Portland Noir - Kevin Sampsell [39]
Outside I hear a car pull into the driveway and multiple doors slam. The bitch flips her phone shut.
I don’t know what I expected Esteban to look like, but the light-skinned Mexican guy who walks into the living room strikes me more as a male model for one of those multicultural Benetton ads than a drug kingpin. The fucking guy is wearing a neon orange button-down with a baby-blue tennis sweater tied around his neck. If it wasn’t for the white pit bull at his side and the keloid scar across his neck, he could pass as fuck-ing Eurotrash.
“What happened here, Connie?” His accent isn’t very strong, but it’s true Mex, not Chicano.
“Esteban, he broke in … and I shot … and I shot him.”
“It’s okay. Give me the gun. I’ll get rid of it.”
She hands him the Ruger.
Without saying another word, Esteban walks over and steps on my lower abdomen. Even with the heroin, it hurts like a motherfucker. I can’t imagine what the pain would be like if I were straight.
He watches my reaction.
“You’re high, aren’t you?”
I try not to look at him.
“That’s okay, man. I’ve got some Narcan back at the other house. A little of that and you’ll feel it plenty.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s funny, you know. That’s just what the mayate said.”
He yells something in Spanish down the hall, and two other Mex guys drag Voodoo Mike in. He’s out cold with his hands zip-tied behind his back and a duct tape gag covering his mouth. His face is so fucked up it looks like somebody put a Rasta wig on a blob of hamburger meat. They drop him right on top of my legs, so that his head is faceup in my lap.
“Your friend here doesn’t listen good.” Esteban shakes his head. He says something in Spanish, and the shorter of the two Mex guys comes over. Shortie actually giggles as he bends down and pinches Mike’s nose closed.
Mike comes to fighting for air, and his eyes practically pop out of his head. If it wasn’t for the hamburger face, he’d look like a fucking cartoon. Esteban waves Shortie off, and Mike’s eyes finally retreat back into their sockets as he starts snorting in air again.
All three of them laugh, and then crack up completely when the phone in Mike’s front pocket begins playing some crappy Mariah Carey ringtone at full volume.
“Aren’t you going to answer your phone, mayate?” Esteban asks.
Mike continues snorting, either ignoring the question or just oblivious.
“Maybe there’s something wrong with his ear? No?” Este-ban’s brow furrows in mock concern.
“El lapíz.” He snaps his fingers and Shortie hands him a pencil. Squatting down next to Mike, he grabs hold of his dreadlocks with one hand and whispers in his right ear. “Can you hear me now, mayate?”
Esteban gives me a wink, and then jams the pencil hard into Mike’s ear.
The blond bitch lets out a scream and Mike starts writhing as Esteban digs around with the pencil. Shortie giggles, but the other Mex has to look away.
“Hey, Connie,” Esteban calls out, “I can’t find anything. You try.”
“Esteban … I … Please.”
“Come on.” He digs in farther and Mike starts to go into convulsions. “It’s fun.”
“No. Please. I … I can’t.”
“Okay,” Esteban sighs, and pulls the pencil out.
Mike stops convulsing. His eyes stay open, but the right one goes all wonky and looks off to the side.
Esteban stands back up and then seems to notice the kilo for the first time.
“Connie? Why is there an open brick on the coffee table?” He starts to twirl the pencil in his hand.
“That’s not on me, Esteban! That paramedic you sent said—”
“What did I tell you about opening the product?”
“It wasn’t me! Ask him!” She points to me.
“Him?” Esteban laughs. “You mean, the pendejo you shot in the stomach?”
“Tell him!” Connie