The First Victim

CHAPTER 21

"I tell you, this girl, she stupid and she scared.’’ The Mexican kept his congested voice intentionally low despite the loud groaning of pleasure from the big screen. He spoke in a clipped Hispanic mix of thick accent and misplaced grammar. He’d been sick for a while now. In the pulsing flicker of light, six silhouettes could be seen in the various rows of the theater, all sitting well apart from one another and none anywhere near the two men who occupied the center of the back row.

The reflected light from the screen caught the other man’s profile as he unstuck his right sole from whatever glue was down there, spilled soda or otherwise. He averted his face from both the brightness of the screen and the unspeakable acts portrayed by the two naked women in the grainy film. He understood the necessity of choosing such places for their meetings-the choice had been his, after all- but it didn’t mean he had to like it. He kept his voice calm and quiet, negating any remote possibility of being overheard. ‘‘I can handle the reporter. Our friend will settle down.’’ He never mentioned names, not ever. He knew all the tricks available to law enforcement. He trusted nobody. ‘‘Let’s keep cool heads. This too shall pass.’’

‘‘It’s coming apart on you.’’

‘‘Nothing is coming apart on anyone. A few speed bumps is all. It’s to be expected with something this size. Shit happens. It’s no reason to lose our cool.’’

‘‘What do you mean, you handle reporter?’’ the Mexican asked.

‘‘Not like that. Let’s just keep cool about this, okay?’’ the other man encouraged.

‘‘I do the girl?’’

‘‘Absolutely not. She’ll be fine.’’

‘‘I tell you, she not fine. Very upset. Last week it was the car wash in the middle of rainstorm. No brains at all.’’ He pointed to the screen. ‘‘This? This is the only thing girls do right.’’

He felt knots in his jaw muscles form like hard nuts. He told himself to settle down. ‘‘Admittedly, it’s not a perfect situation. She made a poor decision by coming to you. That’s regrettable. But she’ll stay on schedule with the deliveries. You watch. When she comes back, you tell her that we’re taking care of the reporter, that everything’s fine.’’

‘‘And if she don’t come back? If she misses the delivery?’’

There was no silence in the theater, the pale-skinned teenagers on the screen filling every moment with either excited panting, exaggerated licking, or pleasure-ridden cooing. The other man rode out a particularly frantic climax before whispering to the Mexican, ‘‘If we have problems with her, we’ll go looking to resolve them.’’

‘‘That sounds better. I tell you what. . in the middle of a god-damn rainstorm!’’

‘‘But we talk first, you and me. She’s not the only one making poor decisions. No more fork lift fires. Comprendo?’’

The Mexican pursed his lips. The man shaved infrequently, bathed infrequently and had the teeth of an old horse. ‘‘Speed bumps. . like for the automobile? This kind of speed bump?’’

‘‘It’s an expression. That’s all.’’

‘‘No, I get it. Speed bumps. I get it.’’ Proud of himself, he plunged his meaty hand into the cold popcorn and stuffed his mouth with it. He offered the bag to the other. Speaking through the mouthful, he said, ‘‘You stay for next show?’’

He glanced to his right. The seat was empty. Brian Coughlie was gone.

TUESDAY, AUGUST 258 DAYS MISSING