The Gentlemen's Hour

76

“Either there is a deal in place or there is not,” Cruz Iglesias snaps.

Iglesias is in an ugly mood, cooped up in the modest house in Point Loma, on the run from Ortega’s assassination squads and the American police. He’s bored, edgy, and irritated that his business is not being conducted the way he expects.

“It just might take a little longer than . . .”

“No, we’re done.”

“I really think . . .”

“I don’t care what you think anymore,” Iglesias says. “We’ve tried your way. We’ll do it my way now.”

Iglesias snaps the phone shut. He doesn’t want to hear any more excuses or any further pleas for more time. He’s given these

gueros

ample opportunity to work out their problems, he’s been more than generous. He has tried to act like a gentleman, and expected that they would do the same, but it just hasn’t happened.

At the end of the day it’s about money. Gentlemen or no gentlemen, these

yanqui

buffoons are messing with his money, a lot of it, and that is something that he simply cannot tolerate.

He yells for Santiago to come out of the kitchen. His lieutenant is whipping up his deservedly famous

albondigas

, and it smells wonderful, but Iglesias has more urgent business than homemade cuisine.

“You look ridiculous in that apron,” he says when Santiago comes in.

“This is a new shirt,” Santiago protests. “Three hundred dollars, Fashion Valley. I don’t want to get it . . .”

“That thing we talked about,” Iglesias says. “It’s time to make it happen.”

“Los Niños Locos?”

“No,” Iglesias says. He doesn’t want a gruesome execution to send a message, he just wants to get it done. “Give it to that man—”

“Jones?”

“Yes.” After all, they’re paying his daily fee in addition to expenses; they might as well get some work out of him. “Just tell him to keep it simple.”

The man Jones has a tendency to get flamboyant.

But he does dress like a gentleman.