That did it. Elvis shot Anaya in the leg. Not because the asshole had tried to kill him, but because it definitely wasn’t fair to have one man bleeding out all over the floor. Let the two assholes face each other in equal conditions.
Anaya yelped and stared at Elvis in surprise. The Russian took advantage of the chaos and confusion to jump on top of Anaya and slam him down against a desk. Papers and pencils and splinters went flying through the air as Anaya’s body hit the cheap piece of furniture and he was toppled backward.
The Russian didn’t waste time. He jumped on top of Anaya, punching him in the face two, three times. Anaya responded by roaring and punching back. Both men rolled across the floor, smashing into chairs and boxes.
The Russian reached for a telephone and yanked its cord, wrapping it around the agent’s neck from behind. Anaya’s eyes opened wide, and he tried to elbow the Russian in the ribs, to no avail. The Russian held the cord tight against the man’s throat until he stopped moving. The Russian winced as he released his hold on the cord and let Anaya’s body flop against the floor. He was breathing hard as he looked up at Elvis and pressed a hand against his leg again.
“Thanks. I thought you were DFS,” the Russian said.
“We both know that was bullshit.”
“I don’t like Hawks any more than I like DFS agents.”
“And I don’t like Russians, but you just saved me from a bullet to the head.”
“I guess that makes us even.”
Elvis had assumed if he ever saw this son of a bitch again he’d beat him with a hammer, or the Russian would kick his teeth in. He didn’t think they’d take it easy with each other, but the Russian had his share of cuts and bruises, and Elvis thought that, yeah, it was as even as it would get.
“Where’s the film?” Elvis asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Elvis walked toward the hippie slumped in the corner. The woman with broken teeth had retreated to the opposite side of the room, but she yelled at him. “Leave him alone!”
Elvis knelt next to the man and pressed a hand against his neck. His eyes were closed but he had a pulse. And two bullet holes in his body. Elvis slipped his hands into the man’s jacket pockets. Nothing. He stood up. “You better phone him an ambulance,” he told the woman.
She stared at him, then stretched a shaky hand toward a telephone and began dialing.
Elvis walked to the door.
“Hey! Where are you going?” the Russian asked.
“I’m guessing if the film’s not here, then it’s with his lady friend,” Elvis said, pointing at the hippie with the two bullet holes.
“Pretty big guess.”
“I’ve got to find her.”
“And get your film.”
Maybe he wanted to find her, period. Elvis’s shoes were stained with blood, and his hands were shaky. He was tired and spent. Just damn fucking spent. Every last bit of him gone. He couldn’t do this shit.
“You know where to start looking?” the Russian asked.
“I’ve got a hunch.”
“Wait a minute, I’ll go with you,” the Russian said, limping toward Elvis.
“Why the fuck would I let you go with me?”
“You look like shit. You’re left-handed, no? They fucked your stupid arm. I’ll drive.”
“Someone stuck a knife in your fucking leg.”
The Russian shrugged. “I’ll bandage it in the car.”
“What car?”
“My car. Unless you have a first aid kit in yours.”
“Fine. Fuck it,” Elvis muttered. What did he care if the whole KGB was tagging along. He had a damn bullet in his arm and the Antelope was dead. Maybe Elvis would be dead too, and he supposed going out at the hand of a Russian agent was more interesting than getting killed by those pricks from the DFS or being knifed in Tepito, which was the way he originally thought he’d go.
The Russian’s car was a piece of shit Volkswagen—it needed a paint job and to be washed sometime this century—which he’d left around the corner. It also reeked of pot and cheap booze. The Russian drove a few blocks from Asterisk and parked the car. He took a sip from a silver flask. Then he turned around and pulled a box from the back seat and handed it to Elvis. Inside Elvis found the promised bandages and gauze. He tried winding them around his arm and failed, so the Russian gave him a hand and a sip from the flask. It contained mezcal, of all things. He’d expected vodka.
When Elvis’s bandage was in place, the Russian slapped several layers of gauze on his leg, tied it all up, and took another swig of mezcal. Then he opened the glove compartment and reached for a gun, which was tucked under a map of the city.
“Smith and Wesson,” Elvis said and scoffed. “You own a Smith and Wesson.”
“Model sixty. You got a problem with that?”
“No, no problem,” Elvis said, wanting to break out in laughter. Another one of his teammates was dead, and he was in a beat-up car with a Russian who didn’t even own a Soviet weapon. “You gonna shoot me?”
“If I wanted you dead I’d have killed you back at Asterisk. Don’t get paranoid. I figure it might come in handy since I’m not sure where the fuck you’re taking me. So. Where to?”
Elvis gave him the first set of directions. He wasn’t going to blurt out the address. If the Russian wanted to murder him, he’d have to wait until they arrived at their destination.
28
SHE ALMOST BROKE down when they arrived at Emilio’s house. She had been able to keep herself in one piece until then, but the moment they walked into his living room she took a deep breath and then another, and she started shivering, her eyes brimming with tears.
Emilio didn’t look too thrilled about this. He quickly poured whiskey into a little glass and shoved it in her hands.
“It’ll steady your nerves,” he said.
“We shouldn’t have left. They’re probably dead.”
“We’d be dead if we hadn’t left.”
“But someone should call an ambulance!”
“I’m sure the cops are there. Someone must have heard the gunshots.”
“We shouldn’t have left,” Maite repeated. “We have to get the pictures to the papers, like Rubén wanted.”
“I would if I knew where they are.”
“I have them,” Maite said, and she spilled a little of her drink as she tried to open her handbag. Her hands were trembling. “I’ve had them all this time.”