Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [58]
Pizarro Rojas, who'd only been listening up to now, stepped forward. "How much is the services of this... this puta descarada going to cost?"
The insult rolled off her back. "Five hundred thousand dollars," Stella replied, extending her hand, palm up. "Payable right now."
Pizarro glanced at his brother. "Pay her."
Bix studied the man. For a guy who'd been forced to cough up an extra half million dollars, Pizarro Rojas seemed pretty calm. His brother Balboa didn't look nearly so happy. Sour faced, he rummaged through the scuffed and dirty canvas bag that he'd carried across the border, came up with a stack of thousand-dollar bills.
"You better deliver what we've paid for, or you will not leave the hotel alive," he grunted as he handed her the money.
Stella flashed him a smile. "Don't worry, Pedro. Satisfaction's guaranteed." She climbed into her car, stashed the money in a secret compartment behind the dash.
Finally, Pizarro Rojas moved toward Hugo Bix, until the two men stood toe to toe. Rojas, a head shorter than the American, looked up to meet his eye.
"In a few minutes we will drive away from here in these trucks," Rojas said. "But I will always remember the service you and your men provided for me, for my family. In times of trouble, when the other gangs turned on us, you remained loyal." Pizarro touched his head. "A Rojas never forgets his friends, as you shall soon discover."
Turning his back on Bix, he headed back to the trucks. On the way, he took Stella's arm, pushed her toward the first vehicle. Despite the rough handling, Stella smirked. Heels clicking, she obediently followed her new, high-paying boss.
"Adios, amigo," Bix called as he walked to his office. "And good luck..."
By the time Bix reached his cluttered desk upstairs, the trucks were rolling out of the garage. Carlos Boca stood at the door, directing the deployment. He spaced each departure a few minutes apart — a wise move, Bix realized. It would look odd if six identical Sunflower Gardens Florist trucks rolled out of a garage nowhere near the location of the real shop on the other side of town.
Watching the last of the trucks roll on to their target, Bix lifted his phone, pressed a button.
Downstairs, Roman Vine answered the phone on the wall. "Yeah, boss."
"Time to call the Wildman. Tell them it's a go."
Bix slumped down in the battered office chair and propped his feet on the desk. While the Rojas boys were having their fun, Hugo Bix had been planning a private party of his own. He'd just passed the order along to the out-of-towner gunmen Roman Vine hired from the El Paso mob. While the authorities' attention was diverted to the big blowout at the Babylon, Bix was going to light his own kind of fire at the Cha-Cha Lounge, and Jaycee Jager and his crew were going to burn.
9THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8 P.M. AND 9 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
8:05:11 p.m. PDT
Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas
Jong Lee answered the door to his own suite. Lev Cohen blinked in surprise, expecting the woman Yizi to greet him. The Asian man was dressed casually and appeared relaxed, so Palmer's Chief of Staff recovered quickly. Lev greeted the man, but did not extend his hand. Nor did Jong Lee offer his.
Pale under his red-brown beard, Lev shifted uncomfortably. Adjusting, then re-adjusting his tie. He didn't like this part of the job, but he was well aware that this was part of his job, the sordid under-the-table dealings that made the machine of politics run.
At least, after years of struggling, he'd latched on to a star that was going to take him all the way to the top. He'd help David Palmer get elected President of the United States, then Lev Cohen would be a name. After a successful stint in the White House, he'd launch his own consulting firm, maybe do a little lobbying on the side, or even a job with big media.
Lev had made the decision