The Mayan Codex

66

Alastor de Bale watched the Mexican with what passed for interest. In truth, it had been many years since Alastor had taken an interest in anybody but himself.

He had the wasting disease, cachexia – in Alastor’s case it wasn’t caused by cancer or Aids or any of the other usual suspects, but came about thanks to metabolic acidosis, as a result, his doctors told him, of decreased protein synthesis twinned with increased protein catabolism caused by five or six generations of inbreeding.

Alastor had no idea what any of this meant, nor was he interested enough in his condition to find out. He knew that the cachexia would do for him in maybe two to three years tops, and all that concerned him now was to procure himself a regular adrenalin rush – this was the only thing that cut through the inevitable lethargy, fatigue, and weakness bought about by his condition. And if he read the signs right, the bumptious Mexican he was looking at was definitely going to come up trumps on that score.

‘I can get you anything you want, man. If you can pay, that is. US dollars. Small denominations only. Nothing over a twenty. I get you Uzi. Even Mini-Uzi. I got a Model 12 Beretta. I got a Heckler amp; Koch MP5K. I even get you a Stoner M63. Still in its wrappers. Never used. Guy who ordered it got himself whacked on the way to pick it up.’

‘Handguns?’

‘Anything you want, man. Anything you want. I got Makarov. I got PSM. I got CZ.’

‘I don’t want anything Eastern bloc.’

‘Okay. Okay. I got a Glock 18. I got a Walther P4. I got a Star 30M. I maybe even got a MAB P15.’

‘I don’t want a MAB P15.’

‘Anything you say, man. I get you anything you say.’

‘You got a Beretta 92SB?’

‘What? US military model?’

‘With the extended hammer pin. Yes.’

‘I get you that too.’

It was at this exact moment that Alastor knew that he was about to be taken for a ride. Manna from heaven was all very well, but, like walking on water, you had to believe in it in the first place. ‘We need eleven guns in total. Get me everything we talked about bar the big Uzi. And no Eastern bloc crap, remember?’

‘No. No. I’m not stupid. The customer always king in my book.’

‘How much?’

The Mexican almost drooled. ‘Ten thousand bucks.’

‘Go fuck yourself.’

‘Eh, man. I don’t want to do that. I get girls for that. All sorts. You want girls too? I get you anything you want. Green. Black. Red. White. Pussy on the slant. Pussy straight up. You call it.’

‘I’ll give you five thousand bucks.’

‘Now you got to be kidding me, man. You know how hard it is to get these things into the country?’

‘About as hard as trafficking those girls you told me about. I know all about the tunnels you guys have got below Agua Prieta.’

‘Lower your voice, man. Are you crazy?’ The Mexican didn’t seem too bothered by Alastor’s comments though – his eyes were still flashing dollar signs. ‘Okay. Nine thousand. But that’s my final offer. The Federales are cracking down on illegal guns. We got serious trouble here now. We got extra expenses.’

‘Six thousand.’

‘No. No. Man. That’s impossible.’

Alastor was enjoying the Mexican’s discomfiture. The guy was having to decide just how amenable he could appear to be in order to reel in his prey. Too amenable, and the minnow would run. Not amenable enough, and the same thing happened – Alastor would simply put two fingers up and go someplace else. It would take fine judgement.

So Alastor sat watching the Mexican. Waiting. He had learned that waiting nearly always produced results.

‘You need to eat something, man. You real thin. Too thin.’

‘Six thousand.’

‘Is impossible. But I tell you what. We forget the Stoner, and I can do it for seven thousand straight.’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’

‘I didn’t want the Stoner anyway. Too big. Too loud. Too easy to fucking trace.’

‘I thought the same, man, I thought the same.’ The Mexican was sweating now. The thought of the seven thousand dollars was eating into him like nitric acid. Maybe he could have driven the gringo up to eight?

‘Where do I pick up the material?’

The Mexican glanced around the cantina. It was an all-male watering hole, as good as empty now in the early afternoon, with most of its denizens either taking their siestas or pretending to work. ‘You coming alone?’

‘Yeah. I got a car. Easy to move the stuff into the back.’

‘You ever done this before?’

‘No.’ Alastor smiled. The stress lines in his face looked like glacial grooves. ‘This is all new to me.’

The Mexican grinned. He already knew he had a real sucker here. This proved it once and for all. No one admitted to inexperience in his world. In his world everybody had done everything a thousand times over. ‘We meet this evening. Six o’clock. There’s a cave complex near Valladolid. They call it the Gruta de Balancanche. We meet in the car park there. You can’t miss it, man. It’s only a few kilometres south of Chichen Itza.’ He frowned at Alastor. ‘You remember now. Nothing bigger than twenty-dollar bills?’

‘Seven thousand. That’s what we agreed?’

The Mexican almost gave himself away then. He almost laughed. This gringo was priceless. One felt tempted to pick him up in one hand and twirl him about one’s head like a lasso. ‘Yeah. Seven thousand. You get the best ordnance in the whole of Mexico, I promise. I tell you this. You’ve come to the right place.’

‘I know that, my friend. I know that very well.’