The Finder

35

A man likes a drink at the end of the day. Especially me, thought Carlos Montoya as he passed through the strings of red beads in the entrance of his Queens bar. How many loads of laundry can you supervise before going mad? If the number was knowable, he'd nonetheless passed it a long time ago. He sat down at his regular table. I'm tired and fat, he thought, what else is new? The place seemed quiet, muted. Someone had turned off the music. Where were all the regulars, the Mexicans and Guatemalans and Ecuadorians who came here to spend a few of their hard-earned bucks and drink beer?

His waiter, Manny, eased up to him with a glass and bottle. "Hey, boss."

"The place is dead."

Manny jerked his head down the bar where an older man, lanky and quiet, sat. "Boss, you got a new friend."

The other man slid over a few chairs. He handed Carlos a card.

"Mr. Montoya," he said, "my name is Detective Peter Blake."

"Good evening, Officer."

"Let's get to it. I know you've had a hard day pretending to be an upstanding citizen. California Highway Patrol picked up two of your boys a few hours ago, snagged them on the bulletin we put out when they left the city so fast."

"They didn't do nothing."

"Then why did they run after I questioned them?"

"I told them to go have a great adventure. They're good clean young men, need to see this great country of ours."

Blake chewed on a swizzle straw, apparently reminding himself not to argue with such an erroneous representation of reality. He's on duty, Carlos realized, can't drink.

"I can get those boys a much easier time of it," Blake said.

"If what?"

"If you tell me what's really going on."

"They didn't do anything. Why would they kill a couple of nice Mexican girls? It never makes sense."

"Actually, I'm starting to come around to that idea myself."

Carlos didn't like the cards he was holding. All cops lie, he reminded himself.

"Mr. Montoya," the detective continued, "I got a few old pals in the California immigration system. We can put those guys on ice in a detention center for six months easy and no judge is going to give us a problem. Or I could have them extradited back here and we could offer them a very interesting plea agreement in exchange for a complete description of the Mexican drug distribution channels in the great city of New York. If their information is good enough, helps snag some major players, we can even provide instant United States citizenship as further inducement to complete cooperation. Okay, Mr. Montoya? You don't have a lawyer and this conversation never happened, but you can see I'm not fucking around, right?"

Time to fold, he thought. This cop is hard core. "What I heard is that it was a guy who owns a sewage yard in Marine Park," he said.

"What?"

Carlos explained that his young "cousin" worked there and had seen some things that disturbed him. Sorry, there was no name. Anyway his "cousin" was back in Mexico now.

"Names, I need names," said Blake.

Carlos scratched his head. There was probably money in this somehow, but he didn't want it. You turn into a paid government snitch then go to prison and have everyone know that, then you end up with a sharpened toothbrush in your throat.

"The sewage guy's name is Victor. I spoke to him myself."

"You did?"

He sipped his cold beer. "Called him. Told him I knew. And he threatened to kill my family. I was thinking about what I was going to do to him for that, something he could never forget, you know what I mean?"

Blake touched his own nose with his forefinger. "Hey, Carlos, you gotta tell us these things, okay?"

"I had my utmost concerns, Officer."

Blake was getting up to leave. "I'm going to check this out right now, and if you're wrong, then-"

"Then God strike me down," Carlos interrupted, feeling relieved of his burden. "Because those beautiful girls are in heaven now, the special part, reserved just for Mexican angels."