Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [102]
“I remember.”
“You said that you would kill el Jefe if you ever caught him, and I told you that would be wrong—but now I understand how you could feel that way. The law’s too good for people like him, or too weak but…it’s still all we’ve got, isn’t it? I mean, without it, we’d be no different from them, would we?”
Nelson waited silently. Terry’s eyes went from one man to the other.
“Well,” Meadows said, “I’m going to give you this Ignacio, so you can put a real name to his face. But I’m going to do it my way. ¿Comprende?”
“You are going to give me Ignacio?” A growl.
“That’s right. With evidence. There will be a Colombian, too, maybe several.”
“Gee, thanks. You want to borrow my badge?”
“I don’t foresee any violence, but I will need some firepower at the right moment. I’m assuming you can lay it on quickly.”
Nelson’s cigar pitched onto the green linoleum floor.
“You’re out of your goddamned mind,” he said. “I don’t believe this. Shit, you didn’t know cocaine from coconuts the first time I saw you in the hospital. And the last time, outside the funeral home, you were scared enough to wet your fancy pants. And now you’re telling me you’re going to deliver a scumbag I have been chasing for nearly two years. You’re acting like you got shot in the head, not the leg.”
Again Terry intervened. “What he says is true, Captain. De veras.”
Nelson shifted his gaze to the girl. Could she be involved somehow? Where was Meadows’s pipeline? He clawed at the left breast pocket of his guayabera for a fresh cigar.
“Look,” he said more gently. “I know what you’ve been through, and I appreciate your wanting to help. But these people…they’ll chew you up like cornflakes, Meadows. If you know who they are, tell me and I’ll get them. You get out of town.”
Meadows sighed impatiently. “No way,” he said.
“Look, we’ll do it nice and legal. I’ll read them their rights in Spanish and English both, OK? Good old textbook justice.”
“Did I say that’s what I wanted?”
Nelson grumbled in exasperation. He ran his hand through rough black hair. He sucked glumly on the cigar.
“Nothing happens for a week, that’s the deal,” Meadows said sternly. “Your word of honor.”
“Impossible. The pressure we’re getting from the mayor’s office is incredible. Murders are very bad for tourism, Meadows. You give me the names and I’ve got to move.”
“No names. Sketches. You can’t go out and arrest a soul with just a drawing for evidence, can you?”
Nelson bit down hard on the end of the cigar. He wished there was a place to spit in the bookstore.
“A week,” Meadows continued, “and you’ll have all that you need. The sketches will be delivered soon. I didn’t bring them here because I didn’t know how things would go.”
“You’re crazy. Both of you.”
“Wait. You’ll see. And when it’s over, we’ll all go out and celebrate. We’ll go to Cumparsi’s.”
“You keep surprising me, Meadows. Not many Anglos know about that place. It’s a deal. Help me put this Ignacio away, and we’ll go to La Cumparsita. My treat.”
“Fair enough,” Meadows smiled. Ssssnap. He felt the way Terry might after an all-night flight with the runway in view. The instruments were all in green. The gear was down and locked. All that remained was to bring it in.
“Can you tell me any more about what you’re planning?” Nelson implored. “It would help me get set up.”
“In a few days.”
“Where do I find you in the meantime?”
“You don’t. Stay away from me altogether. That is, if your career means anything to you at all. When the prosecutors ask afterward, you’ll want to be able to say you didn’t know anything about it until it happened. When I’m ready, Señora Lara will call.”
“I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” Nelson said in a troubled voice.
“Oh, I do.”
“Well, be careful with the pistol,” Nelson said. He watched the words take the wind out of Christopher Meadows.
“What pistol?” Meadows asked hoarsely.
“The thirty-eight,” Nelson replied. “Be real careful. I can tell you don’t like guns.”
Meadows swallowed hard. Terry was staring at him. “Here’s some bedtime reading,” he said abruptly,