The Death Box(63)

“I need something, amigo,” Orzibel said, bowing a millimeter as he sat. There were protocols and though he, Orlando Orzibel, bowed to no man on his turf, this was the turf of Pablo Gonsalves and respect was to be shown. That’s why Orzibel allowed himself and Chaku to be patted down. It was not disrespect, only caution.

“We are friends?” Gonsalves said. “I am not complaining, of course. But how comes this alliance when we have never spoken to this day?”

“We have not spoken in words, Don Gonsalves, but in business. Our enterprise purchases various business supplies from Tiny Chingala on Bastion Street. Tiny is an employee of yours, no?”

An enigmatic smile from Gonsalves. The fat fingers picked up the miniature glass and brought it to the outsize lips, sipping as delicately as a mosquito. He set the glass down and raised an eyebrow.

“Tiny Chingala has many offerings, Señor Orzibel. Why do you not go to him?”

Orzibel laced his fingers and leaned forward. “His heroin is diluted and necessarily so. It extends the product for a clientele of limited means.”

“Purity is expensive. Go on.”

“You have higher-quality products, Don Gonsalves. Items for those whose wealth is so vast prices cease to matter. I wish to purchase … let’s say ten grams of the best heroin, uncut.”

Gonsalves regarded Orzibel for a three-count. “Para una dama?” he asked. For a lady?

Orzibel did not understand the question. But perhaps the absinthe-soaked elefante was addled. He shook his head. “I seek information and wish to enlist eyes on the street. Junkies: The eyes that wander endlessly.”

Wet laughter from Gonsalves. “The product you seek is something street users only touch in their dreams. When do you wish your goods?”

“Time is of the essence, Don Gonsalves.”

Gonsalves quoted a price and Orzibel nodded. The fat man gestured and one of the hulking minions disappeared as Gonsalves emptied the glass of absinthe. Orzibel resisted the urge to scowl; he never allowed himself to be affected by substances when working. Gonsalves was weak.

The cholo was back a minute later. The fat man pocketed money, Orzibel drugs. “Gracias,” Orzibel said, standing from the table.

“Momem-to,” Gonsalves slurred, a fat hand rising. “I know that you work with the beautiful Amili Zelaya. The rumors are that you two are … involved.” Gonsalves said it strangely, as if suggesting there was something curious at play.

They weren’t, not physically, though not due to lack of trying. Still, Orzibel knew of the street-level rumors and did nothing to dissuade them. It made him look good. He flashed his brightest smile. “Amili and I are … even more than co-workers.”

“So you know her every secret?” The fat man’s eyes seemed even more glazed, his lips more engorged.

What is this fat, impaired fool getting at? Gossip?

“Amili and I have one blood,” Orzibel lied, crossing index and middle fingers beside his face. “There are no secrets between us.”

Gonsalves gestured a bodyguard near and whispered in his ear. The man was gone for scant moments. Orzibel saw something dropped from behind into Gonsalves’s hand. When it rose, there was a tiny parcel in his fingers. It was the size of an earring box and wrapped in the paper of one of West Palm’s most exclusive jewelers.

“Señorita Zelaya is a very busy lady, I think, and you can save her this month’s trip, Don Orzibel. Please deliver this to your amiga. As you know, the pretty lady needs her dreams, too.”

Orzibel’s hands closed around the package. He bowed just enough to satisfy protocol and backed away.





33





A rooster awakened Leala in the morning and for a moment she thought she was back in her village, safe, her mama cooking breakfast. But instead of the scent of wood smoke and tortillas she smelled the oily rags in the corner of her hideout and rain about to fall. She pushed the door open and saw dark and low clouds above, a lone gull wheeling in the air. The rooster, no further than a couple houses away, crowed again, followed by the sound of an engine cranking into life. A dog began barking. The neighborhood was waking up.

How far to the telephone? Leala thought, her mind tracing the distance to the ice-cream store. Is it worth the attempt?

Si. Something had to be done today.

Leala rummaged in her purse for a rumpled bill and a few remaining coins. She combed her hair with her fingers, shook her dress until the worst wrinkles fell away, then tied on her scarf and crept between brush to the alley.

The helado shop was ten minutes distant and Leala passed no one on the way, averting her face as sparse traffic passed. A bus passed her by, then slowed and stopped for two women who had been standing beside the street. The bus hissed away.