Speedball

Speedball - 02

"You have a visitor," Skinny said. The teenage boy had been replaced with an American named Robert or Bobby; Juan was not sure which and didn't care. The American talked about America a lot in a funny accent; some of it Juan picked up: girls, cars, shit, some sounded like whining. He said, "Why?" a lot and Juan just stared at him, listening.

Skinny turned the key in the lock and the bars opened with a clang. Juan didn't try to run, even if he did, there would be no place to go. His shoes made a slap, slap on the floor, he smelled the medicinal and urine odor, a sanitized rot. His hands were tied up in metal cuffs behind his back and they cut into his skin with every step he took, reminding him of how hellishly alive he was.

Juan was used to the unbroken frenzy of leisure, the art of trying not to lose too much money at the marina and the casinos, the drunken crowds at the bar. It was too quiet in here.

Skinny pushed him down in a chair. It was a different room than the one he was in yesterday, cleaner, whiter. Espera, Skinny said and the guard at the door didn't move his eyes from his post. Tapping one foot, Juan hummed a song he heard the street singers playing last week.

Juan's back hurt again; it'd been bothering him and so had his throat. He coughed and needles jangled. He slouched in his seat and looked at the doorway. The guard was stone, impassive, waiting for a royal flush.

He heard footsteps.

Skinny said, "Fifteen minutes."

Looked like another goddamn turista wearing white shorts and a backpack slung over one shoulder; his t-shirt read "Amo España" bought at a wooden stall for cut price. He was adjusting his sunglasses - those looked expensive, and he was smiling in a false, white sincerity.

"Hello," he said, and Juan recognized the slightly imperfect Spanish. "Remember me?"

The question was, how could he not? And he was having one of his visions again, the hot orange hate moved up his throat like vomit. He wanted that money and he couldn't see the suitcase anywhere. No solution.

"You owe me money."

"You're used to the other way around, yes?"

Juan searched the man's face for something, anything. "How do you know?"

The man said, "I know everything."

Juan snorted. No one knew everything, not even God. After all, if God knew everything, he surely would have sent him a winning streak, a lucky draw. He was not impressed. "Who are you?" he asked, finally.

"It isn't important." Like hell it isn't. "All in good time."

"What are you here for?" His fingers heated up on the chair. The heart was beating, ba boom, ba boom, then like bang, bang.

"Five minutes," said the guard. The man pressed money into rough hands. He was just greasing a skillet with fat. They made an easy entrance into a back pocket.

The man said, "You are in prison."

"Wh's fault was that?"

"Yours," the man said and Juan's hands snapped out, two whips wrapping themselves around the throat. His skin was cool to the touch, as if chilled blood was flowing beneath the surface.

"Bastard!" Spittle flew onto his face but he did not flinch. A statue.

The guard shifted, growing interested. Juan releases his grip and sat back down. There was something in the man's face - amusement? Arrogance? Superiority?

He said, "Listen to me," and to Juan's surprise, he did.

***

Standing on platform in the middle of the room was a three-piece band, but it wasn't the band that Blaise noticed. Nor did anyone else. She wasn't bad-looking at all, he was thinking, a lot of red hair and the right mix of bones, ripped right from a movie poster. She couldn't sing, just hoarsely talk in a seductive singsong, trying to sound bluesy and not quite succeeding. But no one cared.

"She can't sing for shit," Blaise said, watching the black silk.

She smiled and bowed, stepping down to enthusiastic applause.

Draco said, "That's her."

"She doesn't look like your average whore, Malfoy."

Draco said, "I'm not looking for a whore," and that was true, too. He just walked up to her, real confident-like, Blaise saw, not cocky but smooth, that was Draco. "You got a minute?" And yeah, she's got a minute. Got a few of them, actually, just tell her what he wants and get the fuck out of her face, por favor. Blaise watches them, studying the master and sensed Malfoy wasn't looking for another hotel romp, he wanted to talk.

They went off into a separate room. Draco chopped a few lines on the mirror-topped table with what looked like a razor blade, neat, white rows. Blaise had seen the same ritual offered to all his business partners. Margarita Carmen Cansino, he said, that's your name. No, it's Jose Aznar, she said and Draco laughed. He liked some spirit in his woman. I'm not your woman, Margarita replied and Blaise had to admire her. Or maybe it was just out of foolishness.

She didn't look as untouchable now, almost a little scared, she kept on touching her neck and folding her arm across her chest like it was going to be stolen. She said something, . Her low Spanish escaped Blaise's ears but it seemed to amuse Draco. He chased the line up the table with his straw and Margarita looked away.

"You always do business high?" Blaise caught. Venenoso sounding.

Draco looked angry for a half second, then caught himself. Her arms were clad in long, black silk gloves that went all the up, just past her elbow. They shiver. "You're a little bitch, aren't you," he said, not really a question.

Cansino said, "Thank you." Then: "You heard about that shooting? Black, you knew him, yes?"

Draco's spine stiffened. "Yeah, I heard about that." Blaise had to admire him, too. The man had amazing self-control. When Blaise scored a line or two, he went loco. Fucking insane. Hit on everybody except the dog.

"Juan Gallardo, the guy who shot Black, I knew him."

Really, Draco said, looking bored. Heard about it on the news, Cansino said, slowly removing her right glove, one finger at a time, never taking her eyes away. Juan's saying somebody was trying to pay him off.

"You hear anything more about it?"

"Not much. I had to get dressed for work."

The suspense was killing Blaise. Draco seemed more alive, the way Blaise liked his Malfoys: raw, high, human. Draco was far too removed in his sober state to interest Blaise.

There was color in Draco's cheeks, visible even in the dimmed light and a slight glow, like a gram of uncut cocaine. His hand touched Margarita's hair. She flinched, but he didn't notice or didn't care. His fingers smoothed out a lock of red, then dropping to a white shoulder, palms rounded as if cupping a wine glass. "How did you know Gallardo?"

"That was you, wasn't it?"

"It's not important, Margarita. You focus on the wrong things."

Blaise expected her to slap him, something, anything, but she only said, "Maybe." And then, "I want him out."

"No one ever tells me what to do." Dead serious. Margarita was growing nervous. She shifted again and he removed his hand, he was smiling again, teeth so white it should be a crime.

"I want him out." Less confident.

"Gallardo bores me. About what we're here for-"

Blaise already knew what it was. "Oh, yes. That."

Draco: "That."

She looked tired. Her eyes watched the doorway and Blaise crouched down even more. "I'll tell you later."

"Now." Draco leaned in over table; Blaise could see him not breathing. Shit, seven inches, gone. Margarita didn't look away this time, just watched with a macabre interest. Blaise could taste it in his mouth, feel it, moneysexpower. He had to keep his attention focused on the conversation.

"Friday night, he said, ten thirty, same place as always. Bring the money." It sounded like she'd rehearsed it. She pressed a finger into the scattered powder on the table. "Soon."

***

Juan Gallardo escaped from prison on July fourteenth. He was last seen with a blond man, 5'9" to 6'1", 180 pounds, wearing sunglasses and carrying a black backpack. The guard was found later with one bullet to the head and a police car was stolen from the car park. It was found pushed in a ravine with no sign of either man left.

When the prisoners found out, they cheered and wished Juan good luck. Heightened security measures were taken, and fliers with Juan's mug shot were posted on a few telephone poles and shop windows. It showed a sullen, sweat slicked face that a few boys tore down to fold paper aeroplanes and hand fans.

The other man was unidentified by police. Said one officer, "He used stolen identification and claimed he was a close friend."

Juan Gallardo, now for the first time in his life a murderer and a fugitive, watched the evening news in a run down motel just out of Marbella. Instead of a kitchen knife under his pillow, however, he kept a .45 automatic given to him with the serial number filed off. Just in case. He listened for a few more minutes to the news report, drinking two warm beers, then snapped it off. He laid on the mattress, listening to the electric fan stir the air and tried to get to sleep. When he couldn't, he turned the TV back on and watched the weather report.

More heat.

Draco Malfoy had already left. His payment to Cansino was generous and gave her the feeling he was bestowing a gift. She looked at the bill in her hand, calculating how much she'd have after paying the rent. It'd been the easiest money she had ever made; he hadn't kissed her, only gone through the necessary motions.

A smudged fingerprint was later found on the steering wheel of the abandoned police car as well as a strand of blond hair. Neither matched any on file.