The Spider Thief (21 page)

“That’s a bold statement, putting all that off on me. You got some kind of evidence?” Prez gave him a cold smile. “Anything?”

Andres folded his arms.

“Somethin’ tells me, if all the shirt-and-ties in the United States
Secret Service
can’t put it together, well then . . .” Prez shrugged. “Good luck with that.”

The lines around Andres’s mouth deepened. “And what will you do with my Starsky and Hutch car, hmm? You cannot drive her. Police pull you over, connect you to the counterfeit, is all over for you. This car, she is no good for you.”

“The car’s not for sale.”

Andres stood. His gunmen didn’t even twitch, but somehow they seemed to fill in around him, adding power to Andres’s words. “So, Mr. Prez, perhaps you place yourself in my shoes. I lose my money, I lose my movie cars. Very difficult. But is not so bad for me, really. Now, I have perspective.”

“How is that, exactly?”

“Jus’ last week, I start a new collection. A Trans Am, you know? Black, with the big gold bird it has. This man who sell it, you know what he tell me?” Andres leaned both hands on the desk, settling into the pose. “This car, she was restore, from a junkyard. She is like a phoenix. She rise from the ashes, into a new life. This is what I am like, what this car is like. We get strike down?” His voice dropped to a gravelly hiss. “We always rise again.”

“Huh.” Prez rested his chin on his knuckles, eyes half-lidded. “
Rockford Files
, right? Never did get into that one.”

“No.” Annoyance flickered across Andres’s face. “
Smokey and the Bandit
. Is funny movie.”

“Yeah?”

“I am a forgiving man,” Andres said loudly. “And so, I put all this behind us. But first, you make for me one million dollars.”

Prez laughed out loud. He couldn’t help himself. “I like you, Andres.” He laughed again. “I use to live in Vegas, man, knew a lot of funny people. But you definitely the funniest Mexican I ever met.”

“I am from Colombia.”

“Eh.” Prez waved a hand. “All south of the border to me, man.”

Andres stared for a long moment, his face betraying nothing. He pointed one long finger at Prez’s desk phone. “May I?”

Still amused, Prez leaned back in his seat. “Go ahead. Knock yourself out.”

Andres turned Prez’s phone around to face him and hit the speaker button. While the dial tone buzzed, he drew a business card from his pocket, squinted at it, and punched in the number. It rang twice and clicked.

“Denver office,” a woman said, sounding hurried. “Cleo Garnett.”

Andres’s gaze took on the unblinking focus of a hunting predator. As he spoke, he stared into Prez’s eyes. “This is the FBI, yes?”

“This is the Denver office,” she said.

“Yes. I have an address for you.”

“What’s this regarding, sir?”

“Jus’ write this down, please, Miss Cleo Garnett.” Without blinking, Andres recited Prez’s address. The sound of it, in his cold voice, came out like a hatchet chipping ice.

There was a pause while Cleo wrote. “And what’s your name, sir?”

Andres stabbed one finger down on the phone, ending the call. “You see? This conversation, I can finish any time. Tell her why she must come down here to see you, ask about your money.” He straightened up, looming over Prez’s desk. His frown was back in place. “To print this one million dollars, how long it take you?”

Prez gave him a hard stare. A trickle of sweat ran down through Prez’s hair, tickling his scalp. “Give me a couple of days.” The words ground out through his teeth. “I got to find the equipment I need.”

Andres shot his cuff back and looked at the massive watch on his wrist. “Forty-eight hours, exactly. No more.” His thick lips curved upward.

That was the image that stuck in Prez’s mind now, a week later. Andres and his king-of-the-world smile.

Prez thought it over now, as he spooned cut strawberries and frozen blueberries into the blender in his kitchen. He had done what Andres wanted, printed the million dollars, and that was no small task. But instead of fixing the problem, that had only made things worse.

Prez tore the top off of an envelope of protein powder and dumped it in, trying hard not to breathe the haze that drifted up from the blender. He’d tried to get rid of Andres at the get go. Which was why he’d called the Sweeper. The Sweeper could do anything. Matter of fact, he was supposed to get rid of Andres before the cash was even printed.

But he’d failed. So Prez had to go ahead and print the money just to stall Andres and give the Sweeper more time to catch up to him.

So what was holding the Sweeper back? Could he actually be afraid of Andres, in a spiritual way? Didn’t make any sense. Man like that shouldn’t be afraid of anything.

Prez shook his head. Whole world was going crazy around him. From the fridge, he got out his usual carton of cold soymilk, then picked up a can of Schlitz and stood there for a moment, looking from one to the other, pondering.

No, he decided. Schlitz and protein powder, most definitely a bad idea.

He put the beer back, popped the top on the soymilk, and poured it in. As the blender buzzed everything into a thick pink froth, Prez tried to figure out his next move.

The presses made DMT nervous, like the Secret Service was about to raid the place any minute now. But the FBI honey, Cleo, he’d gotten rid of her easy enough. He smiled. Having the presses around, making the hinky cash, it was just like old times. Made him feel alive.

In the distance, something popped, like a bag full of microwave popcorn. He shut off the blender and listened.

Gunshots. Inside the warehouse.

Prez’s heart pounded. Forgetting the smoothie, he sprinted to his desk, feeling like he was trapped in a bad dream. He couldn’t move fast enough. Couldn’t make his feet work hard enough.

The top drawer held his glossy black .380, already loaded, and a spare magazine. He grabbed both, then hit the intercom. “D?” No response. “D! Who’s shootin’?”

The paneled wooden door to his office swung open and two of Andres’s goons marched through, guns out. First came Lazaro in his leather vest showing his tattoos, then came ugly Salvador with his assault weapon.

Prez had never shot at another human being in his entire life. He froze up for a second, then willed his arm to move. Brought the little .380 up.

He pulled the trigger. The gun kicked in his hand. The bang was louder than he expected, making him blink.

Lazaro stopped in his tracks and stared down at his arm. Blood poured out of an ugly bullet hole in the middle of his tattoos.

Prez felt a pang of cold that wiped away all of his thoughts. His hand froze around the gun, as if it no longer belonged to him.

Salvador came at him, and Prez swung the gun around to aim at him, but the man moved in a blur.

In one smooth motion, Salvador bent Prez’s arm around backward and forced him face down onto the desk. The breath exploded out of him. Papers flew. His phone crashed across the floor.

Prez didn’t have the strength to hold on to the gun. Salvador pulled it from his fingers.

Andres strolled into the room. He guided Lazaro to one of the leather guest chairs and made him sit. Talking softly in Spanish, Andres pulled a black silk kerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around Lazaro’s bloody arm.

Pale and stunned, Lazaro listened to Andres and nodded. Sweat stood out on his face.

Andres patted him on his uninjured shoulder, then turned and marched over to the desk, fury in his eyes. He bent down close enough that Prez could see a trail of saliva arcing between his teeth as he spoke.

“Where is the spider?”

Prez groaned. “The what?”

“
La Araña
. Lazaro seen Ash bring her in to you this morning. Now you are talking to the FBI. Where is she?”

“FBI lady already left. She’s gone.”

Andres slammed his fist down on the desk beside Prez’s head. “No. The
spider
. Where is she?”

Shaking, Prez twisted his head so he could peer up at Andres with one eye. “I don’t know about any damn spider.”

Andres’s nostrils flared. He took quick breaths, each one seeming to fill him with more and more energy. “This is the wrong answer for you, my friend.” He marched across to pale, sweating Lazaro and took the gun from his listless hand.

Andres came back and lifted the huge black pistol until it was inches from Prez’s eye. He could smell the gunsmoke clinging to its muzzle, feel the flush of heat radiating from the barrel.

“One last time,” Andres said, breathing through his nose. “Where . . . is . . . she?”

Sobrino

Ash parked the Galaxie on the street, out of sight of Prez’s place, and left the window rolled all the way down for Moolah.

“You sure that’s safe?” Mauricio said as they walked down the street, past vacant storefronts and a fenced lot full of white fleet vans.

“What’s safe? The car, or Moolah? He’ll protect it.” The sun beat down on Ash’s back as he strolled along. “So how do you want to do this?”

Mauricio held up his hands. “I don’t know. I still can’t believe you ditched the spider at Prez’s.”

“Piece of cake. Considering he was a little distracted at the time. Sitting in his car, inside, for whatever reason.”

“You don’t think he was trying to . . . I don’t know. I mean, sitting there in the garage, engine running. You don’t think he’s . . .”

“Suicidal?” Ash thought it over as they rounded the corner.

“Not to put too fine a point on it.”

Prez’s building came into view. An eighteen-wheeler sat idling in the corner of the lot. Its brakes let out an explosive hiss. Near the cab, the driver huddled with DMT over a clipboard full of forms. A couple of Prez’s other boys stood around nearby, smoking, their shirtsleeves rolled up.

“I don’t think he’s
happy
, necessarily,” Ash said. “But I don’t know about suicidal. One thing the man’s got is willpower.”

“I say we just go in and tell Prez everything,” Mauricio said. “The curse, the jungle city. The preacher.”

“You think he’ll believe that?”

“I don’t know.” Mauricio was quiet for a moment. “But I’d rather tell him the truth.”

“I know. You’re funny like that.”

They crossed the hot blacktop lot, thick with the smells of melted tar and diesel exhaust from the idling truck. Ash headed for the back door he’d used last time, a gray metal slab with a cracked
EMPLOYEES
ONLY
sign peeling off of it. He grabbed the doorknob, but Mauricio stopped him.

“Wait.” Eyes wide, Mauricio pointed. Near the corner of the building, half-hidden by a green Dumpster, the black Trans Am sat gleaming in the sun. Empty.

Ash swallowed. He looked over both shoulders, but there was nobody else around. He eased the door open. Inside, a long rectangle of sunlight fell across the concrete floor, widening to include his silhouette. It illuminated a creeping puddle of blood.

Beyond, the bodies of three young black guys in suits lay scattered on the floor. Bloodstains marred their white shirts. A pack of cigarettes lay on the floor nearby, popped open and spilled. Three guns lay scattered away from their outstretched fingers, as if someone had shot them all and then kicked the weapons out of their hands.

Ash silently closed the door. A wave of nausea rolled over him. His knees shook.

Mauricio gave him a helpless look. “They’re dead, aren’t they? What about Prez?”

“Wait. We need a plan.” Ash turned to the truck idling at the far end of the lot. “Come on!” He sprinted toward DMT, waving his arms to get his attention.

*

Prez fought for breath. Salvador had him pinned face-down on his desk, crushing him. Andres kept the gun in his face, his hand steady. He seemed to have all the time in the world.

“Andres!” Ash’s voice cut through the room.

Prez looked up. It took him a second to spot Ash crouched behind the far side of the printing press. Through the cage, he could barely make out Mauricio huddled next to him.

DMT’s voice rang out. “Let him go!” He peered around the edge of the kitchenette, the black length of a shotgun tight against his shoulder.

Andres betrayed no emotion at all. He stood motionless, breathing through his nose, as if he hadn’t heard either of them.

“Let him
go
!” DMT shouted again. “I shoot every last one of you if I got to!”

“No,” Andres said flatly. “You will not shoot anyone.”

A heavy silence fell. Prez tilted his head, watching all of them, his heart hammering against the desk.

“I’ll give you what you want,” Ash called. “It’s here. I can show you.”

“I want
mi sobrino
,” Andres said to Mauricio, and beckoned him closer with one finger.

After a moment, Mauricio stepped out from behind the cage.

“That’s not what I meant.” Ash reached out and grabbed Mauricio’s arm. “Don’t do it.”

“I have to.”

“He’ll kill you!”

“No,” Andres said, pressing the gun against Prez’s head. “On that, you have my word. But this man, I will kill—if you do not come with me this very instant,
Sobrino
.”

Mauricio stepped out into the open, shuffling one foot after the other as if he was sleepwalking. Closer he came, closer, until Andres put an arm around his shoulders and dropped the gun away from Prez’s head.

With the gun gone, Prez felt the air around him change, like the moment the sun peers down between clouds. The room felt lighter, the air around him fresher.

Salvador let go of him, and the pain in his joints eased to a dull throb. He got his hands underneath himself and pushed up off of the desk, shaking a little.

Holding on to Mauricio, Andres had already moved to the back door. His two gunmen guarded him, guns up at DMT. Andres opened the door, letting in a flare of sunlight.

“Andres, wait.” Ash stepped out into the open, holding up his empty hands in surrender. “You don’t understand. I can give you the spider. Right here, right now.”

Andres kept moving. “You think I am a fool? No more games. I am finished with your lies.”