The Highway Kind(90)
Benigno took a drag. “I did you a service back then,” he said.
Instantly suspicious, Surfo crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.
“And what was that?” he demanded.
Benigno made a show of discomfort. He glanced at the sicarios and smiled shyly.
“It was...delicate,” he said.
“What. The fuck. Are you talking about?”
Surfo’s meaty palm smacked the table.
“The girl,” Benigno whispered. “The—you know—whore.”
Surfo snapped his fingers. Two thugs swarmed the bench and held Benigno’s shoulders so he couldn’t move.
“Which whore, old man?”
“The one. The hurt one. I took her and buried her for you.”
El Surfo stared at him. His brows knotted over his freakish pale blue eyes.
Benigno whispered, “I smothered her and carried her out. Buried her up in Colonia Obrera.”
“How.”
“They let me go when I volunteered to do it. For you. I was set free. It was a good trade.”
A strange kind of sigh came through the room. Surfo nodded once, and his gunmen let go of Benigno.
“I just wanted you to know that’s what happened. It was taken care of.”
Surfo drank some beer and belched and grinned.
“You came to tell me that?”
Benigno nodded. Took his plastic pill bottle out and set it on the table.
“And for this.”
“?Qué es?”
“Codeine. From California. Medical missionaries. They want to sell.”
Surfo rattled the pills in the bottle.
“I sell to them, they don’t sell to me.”
“Not codeine, jefe. Not the best codeine in the world. I thought a genius like you—millions.”
Surfo grinned with one side of his mouth.
“Genius,” he repeated. “Handsome too.”
His men laughed.
Benigno kept his eyes down.
“It won’t take you long,” he said, “to own these pinches gringos. Do what you want with them. Make them your slaves.”
“Pinches gringos.”
Benigno nodded.
“How many pills?” Surfo said.
“How many do you want?”
The sicarios and the jefe laughed.
“Have some tacos,” the big man said.
Benigno took a pill and held the bottle out to Surfo.
“Sample,” he said.
Surfo stared at him.
“You first.”
“Ah! Of course. Very wise, jefe.”
Benigno bounced two capsules in his palm and downed them. Held out his tongue. After five minutes, Surfo swallowed a couple of pills and washed them down with beer.
He couldn’t know that drugs had absolutely no effect on Benigno.
Benigno ordered two tequilas.
He had never been drunk a day in his life, no matter how much he drank.
“You like the van,” Surfo said.
It was after midnight. Some of the sicarios were asleep; most were drunk. Two of them danced in slow motion with hookers. All was smoke and red lights.
“I love the van,” said Benigno. They were five tequilas down and had drunk an equal number of beers. “I always saw it through the front gate of the prison.”
“Stop saying that. Damn.”
“What, prison?”
“Hey.”
“Sorry, jefe.”
“And now you want a ride in it.”
“Is that too much to ask?”
Benigno popped another codeine and slid the bottle to Surfo.
“Keep it, jefe,” he said.
Surfo took another.
“You’re all right, old man,” he said.
They stood up. Benigno was glad to see that Surfo was unsteady already. He snapped his fingers at the bartender. “Una botella más,” he called. He dropped dollars on the bar. “Drinks for the boys.”
One of the ridiculously pointy-booted gunmen said, “Boss. You all right?”
“I do what I want.”
His men looked at each other. Surfo was a notoriously difficult guy to control. The gods seemed to be smiling on Benigno.
“You all right to drive, jefe?”
“Around the block, pendejos! How hard is that.”
“Drink,” Benigno said. He had his arm around this murdering asshole’s shoulders. Partially bracing him with his body. He had to get him out of there, get him in the van, get him to start it and drive away to his dark place.
“I know where there are some fresh muchachas,” he whispered.
Surfo hugged him and slurred, “?Pinche viejo jodido!”
He laughed all the way to the van.
Benigno snagged his hose and tossed it on the roof. Surfo didn’t even notice. They climbed in.
Although Benigno didn’t drive, he appreciated a good vehicle. El Surfo had the interior tricked out with plush leather seats. The bed was in the back. Everything was deep maroon in there. Frankly, it looked like a whorehouse. It smelled like incense and marijuana. He gazed all around. Roomy. He liked it. It would fit right in that slot above the waves. My bedroom, he thought.
He watched El Surfo start it. Fancy. There wasn’t even a key. The redheaded bastard pressed the brake to the floor and pushed a button, and the creamy roar of that Porsche engine filled the van.