Smithback nodded. Flaco spoke better English than he had initially let on.
“You work with…with a publisher?” Flaco asked. “Newspaper publisher?”
He wondered where Flaco had gotten a copy of that article. It was blurry, like a screenshot that had been printed. All of a sudden, Smithback realized what all this would look like from the perspective of a person like Flaco. He didn’t know much about the young man’s background, but he almost certainly came from a small Guatemalan town where the outside world rarely intruded. To a guy like that, a reporter for a big newspaper might be seen as someone important. Smithback recalled Flaco bragging about his initiation into the Panteras. He’d been told to kill two people: a rata, informer, and his wife. He could kill the man any way he wanted to. But first, he had to kill the woman. He had to cut her throat—in front of the rat. That, anyway, had been the gist of the story. But the way he told it, the bragging and unlikely details, made Smithback think the whole thing was made up, or at least highly embellished.
Flaco was looking at him, question still hanging in the air. Smithback thought quickly, pushing these speculations aside. A reporter, his name on the front page of a big city newspaper…to someone like Flaco, his lifestyle must seem so unimaginably distant that he might as well be from another planet.
“Yes,” he said, sitting up. “Yes, I work with lots of publishers. Important publishers.” A spark of hope that had died sometime during the previous night now flared to life again. He’d been like a drowning man, and all of a sudden, he’d caught sight of a life preserver. Distant, but visible nonetheless. There might, after all, be a way out of here.
“What kind of publishers?”
“All kinds. Newspapers. Magazines. Books.”
As he spoke, a light gleamed briefly in Flaco’s eyes. “Magazine?”
“Sure. My best friend, mejor amigo, he used to do cartoons for my newspaper. Now, he has his own publishing house. Right here in Fort Myers.” This was a lie: Smithback hadn’t known anyone in the comics section of the paper, and he personally hadn’t read a comic since the Peanuts and Zap Comix of his youth.
“What kind of publish, this amigo?”
“He publishes…” Shit, what should he say? He gestured. “Graphic novels. Manga. ¿Sí?”
Flaco became animated. “Graphic novels? Sí. Sí. And you say this friend, he live here? In Fort Myers?”
“Yeah. Downtown.” His mind ran wild, trying to fill in the story. “He’s also getting into movies. Hollywood. But this…” He made a sweeping motion that, he hoped, indicated a lateral professional move. “He helps make graphic novels get made into movies.”
“You…you read graphic novels?”
“Sure. I love them. Big fan!”
Flaco, encouraged, patted one pocket of the cargo shorts he wore. “I…draw novels.”
“Really? You draw graphic novels? Come on, really?” Smithback tried to inject the right mixture of admiration and incredulity—one that would flatter rather than insult.
“Sí. Since I was little, all I want to do…is dibujar.” The young gangster mimicked sketching on a pad. “My father, he beat me when he find I drawing, not working. No me importa.”
“Wow. Amazing.” And it was amazing, in a way. Smithback always liked to find creativity in unexpected places. Bighead wouldn’t be happy if he thought Flaco’s ambitions ran in some direction other than dealing drugs and wiping out competition. The man was obviously starved for some sort of recognition.
“Um, can I see?”
Flaco, after a hesitation, reached into the oversize pocket of his shorts and pulled out a wad of battered pages. “You read. Tell me this good?” He held the pages out to Smithback, with an oddly tender gesture, as if they were flower petals he didn’t want to damage. “You read?”
“Sí. Con mucho gusto.”
“Carlos, he gone one hour. You finish before then, tell me it’s good.”
Tell me it’s good. Not if it’s good. Smithback nodded, taking the pages gently.
Suddenly, Flaco drew a switchblade and held it at Smithback’s throat. His eyes gleamed again, but with an entirely different kind of light. “You no tell Carlos. No tell Bighead.”
Smithback shook his head. “No, no.”
“Or I say I cut you, trying to escape. I make it hurt.”
Smithback had no doubt that he would. He shook his head as vigorously as the knife would allow. “I won’t tell anyone. It’s our secret. Nuestro secreto.”
Flaco remained motionless for a moment. Then, with a slow grin, he withdrew the knife. “Nuestro secreto. Sí.”
Secrets, Smithback reflected, rubbing his throat as the door whispered shut, were something Flaco appreciated.
36
COLDMOON FOUND THE tiny one-room bar at the very edge of town where Zapatero was said to hang out. He slipped in, hoping to be able to order a beer and take his time getting a measure of the man, but that was a hopeless idea. As soon as he parted the beaded curtain that served as the doorway into the cinder-block barroom, the place went silent and every eye turned on him.
Well, thought Coldmoon, the direct way is sometimes the best way. “Señor Zapatero?”
A long silence and then a man said, “I am Zapatero.”
“I would like to have a conversation with you,” Coldmoon replied in Spanish. “In private, outside.”
“What’s this all about?”
“Outside.”
“Señor, I am not used to being ordered around like a peasant.”
If it was going to go that way, it would go that way. Coldmoon approached Zapatero rapidly, before he could even rise from his chair. He towered over him, six feet, four inches, and he used his vantage point to first make sure Zapatero wasn’t armed. The man had no firearm, at least none that was accessible, but a small machete was tucked into his leather belt. The man’s hand went toward the handle.
“Not a smart idea,” said Coldmoon.
The man’s hand paused. “Why do you come here like a cabrón, speaking so disrespectfully to me? I do not know you.”
Coldmoon realized now that his approach had been wrong and that Zapatero was more afraid of losing face in front of this crowd than he was of a confrontation.
“There is no need, señor, for concern,” said Coldmoon, suddenly polite, trying to pitch his voice into a calmer register. Christ, he still had a lot to learn about dealing with people in Central America. “I have business to discuss with you, that’s all, which may be to your benefit—but it’s of a private nature. Forgive me if I’ve given offense. My name is Lunafría.” He held out his hand.
Zapatero relaxed and took it, breaking into a smile. “Why didn’t you say so before? Let us go outside to discuss. Gentlemen, I will leave you for a moment.”
They went outside.
“Señor Lunafría? I think you are not from around here, judging by your accent and behavior.”
“I am from the south. Far to the south.” He hoped that Zapatero would accept that, given that the Spanish accents spoken in South America were highly diverse. He knew his Spanish wasn’t perfect, but it was fluent enough that he might pass for someone from another Spanish-speaking country and not, he hoped, identify him as North American.