Certain Dark Things(10)
As soon as La Bola sat, Rodrigo approached him and punched him in the face.
“You moron, didn’t I tell you to keep an eye on the kid?”
“I was, Rodrigo! But this is Mr. Godoy’s son. I can’t just—”
“Lock him in the bedroom if that’s what it takes. What do you think Mr. Godoy will say if his son gets picked up by sanitation?”
“He said he was just going to get himself some tail,” La Bola babbled.
“Wake up, you moron. How long have you been around vamps, huh? Three years?”
La Bola raised a couple of fingers. “Two.”
“You should know better, shithead. Tail ain’t ever just tail. Not for Nick. I shouldn’t have talked your dad into letting you work for me.”
“I’m sorry, Rodrigo.”
“Just watch him, properly.”
“I will,” La Bola muttered as he rubbed his face. “Um … Rodrigo, did your contact know anything about the girl?”
“No,” Rodrigo said, irritated. “But she was in Toluca. I confirmed as much. Which means she’s here. Somewhere.”
“Hey, Rodrigo! I want pizza!”
Nick. He was probably guzzling his second bottle and aching for greasy food.
“Go take care of him,” Rodrigo told La Bola in a low voice.
La Bola dipped his head, hurrying back to the living room.
Rodrigo stretched his arms and smoothed his suit, pausing to check his black enamel cuff links. He glanced at himself in the great floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror that adorned the south wall of the office. Gray, thinning hair, parted in the middle. A web of wrinkles etched on his face. Teeth slowly yellowing. Yes, he was getting old. Maybe too old for these games. Even a vampire’s goon deserves a pension and a peaceful retirement.
He’d go live somewhere sunny. Somewhere where he’d never have to stare another bloodsucker in the face. He’d killed enough of them for Godoy.
Just one more, he thought. Just that blasted girl. How long can she run, anyway?
CHAPTER
4
Domingo woke late. He stretched his arms, propped himself up on his elbows, and reached for the hand-crank lantern. He wound it up and then lit an oil lamp and a candle for good measure.
There was no electricity in the web of narrow underground tunnels that ran downtown, but it was a free space to hang out and he didn’t mind having to maintain a mountain of lanterns on hand. Besides, Domingo did not need electricity, not when he had his comic books. He raised the lantern and looked at his special pile of vampire comic books. He had a big stash of them.
Domingo stared at the colorful panels. Eventually he turned his attention to the wall he had plastered with magazine and book covers. He ran a hand over an image of a vampire woman in a long white dress, a misty forest behind her.
Vampires. Danger. Adventure. He’d met one and she was damn pretty.
Domingo looked at the pile of hybrid personal protective clothing he was putting together for the rag-and-bone man. He should do some work, collect more clothes, take empty bottles to the recycling center. But he did not need to. He had money. He had a whole fortune.
Domingo did not know how to spend all that cash. After careful consideration he decided he needed breakfast. He exited the tunnel and walked into a fast-food joint, where he purchased an egg-and-sausage combo. It didn’t taste the way it looked in the picture, but he wolfed it down and bought a large orange juice at a stand outside. He drank it in a few quick gulps, then went back for a milk shake.
Afterward, he headed to an Internet café. It was one of the large ones, with many rows of booths squeezed next to each other. Each booth had a door with a latch that would open only after you tossed tokens into a slot. Domingo bought a handful of tokens from an attendant at the front counter who was chewing bubble gum, then squeezed himself into an empty booth.
Domingo sat in a ratty fake leather chair that had been patched one too many times. The computer screen was hidden behind a partition, and Domingo had to insert more tokens into a slot before the partition opened. He scooted closer to the computer screen, clumsily thumbing it until a few options showed up. He chose keyboard input, and a compartment beneath the screen slid open. He pulled out the keyboard.
The breathy moans of a woman spilled into Domingo’s narrow space. He frowned. The woman panted and moaned again. The guy in the next cubicle must be watching porn.
Domingo pulled out his frayed headphones, carefully wrapped with insulating tape, and pushed the play button on the music player. Depeche Mode began to sing about a personal Jesus. Domingo didn’t know a whole lot about music, but when he’d first found his player it was filled with ’80s songs and he’d listened to mixtures of Soda Stereo and Duran Duran with fascination. He’d asked Quinto about the bands, because Quinto knew all kinds of weird things. Quinto had taken him to an Internet café much like the one he was in now. They’d downloaded more tracks and Quinto had talked about a new wave, but Domingo told him he’d never seen the ocean.
Domingo did a search for the word “Tlāhuihpochtli.” Stories about gangs, murders, and drugs filled the view screen, images quickly superimposing until they formed a large mosaic. Domingo tugged at the images, running his fingers across the screen.
He scrolled through an article about the history of the Tlahuelpocmimi, pausing to look at the images that accompanied the text. They were black-and-white illustrations that looked very old, but were nothing like the pictures of the European vampires in the graphic novels. No one was wearing a cape, for one.