The Viking Funeral

Chapter 41

THIS JOINT DON'T feel too friendly, Jody said, one hand on his gym bag, the other fingering the hard place under his jacket where he kept his chambered Heckler amp; Koch.

"Hola, mis amigos," Paco shouted expansively to the other San Andresitos, who were in a booth at the back of the cantina. Paco led the way through the bar full of Colombian misfits, to where Spartacos Sococo, Emilio Hernandez, and Octavio Randhanie were perched on hard, butt-polished vinyl, grinning like three hungry vultures on a split-rail fence.

Shane and Jody wedged in next to Emilio Hernandez and Spartacos Sococo, while Paco Brazos, Tremaine, and Lester found seats next to Octavio Randhanie. The San Andresitos forced smiles onto their faces while the background noise in the bar began to build again slowly.

The cantina was quite large, dominated on one side by a scarred wooden bar and mismatched furniture. The men in the place all seemed to be made of gristle and knotted twine. Their brown muscles glistened with sweat. There was no air conditioning; a big paddle fan with wicker blades turned ineffectively from the ceiling while an old Wurlitzer jukebox screeched American rock and roll through blown-out speakers.

"Que bueno, no?" Paco said. "Good pussy, abajo. Pero tienes ningun tiempo por la fucky-fucky, no?" He grinned, spreading his lips happily. His bullshit brown-toothed grin was really beginning to wear thin.

"Look, boys… Amigos" Jody said. "We don't need to get laid, we need our paperwork-our receipts proving that the merchandise got delivered up here safely, so we can collect our money from Sandro Mantoor in Aruba. You got that for us?"

Five sets of stone-hard eyes met Jody's question, glaring volumes of guarded thought, but no hint of what was to come.

"Sawdust, tell 'em what we want."

Lester Wood rattled it off in Spanish, and the San Andresitos all nodded, sipping whiskey from shot glasses, but nobody made a move to hand over anything.

"I'm thinking we got us a little problem," Sawdust said. "These boys don't seem t'wanna ride in the wagon."

"Tell 'em we don't get our receipts, we're gonna take that info back to Sandy. And if they got some dick-brained idea about us not getting outta this town in one piece, then Sandy Mantoor isn't gonna send any more product up here. He's guaranteeing our safety."

Lester Wood translated this, but after he finished, all four of the San Andresitos just stared. Nobody was smiling any longer.

"Kinda like barkin' at a knot," Lester Wood drawled.

"Okay, what's going on? Where's our bottom line here?" Jody asked.

Paco rattled off some Spanish, and the other San Andresitos nodded.

Sawdust translated: "Seems we're being kidnapped. They won't let us go unless we pay them."

"You want us to give you money to let us out of here?" Jody growled.

"Si… Si, dinero. Money for to go. Es corrector " Paco said.

"You fuckin' people…" Jody snapped. "I'11 die here before I pay one fucking cent."

"Jody… Let's think this through," Shane said softly. "Let's get a number from 'em. Why should anybody die if we're only talkin' about one or two grand."

"No," Paco said, understanding instantly when the subject was money. "No es suficiente. "

"How much?" Jody was smiling now, but Shane knew that smile. He'd been dealing with it since the sixth grade. It was a deadly warning.

"Te va a costar veinte por ciento. "

"He wants twenty percent," Sawdust drawled. "We need us a laugh track t'go with this."

"That's about three million dollars!" Jody said. "You sure that's gonna be enough, you fucking ladron?"

The four San Andresitos froze. Shane realized most of them had taken their hands off the table where they were now dangerously out of sight.

"Jody…" Shane said. "Take a look around in here…"

Jody swung his gaze across the bar. Most of the men had silently risen off their stools and were now forming a loose circle around their booth. Shane continued: "I think I saw some of these people driving forklifts in Paco's warehouse. They lured us in here. We've been set up."

The bar had gone graveyard quiet, except for a bad version of "Blue Suede Shoes" screeching over the blown speakers, sounding more like a catfight than music.

Suddenly, Jody yanked his H amp;K P-7 out of his waistband and shoved it in Paco's face. Simultaneously, all eight men in the booth had guns in their hands.

Half the men in the bar had also found weapons in that split second.

Twenty pistols were cocked and aimed at the Vikings sitting in the booth. It had happened fast, but Jody had beaten Paco's draw. Paco Brazos was in no-man's-land, frozen, with Jody's gun an inch from his face, his own weapon not quite out.

"I'm ready! Go for it, asshole! Let's do the dance." Craziness lit Jody's face like the changing colors of a raging fire. It was all there-excitement, adrenaline, and a willingness to die, all of this registering in one crazy heartbeat. "Come on. Start blasting. But no matter what, you're on the bus. You're goin' first, greaseball."

They were all stretched out in deadly postures, each one shoving a gun across the table at the enemy opposite him. None of the Vikings had time to get to their Polish MP-63s but instead had gone for their handguns. Shane had snatched the Spanish Astra out of his ankle holster and was trading aims with Spartacos Sococo's huge Desert Eagle. They posed there for several dangerous moments before a slow, impish smile broke across Paco's dirt-brown face.

"No quiero disparar… No shoot. Tomamos y comemos y luego tus papeles. " He turned to the other San Andresitos. "Mis amigos… No mas… No mas. "

"He's changed his mind… He doesn't want to shoot us. He's gonna give us our papers," Sawdust said, holding his Colt Commander on Emilio Hernandez, who had a blue-steel Beretta 9 aimed right back at him.

"Tell 'em to put their guns away," Jody ordered, and Sawdust did.

All of the San Andresitos slowly reholstered their guns. The Vikings didn't.

"Get the rest a'these shit burners outta here," Jody ordered, indicating the men standing in a deadly circle around them.

"Veten, veten afueraPaco said to the sweating contingent of armed men.

Slowly, the men in the bar shouldered their weapons or repacked them in faded canvas holsters. They sauntered toward the door, trying to look tough in the middle of a retreat, dragging their pride like heavy sacks behind them.

Only then did Jody nod for the Vikings to put their guns away.

"Muy bien, muy bien›" Paco said, heaving out a tortured sigh.

Spartacos Sococo, Emilio Hernandez, and Octavio Randhanie stood angrily, then pushed their way out of the booth.

"Where are the fucking receipts?" Jody asked. With no need of translation, the San Andresitos reached into their pockets and pulled out the delivery vouchers, handing them to Jody, who in turn handed them to Lester Wood. He read them and nodded.

"Yep," he said, returning them to Jody, who put them in his back pocket.

Just then a phone started ringing. Nobody answered it. Paco shouted at the bartender.

"Telefono!"

The old man behind the bar crossed and picked up the phone. "Como?" he said, and listened for a long moment. "Si… Si. Gracias. " He hung up and looked over at Paco.

"Que es?" Paco demanded.

"Cortez viene al pueblo. "

"Santa's coming," Sawdust translated. "This might be a good time t'blow town."