Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [49]
The question chills me. “Then this man will kill me,” I say.
I don’t have to look to Ernesto for confirmation. He will kill me for the money, whatever the consequences. What I do see is the look on Esperanza’s face—the realization that our situation is even more precarious than she may have thought. I give her a wink.
Gordon releases a sigh, and my heart begins to work its way up to my throat. I do my best to keep panic from surfacing on my face, but when Gordon gives me his answer, it’s all I can do to keep from dropping the phone.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” he says, and the line goes dead.
There’s no telling how long I hold the phone in my hand. I can’t focus on anything until I hear Ernesto clear his throat. With that, it hits me that Gordon Reese has just signed my death warrant. My mind is a vacuum, despite the half-formed thought that I’ve just been fired—which I will take a great deal more offense at if Espy and I survive. When I look up, it is not Ernesto’s eyes I search out, but Espy’s, and it doesn’t surprise me that there’s nothing but calm in them, even though she has to know what has just happened.
“Am I to assume that you’ll be unable to make good on your debt yet again?” While he sounds smug, there is also a hint of disappointment in Ernesto’s question. He would have preferred to earn his money without the inconvenience of disposing bodies.
“Wait,” I say as Ernesto gestures at one of his associates. When the man wraps an arm around Esperanza, gripping her throat in beefy fingers, I repeat, “Wait! Please!”
Before Ernesto can say anything, or make whatever gesture means break the pretty girl’s neck, I stab at the buttons on the phone, praying I get the number right the first time and angered with myself for not putting it in speed dial. I hold my breath as the phone dials, and it’s into the fourth ring before Romero answers.
“Romero! It’s Jack. I don’t have time to explain, but I need to ask for a very large favor.”
“Jack?” It takes my friend a moment to orient himself, but when he does, he doesn’t hesitate with his response. “What do you need?”
“I need you to transfer money to a bank account.” I clear my throat and add, “I’m good for it, I promise.”
“How much?”
“Fifty-seven thousand, five hundred . . .”
There is a sound that might be a muffled curse, but while I feel for my friend, I have no other choice. Romero is a high-end supplier of artwork and antiquities to the world’s wealthiest people, and I know what his markups are. Out of all the people I know, Romero is the likeliest to have this sort of available cash.
Ernesto is watching me with the expression of a man pondering which of the lobsters in the tank looks the tastiest.
Romero knows that his sister is with me, and it’s probably that knowledge which prompts what he says next, even though I’d like to think it’s the result of a trust built over a decade of friendship.
“What’s the account number?” Romero asks.
I look to Ernesto, who provides me with a bank account number. When I relay the information to Romero, there’s a pause as he writes it down.
“I have it. I’ll call my bank as soon as we hang up.” He then says in a quiet voice, “And if anything happens to my sister . . .”
“Understood,” I say.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Romero presses.
“I’ll tell you when we get back. Thanks, Romero.”
I hope he can hear the gratitude in my voice, but his acknowledgment is a mere grunt before disconnecting.
Several anxious minutes follow as we await confirmation that Ernesto’s account—one I’m certain is a dummy, untraceable back to him—has taken the transfer, and Espy is silent throughout. But when Ernesto, with a phone call, verifies that his account has grown by a considerable amount, and he graces us with a satisfied smile, she says, “Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?