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  “I don’t like you, asshole,” he said. “I might decide to have words with you.”

  The hombre took a fleeting look down at the Hi-Point in the grass at his feet. The other members of Reyes’s crew glanced nervously at each other and shifted their weight. Herzog remained still.

  “Nicholas,” Reyes said.

  “Yeah, yeah. Where was I? Oh, yeah. I’m here to say you’re done with Randy. You’re done with Salsa Girl. You’re gonna have t’ find a different way to bring your product across the border because you won’t be using the Salsa Girl trucks.”

  “That would be very inconvenient.”

  “Nobody gives a shit, Alejandro. I’m just telling you—this ain’t me, remember. I’m just delivering the message. The message is move on.”

  “Move on? Just like that?” Reyes pounded his chest. “What am I supposed to do now? How am I supposed to meet the demands of my customers?”

  “You could go into a different line of work.”

  “Listen to him,” Reyes told his hombre. To me he said, “You’re not solving my problem.”

  “Solving your problem isn’t our line,” I said.

  “We deal in lead, friend,” Herzog said.

  Both Reyes and I looked up at him. Herzog shrugged imperceptibly.

  “Isn’t that a line from a movie?” Reyes said.

  Steve McQueen to Eli Wallach in The Magnificent Seven, the original film, not the remake, my inner voice said. Damn, Herzy.

  “I don’t care what you do,” I said aloud. “But just so you know, the next phone call Randy’s mommy and daddy make, they won’t be making it to me. It’ll be to Assistant U.S. Attorney James R. Finnegan. The man’s a prick, believe me. I’ve had dealings with him. Worse, he’s a prick with political ambitions. With the Bignells financing his run, you don’t think he’d love to get his name out there by launching a joint task force to take down the illegal Mexicans bringing drugs, bringing crime, into the country? C’mon, you read the news. This is pure gold for a right-wing nut-job politician—prove he’s tough on crime. Finnegan will come after you with the biggest army and the most noise he can possibly muster. Randy’s name—I promise you, it’ll never even be mentioned. And his partner, fuck, she still doesn’t know what’s going on.

  “In the meantime, you’ve also got the Red Dragons to deal with. I heard they’re lookin’ to have a conversation with you, too, because you’ve been cuttin’ into their OxyContin trade. What do you think they’re gonna say when they find you?”

  “I have no issues with the Dragons.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably gonna change if you don’t listen to reason. Look, Alejandro. I’m not threatening you. Maybe you’re afraid of the Feds and the Dragons; maybe you’re not. Maybe you think you can push back at Randy and his family, threaten to hang a drug rap on the kid or somethin’ if they don’t give up, give out, give in. ’Course, sooner or later the partner will be dragged into it, and who knows, she might be opposed to lettin’ you use her business to mule your shit. Hell, she might even be an honest woman. In any case, you gotta admit, if you don’t back off, pretty soon doing business in the Twin Cities—man, it’s gonna become such a bitch. And this after years of having it nice and easy, too. Personally, I’d take the easy way out. But that’s just me. All right? That’s all I have to say, all I was asked to say. You do what you think is best. Now, let’s part friends. You go your way and I’ll go mine, and good luck to you.”

  “What about my product?”

  “Your four keys of heroin. I forgot about that for a sec. Here’s the thing, my instructions are to hang on to it until everyone’s satisfied that you’re playing nice with all the other children. Call it an incentive. ’Course, you might decide to call the bluff and keep trying to use Salsa Girl, in which case your other shipments will be disappearing, too. I have no use for your product, so I’ll probably unload it somewhere. Maybe the Dragons’ll take it off my hands. So there’s that.”

  “Patrón,” the hombre said, “I do not believe him. I do not trust him.” He spoke English because he wanted me to know what he was saying.

  I stood up and stepped near enough to smell his breath.

  “Believe what you like. I don’t care.” I held my closed fist out at my side and opened it as if mimicking a mic drop. “I’m out.”

  “Hijo de mil putas,” the hombre said. “This is not over, yet.”

  McKenzie probably would have smiled and walked away; certainly he would not have shown much anger at being called the son of a thousand whores. Hell, he might even have laughed at the silliness of it all. Dyson, though, was never one to let an insult go unchallenged. I smiled benignly, slowly reached down for the hombre’s Hi-Point, and came up quickly, smashing him in the jaw with the butt.

  “How ’bout now?” I said.

  I hit him again.

  And again.

  “Is it over now?”

  And again.

  “How ’bout now?”

  Reyes jumped to his feet and yelled something in Spanish. Three red dots centered on his chest.

  The men standing in the semicircle reached for their weapons.

  I hit the hombre yet again, knocking him to the ground. I took the business end of the .45 and shoved it into his ruined mouth. He gagged on the barrel. Blood flowed down his cheeks and puddled on the ground. His eyes were wide with fear. He brought his hands up to pull the gun from his mouth. I gripped his throat with my free hand and pressed a knee against his chest. Instead of slowing me down, the stabbing pain in my shoulder just spurred me on.

  “Is it over now?” I said.

  A lot of men were shouting. I heard only one voice clearly.

  “Dyson.” It was Herzog calling my name, Dyson’s name. I looked up at him. “We done here?”

  I released the hombre’s throat, lifted my knee from his chest, and pulled the gun out of his mouth. He rolled onto his side and began coughing and spitting blood.

  What the hell is wrong with you? my inner voice asked.

  I stepped away from the hombre. The other six Mexican bandits were pointing their weapons at me. I turned to Reyes. The dots were still centered on his chest.

  I dropped the Hi-Point at my feet and raised my hands high enough so that everyone could see that they were empty.

  “Can’t we all just get along?” I said.

  Reyes spread his hands wide as if he were wondering the same thing.

  * * *

  The sun had set and the air had turned chilly by the time Herzog and I returned to the SUVs. His men were already there and speaking quietly. They stopped talking when we approached. I paid them and thanked them for their time. They drove off. I gave Herzog his ten thousand. He dropped it into his trunk as if it were something he didn’t want to embrace for too long. I put the sling back on and slipped my arm through it; my shoulder hurt almost as much as when I had first injured it. I took my time climbing into the passenger seat of Herzog’s SUV. He drove us back to Minneapolis.

  “That worked out pretty well considerin’ you nearly got us killed,” Herzog said.

  I sat back against the seat. The gym bag, now $25,000 lighter, was on my lap; the Taurus, Dyson’s IDs, and Randy’s flip-phone were tucked inside it. My eyes were closed. I made a point of breathing through my nose.

  “It wasn’t me,” I said. “It was Dyson.”

  “Crazy fucker, you ask me.”

  “He does have his moments.”

  “You know, there’s somethin’ the whaddaya-call psychologist told me once when I was inside that I’ve been thinkin’ on ever since. He said, We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”

  “Kurt Vonnegut.”

  “Who?”

  “Kurt Vonnegut. He said it first.”

  “Whatever, man. It’s good advice.”

  Herzog was right, only I didn’t say. I didn’t speak another word.

  * * *

  Herzog drove to the surface lot near Chopper’s buil
ding where I had parked my Mustang. I thanked him for his help and told him that dinner was still a thing we would do as soon as his, Chopper’s, and my schedules could be reconciled. He told me about a joint in Fridley called Crooners that he wanted to give a try; said it was supposed to have good music. I told him that would work as I slipped out of his SUV. He said something then that kind of threw me—“I worry about you, McKenzie.”

  If a man like Herzy is concerned about the things you do, maybe it’s time for you to start reassessing your life’s choices, my inner voice said.

  “I’m good,” I said aloud.

  “If you say so.”

  Herzog drove away, leaving me standing alone next to my car, the gym bag gripped in my hand, my arm pressed against my side to help alleviate the ache in my shoulder. The lights of Target Field illuminated the downtown Minneapolis skyline, but mostly the harsh light flowed upward and didn’t reach the lot where I was standing. Still, I was close enough to the baseball stadium that I could hear the crowd cheer for, well, I hoped it was for a member of the Twins organization doing something right for a change and not the Red Sox. I hated the Red Sox, at least for the duration of the home stand. In a few days I’d start hating the Toronto Blue Jays.

  A glance at my watch told me that the Twins were probably playing the fifth, possibly sixth inning by now. I wondered if Salsa Girl and Ian were enjoying themselves.

  You need to talk to her, my inner voice reminded me. The sooner the better.

  Tomorrow, I told myself. I didn’t want to intrude on Erin’s date.

  I opened the Mustang, tossed the gym bag on the passenger seat, climbed in, and drove off.

  I didn’t learn about the Acura that was following me until later.

  * * *

  The call came five minutes after I entered the condominium. I almost didn’t go home, debating with myself whether it would be better to drive to Rickie’s instead, have a drink or two or three while listening to some tunes. The emotional residue of my visit with Alejandro Reyes and his hombre was still clinging to me, though, and I didn’t want it to rub off on anyone else, especially Nina.

  I answered the phone. Jones—or was it Smith?—said, “McKenzie, you’ll want to come down and take a look at this.”

  A few minutes later, I was standing in front of the security desk. Both Smith and Jones were seated behind it, their chairs facing the TV monitors.

  “When did you two start working nights?” I asked.

  “We’re working a double shift so we can get tomorrow off for the ball game,” Smith said. “Come around here and take a look.”

  I circled the desk until I was standing behind their chairs and looking at the TV screens. My first thought—Coyle and his blue Camry had returned.

  Smith hit a button, and the center screen was filled with my Mustang.

  “This is you a few minutes ago,” Smith said. “Now watch.”

  I did, watching myself driving down the street, signaling for a right turn, entering the driveway leading to the opening of the underground parking garage, and disappearing inside.

  So what? my inner voice asked.

  Smith’s hand came up and he pointed at an image of a black Acura following behind my Mustang, slowing as it passed the driveway, speeding up until it reached the intersection, hanging a U-turn, coming back, and parking across the street at a meter with an unobstructed view of the garage doors.

  Oh.

  “It gets better,” Jones said.

  He hit a few more buttons, and I was treated to the sight of my Mustang doing the exact same thing as before, only this time it was in broad daylight.

  “This was you arriving at about—well, exactly four sixteen P.M. today,” Jones said.

  You were coming home after finding the heroin in the Salsa Girl prep room, my inner voice reminded me.

  “Okay,” I said aloud.

  “Now, this is you leaving again ten minutes later.”

  Jones tapped a few more buttons, and I saw myself driving away from the garage, also in daylight, and proceeding to the intersection, where I executed a rolling stop before making a right turn.

  On your way to Chopper’s place.

  “Here,” Smith said. He was pointing at the Acura again as it pulled out of its parking space and began trailing me.

  “Dammit.”

  “Someone is following you,” Jones said.

  “I can see that.”

  “We probably wouldn’t have noticed ourselves except that we’ve been paying close attention ever since you asked us to keep an eye out for the Toyota the other day,” Smith said.

  “I appreciate this,” I said.

  “We ran the footage back ever further, and we discovered that the Acura first arrived at the building at exactly two seventeen P.M. today,” Smith said. “We figure the surveillance didn’t start until then. The Acura parked where he parked and didn’t move an inch until you left at”—he glanced at his timetable—“four twenty-eight.”

  I reviewed my movements in my head: I left for Salsa Girl Salsa at approximately eight that morning, stayed there until about one thirty, came home, received Alice Pfeifer’s phone call a short time later, drove to her apartment, went back to Salsa Girl to remove the heroin at about three thirty, and came back here. That’s when the Acura picked me up. It knew nothing about my movements before I drove to Chopper’s.

  Could he have followed you to West St. Paul? my inner voice asked.

  I didn’t think so. Herzog and I had been pretty careful; we would have known if we were being tailed. Besides, we didn’t take the Mustang. Instead, we left in Herzog’s SUV; it had been parked behind Chopper’s building in an employees-only lot. If the Acura was sitting on the Mustang, the driver wouldn’t have seen us leave. So whoever was following me knew only that I drove to Chopper’s building, went inside, and later returned to the parking lot. ’Course, he would have seen Herzog dropping me off; probably the driver would have been pissed that I had managed to slip away without him knowing. Just as probably he would have taken down Herzy’s license plate number.

  He’s not going to like it when you tell him, my inner voice said.

  “About that,” I said aloud.

  “What?” Smith said.

  “Did you get the Acura’s license plate number?”

  “Of course.”

  “You realize that we’re not supposed to run it, though,” Jones said. “The Department of Public Safety has been clamping down ever since it lost a million-dollar settlement to that woman who sued after she learned that over a hundred guys had accessed her info at one time or another for no better reason than to learn her name and marital status.”

  “She was a babe,” Smith said.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I know a guy who owes me one.”

  “So do we,” Jones said. “We’re just messing with you, McKenzie. Fishing for another big tip.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. The Acura is a rental. It’s assigned to an agency near the airport. We gave them a call, but the rental agency refused to put a driver in the car for us.”

  “Something about privacy rights and court orders,” Smith said. “Silly stuff like that.”

  So now what? my inner voice asked.

  I was pretty sure it wasn’t Alejandro Reyes. He hadn’t even known that I existed until I called him at about six forty-five, and anyway, he knew me as Dyson. And Dyson didn’t live in a high-rise condominium in downtown Minneapolis with his beautiful girlfriend.

  That left Greg Schroeder and his minions, except—Greg wasn’t following me, he was following Salsa Girl.

  Which brings us back to the original question—what now?

  I could confront the Acura’s driver the way I had braced Darren Coyle, only the way the day was going, I didn’t want to press my luck. Besides, my shoulder was killing me.

  “Gentlemen,” I said, “what would you normally do under these circumstances—you see someone spying on one of your t
enants, whom you’ve been sworn to protect?”

  “Actually, we’re paid to protect the building,” Jones said.

  “Whatever.”

  “Why, McKenzie,” Smith said, “we’d call the police.”

  * * *

  While we waited for one of Minneapolis’s finest, I went upstairs, popped the top off three bottles of Summit Ale, and brought them back to the security desk. We sipped the beer while we watched the officer at work.

  He pulled his squad behind the Acura, the squad’s bright lights illuminating the inside of the car. He approached the vehicle cautiously, just as he had been trained. The driver unrolled his window; I noticed that he kept both hands on the steering wheel while he spoke to the officer.

  He’s done this before, my inner voice said.

  The officer asked for the driver’s ID and insurance information. It was given freely. The officer returned to his vehicle and called it in. The driver remained in the Acura and watched the officer through his rearview mirror. Minutes passed. The officer returned to the driver and restored the driver’s possessions. More words were exchanged. The officer returned to his cruiser. The driver started his Acura, signaled, and pulled away from the parking space into the street. We watched him on the TV monitor as he turned left onto Washington Avenue and disappeared into the traffic.

  “He may come back,” I said, “but not in the Acura. Probably he’ll also try to find a perch outside the range of your cameras.”

  “We’ll pass word to the other shifts to watch for him,” Jones said.

  A moment later, the Minneapolis police officer entered the building’s foyer. Smith was quick to take our beers and place them out of sight.

  “Good evening,” Jones said.

  “Good evening,” the officer replied.

  “What’s his story?” Smith asked.

  The officer spoke freely even though I was standing behind the desk; no doubt I looked like an authority figure to him, with my arm folded across my sling.

  “Asshole’s from Chicago,” he said. “His name is Levi Chandler. That mean anything to you?”

  We all shook our heads.

  “I checked and he’s not in the system, so I don’t know. He claimed he was lost and that he was waiting for a friend to call and tell him where to go.”