is just between us. Who sent you?”
The reply was emphatic but garbled, while Cable Guy scrubbed at his eyes.
“Any other weapons?”
A shake of the head.
Ford would have checked anyway. No billfold, no cell phone, but a mini Sig Sauer in an ankle holster, which he pocketed after clearing the chamber. The tool belt had a pocket—two tiny gel transmitters with alligator clips. In the breast pocket of the coveralls, a batch of freshly minted business cards:
Ace Cable & Utility / Largo, Florida
. No logo, but an 800 number. At the bottom:
Hector
Spalding / Your Installation Specialist
.
Ford almost smiled. A fake name on a cheap card, yet it meant something to him. Since the 1930s, when the U.S. Marines introduced baseball to Nicaragua and Masagua—Cuba much earlier—spies, spooks, and hit men from Latin countries often deferred to their baseball gloves when choosing an American pseudonym. Wilson or Rawlings was a common fake name; Spalding, MacGregor, and Louisville considered more creative. In esoteric circles—the fifth-floor embassy types—“José Wilson” had become a euphemism for “Latino spy,” an inside joke.
Ford, voice low, said, “This is a piss-poor cover story. Come to do a hit while the sun’s still up, people around? That’s stupid. Or whoever sent you is stupid. Do yourself a favor and talk.”
Cable Guy, inhaling fumes, croaked, “Shit . . . how can I? This rag, man, it just makes it worse,” yet continued to rub his eyes while toxic oil constricted his throat. The accent was Spanish—Cuban, possibly—but faint. A man who’d spent most of his twenty-some years in the States.
Ford said, “Don’t do anything stupid,” and went out the door. He returned with a hose, kinked, dripping water. He flushed his own eyes, then told the man, “Sit up—sit on your hands—and cross your legs. Now tilt your head back. No, damn it, keep your eyes open.”
That didn’t work very well, so he held the Beretta and watched Cable Guy wash his face, gargle and spit, repeating the process several times, before Ford kinked the hose again and jammed it under the door. “What’s your name?”
“It’s right there, man. You can’t read?”
“Your real name.”
“
Hector.
I need more of that hose, then maybe my throat’ll work better.”
“I’m not going to play question-answer.”
“You got a problem, call the cops. You ain’t no cop, and this shit in my eyes ain’t mace, so we both go to jail. What you think about that?”
Ford said, “Not so loud,” and picked up the wasp spray, which scared Hector more than the gun. After two false starts, Ford looked at his watch to show impatience. Didn’t say a word—silence, the ultimate threat—even when Rivera turned the salsa music louder and clomped toward what might have been the bathroom.
Hector, listening, decided to strike up a conversation with his raspy voice. “You’re wrong, what you said. I ain’t stupid. A customer wants his ESPN working when he gets home. Nothing stupid about a repairman walking through yards, going into a house, while it’s still light.”
Ford waited.
“Assaulted me, doing my job.”
He listened to more of this before pointing upstairs. “The guy you came to kill? If he finds out, he’ll glue your eyes shut and cut off an ear. You still don’t talk, he’ll make you eat it. Your own ear. Super Glue or sometimes tape, that varies, but not cutting off an ear. It’s what
he does
.”
Hector sat at attention. “You actually seen him do that? I heard something similar, man, but figured it was bullshit.”
“It’s not.”
“You were actually
there
?”
“I walked away. Why would I stick around? But I heard it happen at least twice.”
“Guys screaming, you mean, then he makes them swallow, huh? Shit . . . they’d have to do some chewing first.”
“I suppose so.”
“Jesus Holy Mary. After that, he tells the prisoner—
interreges
is the right word—he says to them, ‘Listen to
The reply was emphatic but garbled, while Cable Guy scrubbed at his eyes.
“Any other weapons?”
A shake of the head.
Ford would have checked anyway. No billfold, no cell phone, but a mini Sig Sauer in an ankle holster, which he pocketed after clearing the chamber. The tool belt had a pocket—two tiny gel transmitters with alligator clips. In the breast pocket of the coveralls, a batch of freshly minted business cards:
Ace Cable & Utility / Largo, Florida
. No logo, but an 800 number. At the bottom:
Hector
Spalding / Your Installation Specialist
.
Ford almost smiled. A fake name on a cheap card, yet it meant something to him. Since the 1930s, when the U.S. Marines introduced baseball to Nicaragua and Masagua—Cuba much earlier—spies, spooks, and hit men from Latin countries often deferred to their baseball gloves when choosing an American pseudonym. Wilson or Rawlings was a common fake name; Spalding, MacGregor, and Louisville considered more creative. In esoteric circles—the fifth-floor embassy types—“José Wilson” had become a euphemism for “Latino spy,” an inside joke.
Ford, voice low, said, “This is a piss-poor cover story. Come to do a hit while the sun’s still up, people around? That’s stupid. Or whoever sent you is stupid. Do yourself a favor and talk.”
Cable Guy, inhaling fumes, croaked, “Shit . . . how can I? This rag, man, it just makes it worse,” yet continued to rub his eyes while toxic oil constricted his throat. The accent was Spanish—Cuban, possibly—but faint. A man who’d spent most of his twenty-some years in the States.
Ford said, “Don’t do anything stupid,” and went out the door. He returned with a hose, kinked, dripping water. He flushed his own eyes, then told the man, “Sit up—sit on your hands—and cross your legs. Now tilt your head back. No, damn it, keep your eyes open.”
That didn’t work very well, so he held the Beretta and watched Cable Guy wash his face, gargle and spit, repeating the process several times, before Ford kinked the hose again and jammed it under the door. “What’s your name?”
“It’s right there, man. You can’t read?”
“Your real name.”
“
Hector.
I need more of that hose, then maybe my throat’ll work better.”
“I’m not going to play question-answer.”
“You got a problem, call the cops. You ain’t no cop, and this shit in my eyes ain’t mace, so we both go to jail. What you think about that?”
Ford said, “Not so loud,” and picked up the wasp spray, which scared Hector more than the gun. After two false starts, Ford looked at his watch to show impatience. Didn’t say a word—silence, the ultimate threat—even when Rivera turned the salsa music louder and clomped toward what might have been the bathroom.
Hector, listening, decided to strike up a conversation with his raspy voice. “You’re wrong, what you said. I ain’t stupid. A customer wants his ESPN working when he gets home. Nothing stupid about a repairman walking through yards, going into a house, while it’s still light.”
Ford waited.
“Assaulted me, doing my job.”
He listened to more of this before pointing upstairs. “The guy you came to kill? If he finds out, he’ll glue your eyes shut and cut off an ear. You still don’t talk, he’ll make you eat it. Your own ear. Super Glue or sometimes tape, that varies, but not cutting off an ear. It’s what
he does
.”
Hector sat at attention. “You actually seen him do that? I heard something similar, man, but figured it was bullshit.”
“It’s not.”
“You were actually
there
?”
“I walked away. Why would I stick around? But I heard it happen at least twice.”
“Guys screaming, you mean, then he makes them swallow, huh? Shit . . . they’d have to do some chewing first.”
“I suppose so.”
“Jesus Holy Mary. After that, he tells the prisoner—
interreges
is the right word—he says to them, ‘Listen to
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