The First Victim

CHAPTER 46

On the flickering screen two naked women without tan lines showed acute dexterity with their tongues.

Brian Coughlie watched them go at each other for the better part of a minute. It wasn’t lovemaking; it wasn’t even sex; it was a series of savage, desperate acts, meant to justify the ten-dollar ticket. He felt sick to his stomach. His mouth was dry and tasteless. Clearly these girls had not even reached age twenty. They were Korean and not eating well. Their lives were over. They’d be statistics in a year or two.

Rodriguez held the paper cup of soda and ice to his right eye. ‘‘He was a cop.’’

‘‘You don’t know that. He got there way too fast. He wasn’t a cop. A friend of hers maybe.’’ Coughlie had grown to hate even these brief encounters with Rodriguez. Having busted him for illegal entry, he had later found out the man was wanted by Mexican authorities for a variety of crimes including assault and murder. They had struck an uncomfortable alliance that had grown increasingly worse. The man was obviously into some hard drugs, and Coughlie had watched him degenerate. It was only a matter of time until something would have to be done. What, where and by whom, Coughlie wasn’t sure.

For a long time Coughlie had been the one with all the leverage- threatened deportation or incarceration for the crimes committed. But now, if anything, the roles were reversed: Rodriguez had been part of it nearly from the start; he knew too much.

‘‘Guy can take a punch, I tell you what,’’ he complained.

‘‘You’ll live.’’

‘‘We got to handle her.’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘She trouble, dis lady.’’

‘‘I said no. Scare was all. Get the tapes. And as badly as you handled it, I’d say you accomplished at least that much.’’

‘‘He was a cop, I’m tell you.’’ Rodriguez pointed to the screen. ‘‘Watch dis. You see dat? Can you believe dey show dat? Damn!’’

‘‘Forget her. You got it? She’s handled.’’

‘‘You think?’’

‘‘She saw Klein. Count on it.’’

‘‘She got plenty of nerve, that one. Too bad I didn’t get to-’’

‘‘Enough!’’ He didn’t want any association with Rodriguez. Whenever he met with him, their conversations deteriorated into monosyllabic thug speak. Coughlie reminded himself he needed to keep his distance. ‘‘Forget her,’’ he repeated.

‘‘You give the word, everyone forget her.’’

‘‘Nothing on your own,’’ Coughlie reminded, beginning to warm under the collar both out of anger and because his eye kept straying to the screen. ‘‘No more like that forklift. That was stupid! We stay on track for the next delivery. No choice, or I’ll be the one having an unexplained accident. Got it? We’ve got a break after this next one. I can use that time to get us through this. Nothing more from you unless it comes from me.’’

Coughlie resorted to the one anesthetic he knew would work, at least temporarily: He slipped the man a two-hundred-dollar bonus for the attack at the apartment. He knew Rodriguez would use it to self-medicate. If Coughlie was lucky, it would get him through the weekend.