The Big Gamble - Michael Mcgarrity [88]
“Of course it was, and Fidel did a good job of it. For five years, we used Harry Staggs’s place to break in some of our new girls and never had a problem,” Rojas said. “Ulibarri beat Greer up bad, for chrissake.”
Rojas drank some coffee before continuing. “You know the rules: hurt our girls and you pay, threaten the partnership and you pay. Above all, we protect our investments. It’s worked for over twenty years. Ulibarri wasn’t the first and he won’t be the last. Remember Belinda Nieto?”
Norvell looked skeptical. “This is all happening too close to home.”
“I told you to let me handle Montoya.”
“There wasn’t time for that,” Norvell said. “She was going to bring everything down.”
“Burying her body in a fruit stand in Lincoln County wasn’t very smart,” Rojas said. “I never should have listened to you when you said it was taken care of.”
“She was fine just where she was, until a drunk got killed and the place was torched. I don’t want to argue with you, Luis.”
“So, stop. Do we have problems anywhere else in the organization? No. Everything is cool at Cassie’s, at Tully’s, and at your place. Things are running fine in Denver, Houston, San Antonio, Phoenix, and here. Nobody’s questioning Silva or Barrett, Staggs is taken care of, Sally Greer is playing ball, and the Indian cop has nothing but the names of two whores who will be across the border as soon as I talk to Deborah.”
“We should move Sally Greer,” Norvell said.
“Fine. Have Cassie send her to Houston. The oil men will love her, especially the Arabs.”
Norvell nodded agreement. “And neutralize the cop.”
“I’ll send Fidel up there tomorrow to kill him,” Rojas said. “He’d like that.”
Norvell’s eyes widened. “You’re joking, right?”
“Yes, I’m joking.” Rojas stood, patted Norvell on the shoulder, and put his half-empty mug in the sink. “Killing cops isn’t smart. Let’s say we make him look dirty. Plant some money in his house that he can’t explain away and make an anonymous tip to the state police.”
“That would just make him more suspicious,” Norvell said, sliding his empty mug across the kitchen island.
Rojas refilled it and pushed the mug back to Norvell. “Or get him fired. We don’t do it right away. Give it a month, maybe two.”
“Meanwhile, what?” Norvell asked as he reached for the sugar.
“We stay alert.”
“That isn’t good enough. We need to be proactive.”
“Save the speech making for your constituents, Tyler,” Rojas said. “If you’re that worried, cancel the bookings at the ranch.”
“I’ve already done it, and the clients aren’t happy. Some of them made reservations up to a year ago.”
“They’ll come back,” Rojas said. “We offer the best damn sex venue in the Southwest. We’ve got judges, lawyers, politicians, doctors, corporate executives, and celebrities from all over the country who come back year after year to be with their mistresses or favorite whores.”
With a worried look still firmly in place, Norvell sipped his coffee and said nothing.
“What else do you want to do, Ty?” Rojas asked.
“Keep tabs on the Indian cop,” Norvell said. “That way we stay on top of the situation.”
“That’s not a half-bad idea.”
“It has to be low-key, below the radar.”
“I’ll have Fidel do it,” Rojas said. “But just for a couple of days. I’ll send him up there tonight.”
“I have to go,” Norvell said.
“Stay in touch,” Rojas said as he walked with Norvell to the front door.
Norvell drove away and Rojas went to find Deborah Shea. He found her in Fidel’s bed, riding him hard with obvious pleasure. She was a true nympho, who took her fill of Fidel every chance she got.
Rojas watched for a moment before interrupting. “When you two are finished,” he said, “come to the kitchen.”
Deborah nodded her head up and down vigorously without losing her rhythm.
By sunset Clayton had settled into a shallow gully that gave him adequate concealment and a clear line of sight into Rojas’s driveway. The house sat at the boundary of the Franklin Mountains State Park, the largest range in Texas, all of it contained within the city limits.
The highest peak, pale pink in the last flicker