Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

19

Where in the bloody hell was Banco Alfaro?

That was Waddy Dwyer’s question at the moment. The mobile number he had for his shooter was dead, as it had been for the past three days. There was no outgoing voice mail, no recording, nothing.

And why in the fuck did they call him “Banco,” which was short for “money in the bank,” when his real name was Juan, and he was such a bloody piece of shit?

That was probably a better question, Dwyer thought, but it wasn’t going to help him much now. He needed to find Banco, to hear how he’d bollixed the operation, and if he and the backup shooter-and driver he was sure to have used-had been further compromised. There was an account number in the Caymans, where Dwyer had wired the first half of the money, but good fucking luck reverse engineering that into anything useful. Dwyer did have an address on a small apartment where Banco had been staying during prep. Of course the tie-dyed bloke wasn’t going to just be sitting there, waiting for him or anyone else who might come knocking after the botched op. He would’ve gone into his hidey-hole for certain. But the address, 157 Keller Street, was all Dwyer had, which was why he was currently sitting outside the cheaply built, low-slung, tobacco brown apartment house.

He’d been squatting on the place for four hours and had yet to see a tenant come or go. He had his eye on the lower left-hand unit, marked MGR. on the building placard. Dwyer had knocked, gotten no answer, and had resigned himself to waiting it out. But here came a little man, walking with a shambling gait, a couple of grocery sacks banging against his knees. His skin was nut brown, including his mostly bald pate, and he wore a plaid utility shirt, twill trousers, and battered work shoes. He made his way to the manager’s unit and barely had his key in the door before Dwyer was on him.

“Hey there, buddy,” Dwyer said, adopting what the Americans called a Southern drawl. If he had to raise a ruckus to get what he needed, Dwyer preferred the cops to think they were looking for an American rather than a Welshman, and he found the Southern drawl the easiest jump for his tongue to make.

“Yes?” The manager turned.

“What’s your name, bud?”

“I am Elihu,” the man said with a Spanish accent.

“How you doing, Eli-yute? I’m looking for a good buddy of mine who was staying here for a while.”

“Yes, sir, who?”

“Aw heck, he’s hiding out from his ex-wife most of the time. His name’s Juan, but he might’ve been going by something else.”

“Yes, there is no Juan here. I’m sorry. He is hispanico?”

“Yep. Salvadoran fella,” Dwyer said.

“Oh …”

“He would’ve probably just moved out. He has sort of spotted skin …” Dwyer didn’t know what the condition was called, but Banco had some white discoloration on the skin on the side of his face.

“Yes, there was a guy, Jose Campos. He was here for six months only. Nice guy, very strong. Black hair, maybe this tall.” Elihu held his hand up at head level. “He left last week.”

“Hell, Eli-yute, that sounds like him. He happen to mention where he was moving?” Dwyer asked. There was nothing but a pause out of the manager. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell his ex-wife,” he continued, adding the winks and eyebrow bumps the Southern fellows seemed so fond of.

“He did not say. He used to eat all the time at La Pasion. He loved comida criolla. He would bring me back platanos. Maybe they know.” Elihu smiled blandly and finished opening his door.

Dwyer contemplated pushing him inside, closing the door, and hurting the man until he was good and sure he’d told everything he knew. Instead, Dwyer put a bland smile on his face, too.

“Thanks, bud,” Dwyer said. He’d save that hurting for somebody else.