“Sounds awful.”

He stripped the good humour from his voice. “You need to pay attention, Mr. Smith. This man, Santa Muerte, even in a place as fucked up as this, he’s the worst of the worse. Top of the food chain. What you’d call the apex predator. And you have his attention now. Undivided. All of it. I know what you did in the restaurant. I know what you did here, too, sending him away. And now he’s not going to stop. Men like him, they survive because of their reputations. People start to think he’s lost his edge, maybe they start getting brave, maybe someone who bears a grudge decides now’s the time to get their revenge and stamp his ticket for him. Reputation, man. He has to kill you now. And there’s nothing you can do to stop him short of putting a bullet in his head.”

“What does this have to do with you?”

“I can help you. My line of work: I find people, I settle accounts, I solve problems. And my employers — this group of Italians, not men you’d want to cross — these men, well, see, they have good reason to speak to him. They had a business arrangement with the organisation he works for. Didn’t go to plan. He sent them a video, one of theirs hung upside down from a tree while he sawed off his head with a machete. They’re paying me to bring him back to the States. They’d prefer him alive, but that don’t really matter, not really, they’ll take him dead if that’s the only way I can get him to them. And I will get him eventually. The only question is whether it’s after he’s killed you and your friend in there or before. I don’t have any reason to protect you but I will, if you help me out.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Beau stood up and straightened out the fall of his trousers. “I don’t know why, but he wants the girl. He’ll drop out of sight now. You won’t be able to find him. He’ll bide his time, and then he’ll come after her. And that’s when you’ll need me.” He took a pen from his pocket and, tearing off a square of the brown paper sheaf that was wrapped around the flowers, he wrote down a number. He handed it to the man. “This is me. When you’re ready to start thinking about how to get her out of the almighty motherfucking mess she’s got herself into, you give me a call, alright?”

“What’s his name?”

“His real name? I’ve heard lots of possibilities but I don’t know for sure.”

“You’re sure I can’t find him?”

“Have you been listening to me? You don’t find him, man. He finds you.”

26

They discharged Caterina a little before midday. The doctor said that she would be fine; there were no vascular injuries, no bones had been clipped, it was all just flesh. They had performed a quick fasciotomy while she was out cold and had cleared away the fabric from her shirt that had been sucked into the wound, removed the dead tissue. The doctor checked the sutures were holding, gave her a tetanus shot, told her to take it easy, and sent her on her way. Milton led her to the elevator, shielding her as they stepped out into the lobby downstairs.

Lieutenant Plato was waiting for them.

“How are you feeling?” he asked her.

“Better now. Thank you.”

“Do you know where you’re going?”

“A hotel.”

“I was going to ask you,” Milton said to him. “What would be a good hotel?”

Plato chuckled. “You know all the hotels get booked?”

“By who?”

“The narcos own them,” Caterina answered. “They book the room but no-one ever stays. Perfect way to launder all their money.”

“There is a place,” Plato said. “La Playa Consulado, up by the border. You should be able to get in there.”

“Thanks.”

“And then?”

“New Mexico. Señor Smith says he’s going to help me. Doesn’t seem I have much choice in the matter.”

“Alright, then. You keep your head down. If I need to speak to you about what happened — the investigation, and what have you — I’ll be in touch.” He reached out a hand and she took it. “Good luck, Caterina.”

Milton led Caterina out of the hospital. The midday heat was like a furnace. It was so fierce that it had just about cleared the streets, forcing everyone inside. A siesta sounded pretty good right around now, he thought. Those people who were out looked punch drunk and listless. He led the way down to the cabstand, opened the door of the cab parked there and ushered her inside.

The car was air-conditioned.

“You know the La Playa Consulado?” he said.

The driver looked at him in the mirror. “Near the US Consulate?”

“That’s the one.”

“Si — I know it.”

They drove out, Milton checking that they were not being followed. If the narcos were good there would be no way of knowing, but they would have to be very good, and Milton didn’t see anything suspicious.

“What about you?” Caterina asked him suddenly.

“What about me?”

“I told you about me. What about you? You married?”

“I was, once. She left me.”

“Oh — I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Family?”

“My parents died when I was little. No brothers or sisters.”

“Girlfriend?”

“I’m never in the same place long enough to get attached.”

“You must have someone?”

“Not really,” he said with a wry smile. “This is it.”

“I’m sorry about that,” she said.

“For what?”

“That you’re alone.”

“Don’t be. I choose to be that way.”

“You’re not lonely?”

“No. It’s the way I like it. To be honest, I’m not the best company. I doubt anyone would put up with me for all that long, not unless they had to.”

“And you move around a lot?”

“All the time.”

“Why Mexico?”

“Why not? I’ve been heading north the best part of six months. Mexico was just the next place on the way.”

“And Juárez? How long have you been here?”

“I got in on Monday.”

She stared out of the window. “Good timing.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m glad I was there. It could’ve been a lot worse.”

“But why here? Most people would go a hundred miles in either direction.”

“Then I suppose I’m not most people.”

“Why do you move around so much? Are you running from something?”

My history, he thought, but rather than that he said, “Not really. I just needed some time alone. To clear my head.”

“From what?”

“That doesn’t really matter, Caterina.”

She thought about his answer. He saw her tension coming back and she was quiet again.

La Playa Consulado was on Paseo De La Victoria. A two storey motor court set around a large parking lot, an ugly sign outside advertising Restaurant Cebollero and its flautas, tacos and hamburguesas. Milton got out first, his hand resting on the burning roof of the cab as he checked again that they had not been followed. Satisfied, he stepped aside so that Caterina could get out, paid the driver and went into the reception. Net curtains, wood panels, décor from deep into the eighties. A woman was sitting watching a chat show on TV. She got up and went around behind the desk.

“We need two rooms, one next to the other.”

“I can do that. How many nights?”

“I don’t know. Let’s say a week.”

“Weekly rate’s forty-five dollars per night plus two dollars seventy-five tax. Cash or card?”

“Discount for cash?”

She took out a calculator and tapped it out. “No discount, sir. Forty-seven dollars, seventy-five cents per night, times two, times seven. That’s six hundred and sixty-eight dollars and fifty cents.”

Milton took out a roll of notes from his pocket and peeled off seven hundred dollar bills. He gave them to the woman. “If anyone asks, we’re not here. No visitors. No messages, at any time. No-one cleans the rooms.” He peeled off another note and laid it on the desk. “Is that going to be alright?”

“Absolutely fine, sir.”

Milton took the two keys and led the way outside again, following a scrappy path around the parking lot to the row of rooms. He opened the door to the first room, number eleven, and went inside. He waited until Caterina had followed, shut the door again and closed the curtains. He checked the room: a queen-sized bed with a heavy wooden headboard and a garish quilt cover; purple carpets, stained in places; an artexed asbestos ceiling; a print of a vase of flowers on the wall; a bathroom with shower. Light from outside came in through the net curtains. Milton switched on the overhead light.