Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [92]
I didn’t need anyone to tell me where I was to sit. As I approached the table I noticed a large ashtray on top and a green plastic garbage bag sitting underneath. When we all left this room, it would be as if nobody had ever been there. Fine with me.
I sat down. Pablo sat directly opposite me. He gave me the two-handed handshake he always uses. He made no motion that I could see, but the shadows moved closer as he spoke, especially those behind me. “I’m going to say some things in Spanish to my people now. After I finish I’ll talk with you in English, okay?”
“Good.”
Pablo launched into rapid-fire Spanish, only some of which I understood. I caught “amigo mio,” not “amigo de nostros.” He was saying this man is a friend of mine, not a friend of ours. He would be vouching for my character, not my politics. Most of the rest got past me but I caught compadre more than once and couldn’t tell if he was referring to me or someone else in the room. When he’d finished he looked around. Someone asked a soft-voiced question—Pablo appeared to be giving the matter some thought, then said “No!” in a flat voice. No more questions. Pablo turned to face me, and the shadows moved even closer.
“I told them it would not be necessary to search you, that you were not of the federales. I told them you were not with the police, and that you would be here for your own reasons. I told them that you have helped me in the past and that you would help me again in the future. And I told them that we would help you if it did not conflict with our purpose. Okay?”
“Sure. Okay to smoke?”
Pablo nodded and I slowly, carefully took out the cigarettes, left the pack on the table, reached for the wooden matches, and lit up. I heard one of the watchers in the shadows mutter something and I reached out for the cigarette pack, tore it open and laid out the smokes one by one. I tore the wrapping paper into small bits and put the whole mess into the garbage bag. I heard “Bueno” from one of them, a short laugh from another. Pablo took it up. “My friend, you said that it was necessary for us to meet. So?”
I picked my words and the pace of my speech carefully, trying for a show of dignity they would respect and that would show my respect for them. You have to talk a lot of different ways in my business. You don’t throw in a lot of references to Allah when you’re talking to a Black Muslim, but you don’t offer him a ham sandwich either.
“There is a man named Goldor”—the room went dead quiet so suddenly that my voice sounded like it was echoing—“that I need to speak with. He knows something I need to know. I understand that he is a person with whom you have a dispute. He is not the target of my inquiries, but he is not my friend and I would not protect him. I come here for two reasons. First, I must talk to him and I do not want you to believe that this talk means we are doing business—I would not do business with someone you dislike. Second, if you dislike him you must have good reason. If you have good reason, you have good information—and if you have good information, you can perhaps assist me in getting an audience with him. That’s all.”
No one spoke, but the tension level had tripled since I said Goldor’s name. It stayed quiet until Pablo spoke again. “How do you know we dislike Goldor?”
“This is something I heard from a good source.”
“A source you trust?”
“As to reliability of information, yes. That is all.”
“So your source is in law enforcement?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been told if Goldor has any protection?”
“I have been told that he does not take street rumors seriously, and that he does not believe himself to be in any danger.”
Pablo smiled. “Good. Do your inquiries about Goldor involve a woman?” Nothing showed in my face, but it felt