He shepherded them towards the Dodge. As they reached the kerb, one of them — blond, plenty of hair, good looks and a quarterback’s physique — reached out and pressed his hand into Plato’s. He felt something sharp pricking his palm. It was the edge of a banknote. He turned back to the boy and grasped it between thumb and forefinger.

“What is this?” Plato asked, holding up the note.

“It’s whatever you want it to be, man.”

“A bribe?”

“If you want.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re trying to buy me off?”

“It’s a Benjamin, look! Come on, man! — there’s no need for all of this, right? A hundred bucks makes it all go away. I know how things work round here, I been here before, lots of times, I know the way the land lies.”

“No,” Plato said grimly. “You don’t. You just made things worse. Turn around, both of you.”

Garcia gave out a deep rumble of laughter. “They don’t know who they’re talking to, right, Jesus? You dumb fucks — I know this man, I worked with him, I doubt he’s ever taken so much as a peso his whole life.”

“Come on, man, I know we fucked up, what do we have to do to make it right? Two notes? Come on, two hundred bucks.”

“Turn around,” Plato said, laying his hand on the butt of the Glock.

“Come on, man — let’s say three hundred and forget all about this.”

“Turn around now.”

The boy saw Plato wasn’t going to budge and his vapid stoner’s grin curdled into something more malevolent. He craned his neck around as Plato firmly pressed him against the bonnet of the car. “What’s the point of that? If you won’t take my money I know damn straight one of your buddies will. You Federales are so bent you can’t even piss straight, everyone knows it. You’re turning down three hundred bucks bonus for what, your fucking principles? We all know it won’t make a fucking bit of difference, not when it comes down to it, we’ll be out of here and on our way back to civilisation before you’ve finished your shift and gone back to whatever shithole you crawled out of.”

“Keep talking, son.” Plato fastened the jaws of his cuffs around the boy’s right wrist and then, yanking the arm harder than he had to, snapped the other cuff around the left wrist, too. The boy yelped in sudden pain; Plato didn’t care about that. He opened the rear door, bounced the boy’s head against the edge of the roof and pushed him inside. He cuffed the second boy and did the same.

“Later, Garcia,” he said to the big man as shut the door.

“Keep your head down, Jesus.”

“You too.”

8

The Leach Hotel in Douglas, Arizona, was a handsome relic from a different era. It had served an important purpose in the frontier years, the best place to stay in the last town before the lawlessness and violence of the borderlands. The hotel, built at the turn of the century, bore the name of the local dignitary for whom it was a labour of love. Mr. Robert E Leach was a southern nationalist, a supporter of slavery and, in later years, the US Ambassador to Mexico. It was Leach, who, in 1853, had overseen the purchase of all land, including southern Arizona, south of the Gila River, for the United States from the Mexicans. His hotel, a last beacon of respectability among the gun stores and bike repair shops of hard scrabble Cochise County, was the only monument to him now. It was still a fine building; it had seen better times, perhaps, but the Italian marble columns in the lobby and the marble staircase that curled up to the first floor were still impressing newcomers as they made their way to the reception desk to check in. The place was a relic of the Wild West, of Wyatt Earp and Geronimo, and the sounds of that time still echoed around the wood panelled walls.

Beau Baxter knew everything there was to know about the Leach. He had a fondness for history and the faded glamour of the hotel, the sense of a place caught out of time, appealed to him. This area of Cochise County had been frequented by desperados, including celebrities like Clay Hardin, who had killed forty men by the time he was forty years old, and Billy the Kid, who had laid twenty-one men in their graves by the time he was twenty-one. Local outlaws who had stayed in the hotel included Clay Allison, Luke Short, Johnny Ringo and Curley Bill Brocious. Beau had read up on all of them. And the great Pancho Villa was reputed to have ridden his horse right up the marble staircase.

He often met his clients here — those who didn’t require him to travel to Houston or Dallas, anyway — and he had been pleased that the man who had asked to see him today had been conducting business on the border and had not been averse to coming to him.

Beau was in his early sixties, although he looked younger. His face was tanned and bore the traces of many dust-storms and rancorous bar-room brawls. He was wearing a light blue suit, nicely fitted, expensive looking. He wore a light blue shirt, a couple of buttons open at the throat, and snakeskin boots. He was sitting at a table in the lobby, his cream Stetson set on the table in front of him. The light was low, tinted green and blue by the stained glass skylights that ran the length of the lobby.

A man was at the door, squinting into the hotel. He recognised his client: he was a man of medium height, heavy build, olive brown skin and quick, suspicious eyes. His hair was arranged in a low quiff, a dye-job with delicate splashes of silver on each side that made Beau think of a badger. He often dressed in bright shirts that Beau found a little distasteful. He did not know the man’s full name — it wasn’t particularly important — and he referred to himself just as Carlo. He was Italian, of a certain vintage, and belonged to a certain family of a certain criminal organisation. New Jersey. It was the kind of organisation about which one did not ask too many questions, and that suited Beau fine, too; they always paid their debts on time and their money was just as good as anyone else’s, as far as he was concerned.

He stood and held out his hand. “Carlo.”

“Baxter. This is a nice place. Impressive. Is it authentic?”

“Been here nigh on a hundred years. I know they make a big play of it but the history here’s the real deal.”

“Can’t believe, all this time we been working together, you’ve never once brought me here.”

Beau shrugged. “Well, you know — never had the opportunity, I guess.”

They sat on a sofa in the corner of the lobby and the man took out a brown envelope and set it on the table. “That’s yours,” he said. “Good job.”

Beau took the envelope and opened it a little. He ran his finger against the thick bundle of notes inside. “Thank you.” He folded the envelope and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “I hope you got what you wanted from our friend.”

“We did. How did you find him?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I’m curious.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. That’s why you pay me.”

“A trade secret, Baxter?”

“Something like that.” Beau smiled at him. “Alright, then. You said you had something else?”

“Yes. But it’s not easy.”

“Ain’t never easy, else anyone could do it. Who is it?”

Carlo took out his phone and scrolled through his pictures to the one that he wanted. He gave the phone to Beau. “You know him?”

He whistled through his teeth. “You ain’t kidding this ain’t going to be easy.”

“You know him?”

“Unless I’m much mistaken, that’s Adolfo González. Correct?”

“Correct. Know him by sight?”

“I believe so.”

“Have you come across him before?”

“Now and again. Not directly.”

“But you know his reputation?”

“I do.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not for me, maybe for you. A man like that’s going to be mighty expensive.”

“Go on.”

Beau sucked air through his teeth as he thought. “Well, then, there’s how difficult it’ll be to get to him, and with the connections he has, I got to set a price that takes into account how dangerous it’ll be for me both now and in the future if they ever find out it was me who went after him. That being said — I’d say we’re looking at an even fifty, all in. Half now, half later.”