Alexander Death(75)
“Why?”
“I went into every kid's room on the cancer floor.”
Heather smiled at him and shook her head. “You're so sweet. I owe you everything.”
“Don't forget it.”
“You look drained. What can I do for you?”
“Take me to Checkers,” Seth said. “I need about eight hamburgers. And a shake. And lots of fries.”
“I'll buy you everything on the menu,” Heather said. “Tricia's hungry, too, thank God. I can't remember the last time she said that.”
Heather took Seth's hand, and he leaned heavily on her, walking like an old man while she helped him to her car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The intelligence agent Felix Arellano Francisco wanted Alexander to meet him at a tin-roof cinderblock cantina outside Mexico City. The sign out front forbade women and government officials in uniform from entering.
Alexander took a table in the back of the smoke-filled bar and ordered a beer. While he waited, he watched the topless dancers come and go on the central stage. Occasionally, one of the dancers would lead a customer through a curtain to some kind of back room. He watched one proposition a couple of elderly men playing dominoes, who waved her away.
Alexander bought a cigar from a waitress and puffed on it. Francisco was taking his time.
So far, he thought everything was going well. The plague-bringer was his again, letting her power flow freely into him. She remembered the many lives they'd spent together, remembered that she belonged with Alexander.
The zombie workers were productive, and money was pouring in thick and fast. Alexander couldn't ask for much more, beyond a few minor details that still needed attending.
A man in a suit entered the cantina, spotted Alexander, and took the chair across from him.
“You are El Brujo,” he said.
“How could you guess?”
“The only gringo in the bar.” Francisco ordered whiskey from a passing waitress and patted her ass when she delivered it. “Nice place, no? Good for discrete conversation, since no man wants to admit publicly he was here. See that girl onstage now, Carmen? She gives the best head in three states. Should I call her over?”
“No, thanks.”
“More for me.” Francisco sipped his drink. “Though I am suspicious of men who do not indulge in pleasures.”
“I indulge plenty,” Alexander said. “But I have a busy schedule today.”
“We should not be prisoners of our work.”
Alexander just nodded and puffed his cigar.
“All business, then,” Francisco said. “I have a few good friends up north who have asked for my help.”
“With what?”
“They need to open a line of communication with the man who is said to make the dead walk.”
“I don't know any such man,” Alexander said.
Francisco laughed, revealing several gold-capped teeth. “Then Ernesto must be punished for making a fool of me. It is said that Papa Calderon has a man who captured four of Pablo Toscano's men, killed three, and brought their corpses to life to bite and terrify the fourth Toscano man. They say that his message to Toscano was that any interference with Calderon business would be punished with terrifying black magic. They say he is a gringo who goes by the name El Brujo. Ernesto assured me he would send this man to meet me today. And here I am, with a gringo who pretends I do not know what I am talking about.”
“In that case, I guess you have the right person.”
“Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“You can made the dead walk? Is it a trick?”
“Of course it's a trick,” Alexander said. “But many people are superstitious and will believe such illusions.”
Francisco laughed again and started his second whiskey. “Psychological warfare.”
Alexander gave a small nod. “So who are these people? Not DEA, I hope?”
“Of course not. I am to keep such people away from Papa Calderon's business, not bring them into it. These are former associates of mine who now work in private industry.”
“Can you be slightly more specific?”
“Corporate intelligence. High net-worth individuals.”
“I suppose that's better.”
“They simply need a few minor questions answered. They say they are concerned about some American girl.”
“And you're certain they aren't working under government contract? Homeland Security, maybe?”
“These men have moved on from working for the state,” Francisco said. “From what they told me, I believe they are working for the girl's family.”
“What girl?”
“Her name is...Julia? No. Jennifer.” Francisco unfolded a sheet of paper. Jenny's high school yearbook picture was printed on it. “Jennifer Morton. Does she look familiar to you?”