Crooked River(55)

ROGER SMITHBACK ROLLED over on the dirty mattress that served as his bed and—with a groan—gingerly held one hand up to the side of his face. Even now, two days later, the pain hadn’t abated much. His eye was puffy and half-closed, his ear swollen, and his temple almost too tender to touch. He could only guess what a wreck he must look—there was no mirror in the grimy little storage room that made up his cell.

Two days—he’d been here two whole days. He knew this only because of a tiny barred window high up in the wall that permitted sunlight to enter. When he’d first come to after that awful sucker punch, it had still been dark. Then hours later, the sun rose, then after an interminable wait it had gone and he faced a second endless night. It had risen again, and set—for the second time.

Two days. His only food had been bags of plantain chips, his only drink cans of tamarind soda from a pallet stored in one corner. The chips had been served to him daily, each time accompanied by a shouted warning, and a door cracked open just wide enough to toss a few bags in at the point of a shotgun. His toilet was an old galvanized pail. It had yet to be emptied.

It had taken him a long time to clear his head of the effects of the blow. Once he had, he felt overwhelmed with terror: What was going to happen to him? Was that blow to the side of the head a mere taste of things to come?

Was anyone looking for him? Since the death of his brother, Smithback had no family to speak of, and no girlfriend. He traveled so often and unpredictably, with no notice to his friends, that they wouldn’t be alarmed at his disappearance. Which left Kraski as the only one who would note his absence—and he’d probably just assume his reporter was slacking off.

At least it seemed they weren’t going to kill him…not right away. And he wondered: what did they want with him?

With this realization, his thoughts—as much as the blinding headache allowed—turned to the events that had led up to this. He’d been set up by that old bastard landscaper. Maybe Smithback should have seen it coming. As usual, he’d been too eager for the story.

He now had a story, all right, if he could only get out of there alive.

Given his limited Spanish, he’d been able to comprehend only a portion of the loud talk that went on beyond the locked door. As far as he could tell, he was being held prisoner in some unused back room of the tienda guatemalteca they’d passed just before turning into the alley. There were two male voices only, it seemed. Sometimes the two laughed coarsely, telling crude jokes and bragging about their exploits. They had speculated about some big reward being offered by someone for something. There was much talk of drugs, shootings, and smuggling. Once or twice, he thought they’d mentioned him, and the dismissive way they’d done so was chilling. Mainly, though, it seemed they were waiting for their boss to come back. Somebody they called “El Engreído.”

Engreído. He’d puzzled over that one. Figuratively, Smithback thought it meant “stuck-up.” Literally, he knew, it meant “Bighead” and must be a nickname. He wondered what was going to happen to him when this Bighead dude came back.

As if on cue, a commotion sounded in the passage outside his makeshift cell. He heard the two familiar voices, yammering excitedly. And then a third voice joined in: slower, deeper, full of authority.

Instinctively, Smithback slid backward on the mattress until he was pressed against the wall farthest from the door. Shit.

He didn’t have long to wait. There was a brief fumbling at the lock, and then the door opened. No shotgun barrel peeping in this time; no need for that. The doorway was filled by the giant figure of the tattooed man who’d coldcocked him.

Seeing Smithback, the man grinned and stepped through the door.

“Flaco, cierra la maldita puerta,” he said over his shoulder. The door closed behind him and then, a moment later, a wire-basket light in the ceiling came on for the first time since Smithback awoke. In the light, the man looked even bigger than he had in the alleyway. His head was shaved, and a thick rope of fat—it looked more like muscle, if that was even possible—formed a bulging ring around the back of his neck. The wifebeater he wore strained to cover his massive chest, and both arms were sleeve-tattooed from shoulder to wrist. In one spot, Smithback noticed with a spike of fear, were the P and N that had become all too familiar to him.

The wooden pallet of tamarind soda sat in one corner. Bighead pulled it toward Smithback’s mattress. Though it had to contain a dozen cases of soda, the giant man slid it over as easily as if it had been a shoe box. He settled himself atop the pallet and looked at Smithback.

“Got a little boo-boo, chiquito?” he asked in surprisingly unaccented English.

Smithback realized that, unconsciously, he was still covering his injured temple, and he immediately lowered his hand.

“So you’re the one who’s been waving photos all over the barrio, asking questions about how we’re inked.”

“I’m a—” Smithback began, but Bighead raised his voice and spoke over him.

“I know who you are. You are Roger Smithback. Smith-back. A reporter.”

For a moment, curiosity mingled with fear: how did this brute know that? Of course—they’d taken his wallet, looked at his driver’s license. A Google search would have done the rest.

“But you’re a long way from home, Smith-back. What are you doing so far from Miami? And why are you asking about the Panteras?”