps the chip. Each of us is nothing without the other, but our negotiations have proved fruitless. This is where you come in. I want to go back across the border, but, first, I need all the locations."

"What's my piece?" Cross asked.

"Your piece? Your
piece?
I told you…you get El Maricon back."

"You got a good sense of humor, Muñoz. You want me to do all kinds of risky stuff and score something worth millions to you…and you want to trade a POW in exchange? Do the math!"

"This…Princess. He is your man. We have–"

"What you got is a soldier. A soldier who knew the deal when he signed on. There's no patriotism in our country, pal. I'll take half a million. Cash. And Princess. For that, you get your little chip."

"You will trust me to–"

"Get real. I'll trust you to release Princess–it don't do you any good to dust him. But the cash…no way. You send a man. Your man, okay' You tell him what the chip looks like. Don't tell me–that way you'll know you're getting the real goods. Your man puts the chip in the pigeon's bag. The bird takes off, and your man hands over the cash. We hold on to him until we see Princess. Got it?"

"What is to prevent you from killing my man and keeping the money? And the chip?"

"The chip's no good to me. I want the money. And I want you back over the border, too. This strike's gonna draw too much heat anyway."

"Your salads, gentlemen," the waiter said, putting a plate in front of each man. "Will there be anything–?"

"No," Muñoz snapped, eyes still on his opponent. Finally, he slid a folded piece of paper over to Cross. "It's all there. Everything you need. Make it fast."

Cross lit a cigarette, ignoring his salad as he pocketed the paper from Muñoz. Then he leaned forward slightly, dropping his voice a notch. "You're a professional," he said. "So am I. We understand how these things are done. Money's money. Business is business. I'm gonna get you your little chip. You're gonna pay me my money and let my man go, right?"

Muñoz nodded.

"You know how soldiers are," Cross said softly. "In war, you don't look too deep. A guy's good with explosives, another's a top sniper, maybe another's a master tracker, right? It all comes down to what you need. Turns out one of the guys is a little bent, you don't pay much attention to what he does when he's out of the field, you understand what I'm saying?"

Muñoz bent his head slightly forward, waiting.

"Some people, they're in because they
like
it. It's not for the money–they like the action. That's not you–that's not me. But, maybe, you got guys like that. Do something unprofessional…just because they like to do it. You can always spot them, right? Guys who volunteer to do interrogations. Rapists. Torch freaks. You always got them, right?"

"So?" Muñoz challenged. "What has this to do with what I–?"

"You got my man, got him locked up. He's your hostage– I understand that. I don't expect you gonna feed him whiskey and steak, send up a hooker if he gets lonely. That's okay. But, maybe, you got guys who like to hurt people. Hurt them for fun. That's not professional."

'Yes," Muñoz said impatiently. "I know all this."

"Herrera, he liked to watch men die. That's why he had those cage fights."

"Herrera is no more, amigo. You above all should know that."

"There's others. Maybe you have some of them. What I want to tell you is this: I got some, too."

"Why do you say all this? What is your meaning?" Muñoz said softly, a titanium thread of menace in his voice.

"Play it for real," Cross said quietly. "It don't make you any money to be stupid. If you hurt Princess, if you hurt him or kill him, that would be a mistake. If we don't get him back the way you found him, it's going to take you a long time to die."

"You owe me respect," the waiter said. "I don't forget what Princess did for us. I'm a man," he said with quiet force. "I pay my debts."

"I apologize," Rhino squeaked. "If there's ever–"

But the waiter was already walking away.

"He's somewhere in here," Cross said, the thin red line of the laser pointer aimed at a cross section of a tall building standing next to three others exactly similar–the Projects. "We don't know what apartment. Hell, we don't even know what floor–he may even switch from time to time."