Luck and Death at the Edge of the World

Twenty-One: From The Throats Of Men, From The Hearts Of Men

I take another shower, a quick one this time, just to get the sweat of terror off of me. There’s no way I’ll sleep now. I dress and leave my room, padding down the clean, carpeted hallway of the hotel, wait for the elevator. It arrives and I begin descending, and for a moment I remember the dream and I half expect to exit into the mayhem of urban pacification. Of course when the doors open there’s nothing there but the nighttime lobby: half-lit, quiet, cool. I cross it and enter the bar. There are other travellers here, a few couples but mostly men, either alone or in small groups. Discreet, well-coiffed escorts vogue on the barstools. I take a seat far from anyone and order a double vodka tonic. Take a sip. I concentrate on thinking about Max, trying to push the nightmares away.

Things are bothering me about the case and despite the nightmares, some part of my mind has been distilling them during my sleep. First there’s the initial attack. On the one hand, it took tremendous expertise to enter Max’s compound despite the elaborate security system, and the data burn required an element of finesse found only amongst the most proficient security hackers. Nonetheless, the assassin failed. After all the effort of the intrusion, when Max hit a security panel, the shooter didn’t even fire a second bullet. It’s as if the most competent organization in the world sent in an inexperienced killer who panicked at the first sign that things weren’t going as planned. Those two things don’t go together.

Then there are the ‘homeless’ men who murdered a bunch of innocent Angelenos while trying to kill me. Presumably they were sent by the same sophisticated individual or organization that penetrated Max’s security. That follows logically, given the elaborate and effective means by which their shells were ordered. But for all the bullets they fired, and despite having the advantage of surprise, they didn’t hit me once. And the one who chased me fell for an amateur’s ruse – my jacket tossed toward the alleyway’s exit. Again, a mismatch between apparent expertise and ultimate results.

And finally there are my captors here in Mexico. Because of Vicente’s reputation, as confirmed by Ramon, no Mexican would have dared to touch me, so this incident, too, likely has its roots in L.A. and the attack on Max, rather than being a criminal or political kidnapping. They knew I was coming here, they knew where to find me, and they were sent by the L.A. bad guys, who are apparently professionals. Nonetheless, they behaved like amateurs: the long-distance stun, birth-bodies rather than shells, the bandana disguises, the wooden chair, the house where they held me. Everything points to their inexperience, including their lack of fighting skills. Once again, a mismatch.

I don’t know whether to fear for my life or laugh. Most of all, and most dangerously, I don’t know how to make sense of it. I notice that my drink is empty and order another. Lightweight Mexican music plays on the bar’s sound system. Music for foreigners, vacationers, conventioneers. While I’m waiting for my drink a young woman sits down on the next stool. She’s dressed expensively enough that she might be a guest, but by her looks she’s Mexican and therefore probably an escort. The Cordoba doesn’t cater to local guests. She’s also a little too attractive to be a random human being. This is someone who looks good for a living.

“Would you like to buy me one?”

I look at her. She’s probably twenty, but all I can see is Damita, peddling her young body to survive. I wonder whether the escorts are recruited from the cream of the street trade or whether they come from somewhere else entirely.

“I don’t mind buying you a drink, but I’m not looking for company.”

She smiles at that.

“A drink with no strings attached? It almost restores my faith in humanity.”

Her English is accented but good. Very clear and precise.

“I don’t think I’m the person to come to for restored faith.”