Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [47]
More than anything in the world, I need an aspirin. My head feels as if several very small men are on the inside of my skull, using equally small hammers to work over the gray matter. I open my eyes but can’t see anything, and I feel a moment of panic that I’ve been blinded.
Everything comes back in a rush.
Where am I? What I know is that I can’t see, my side hurts, my tongue hurts, I have a headache, and I can’t move my hands. I try to bring my arms around to the front, but they’re pinned behind me. It occurs to me then that I’m sitting up.
“Hello?”
There’s no answer. I rock in the chair, testing the strength of whatever it is that binds me. It’s thick, coarse rope that rubs against my skin the more I struggle, and I stop when the pain in my side approaches unbearable. I wonder how much blood I’ve lost. I try calling out again and there is an echo, which doesn’t tell me a lot. I’m worried about Espy. I have no idea if she was alive when I stumbled over her, and the more I think about it, the sicker I feel.
I hear footsteps, then someone is touching my head and the hood is yanked off. The lights in the room are bright and I blink several times. I’m in an office, but one of those that’s attached to a warehouse or factory. There’s a large glass window that makes up one wall, with pallets of boxes as far as I can see. These observations are secondary, though, to the sight of the three men in the room with me. Two of them, the ones with guns, are strangers, while the third, the one sitting behind a desk, is not.
“Hello, Jack,” he says with a smile.
Ernesto Ramirez is one of those men who perpetuates the caricature of a South American drug lord from the movies. The difference is that he isn’t very successful at it. Contrary to prevailing belief, it’s not an easy matter to send large quantities of drugs into the United States. It takes more connections, money, and intelligence than this man possesses. To supplement his income, he has a hand in just about everything that passes through San Cristóbal, illegal or otherwise. Few business deals get done here without Ramirez getting his cut. He’s been successful in this venture because the logistics are nowhere near as complex as they are in drug smuggling. All he needs are hired muscle and meanness, and he has both of these in abundance.
“It’s been a long time, Jack.”
“It certainly has,” I manage to say. “How have you been, Ernesto?” I wear a cheerful smile, ignoring the incongruity of not being able to move.
“I’m well, thank you.”
“This is about the money, isn’t it?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
I’m terrible with money. I met Ernesto back when we were excavating Quetzl-Quezo, when Henry helped facilitate a deal with him to allow us to move some of the items out of the country through San Cristóbal. Ernesto never got his cut. I imagine he still holds a grudge that my word was not my bond.
“Where’s Esperanza?” I ask, and there’s a hardness in my voice that I can’t remember having put there before.
“You mean the pretty young lady riding with you?” He waves the question away. “Don’t worry about her. She’s fine.”
I have no confidence in his assurances. I pull against the ropes but it’s no use, and Ernesto’s goons have the firepower.
“How much do I owe you?” I ask.
“You have an outstanding bill of seventy-five hundred dollars, if my memory serves.”
“I can cover that.”
He gives me a pitying look and shakes his head. “You don’t understand, Jack. I’ve received