The Devil's bounty

Twenty-five

In the car, Hector realized that his anger towards Charlie Mendez had faded. It was the emotion he should have felt rather than the one he did. Inside, he was happy that Charlie had screwed up and gone AWOL without telling anyone. For starters, it gave him something to do. He had a mission — finally. He had to find Charlie and bring him back.

Yes, even if he couldn’t find him, or if he was picked up by someone before Hector got to him, that meant the end of the babysitting. It was what his young charge liked to call a win-win situation, a phrase, Hector reflected, that only an American could use with a straight face. In America things might be win-win. In Mexico they were more likely lose-lose.

He pressed down a little harder on the gas pedal as traffic cleared out of his way, the flashing lights on the roof of the car easing his passage. As he drove, he made one more call. Not to the boss, who would only be told about Charlie after Hector knew more, but to the bartender who had called him when word had got out that Hector was looking for the American. There would be good money for the man, a heavier tip than he was used to.

‘He’s with a girl,’ the bartender had told him. ‘We have a room upstairs. He’s there with her but maybe you should get here soon.’

‘Why? What’s the matter?’ Hector pressed, but he had lost the signal, and in any case it didn’t sound like the bartender could do anything about whatever the problem was. Hector flicked the switch on the console that turned on the sirens and picked up his speed.

He left the car down the street and walked to the bar. The parking lot was full. It was a busy place all week round, trade helped by the protection Hector’s boss offered. Although neither the boss nor Hector nor anyone they knew drank here often, it was considered safe for locals and tourists so it was often full.

Inside, the bartender nodded for Hector to follow him to a narrow wooden stairway. Hector grabbed his arm and stared at him, his gaze reminding the bartender of who he was before he asked, ‘What’s the problem?’

‘The girl. I’ve never seen her before.’

He was talking in riddles — and the smell of whisky was tantalizing. ‘So what?’

The bartender lowered his voice. ‘She came in on her own and sat down next to him.’

The only girls who did that were working girls so Hector didn’t see why the man was so anxious, standing there in the narrow hallway, sweating. He shrugged. Then he wondered if maybe Charlie had done something to her. Hurt her. Killed her even. Surely only that would make the bartender so twitchy.

Hector squeezed the man’s arm. ‘Come on. Spit it out. What’s the problem?’

The bartender leaned in towards him and whispered, ‘She’s American.’

Hector pushed past him, his feet hammering up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He reached the tiny wooden postcard of a landing and threw open the only door.

What confronted him inside told him he had been right. Win-win was for asshole gringos, like Charlie Mendez. For a man like Hector there was only ever lose-lose.