about his clients?"
Emilio nodded.
That jibed with what he'd heard about Fred.
He pulled a
switchblade from the side pocket of his coat and pressed the button on the
handle. The gleaming narrow blade snicked out and flashed in
the glow of the passing street lamps.
"Wh-what's
that all about?" Fred said, his voice half an octave higher now.
"I've
caught some dirt under one of my fingernails."
"B-better
keep that out of sight. They're illegal here."
"So I've
heard." Emilio used the point to scrape under a nail. "Listen, Fred.
We're going to be stopping at a place called The Dog Collar."
"Oh, boy.
On West Street. I know the joint."
"Some of your famous clients have been there?"
He nodded.
"Yeah. And you wouldn't believe me if I told you who--which I'm not."
"I admire
your discretion, Fred. Which brings me to the heart of our little talk. You
will receive a generous tip tonight, Fred. An extravagant tip. It is meant to
not only seal your lips tighter than usual, but to erase from your memory
everything that occurs from this moment until you drop me off at
LaGuardia."
"You're
not going to mess up my passenger area, are you?"
"I'm not
planning to. But on the subject of 'messing up,' I feel obliged to give you a
warning: In my homeland we have a way of dealing with someone who has seen too
much and talks about it. We cure him of his affliction by removing his tongue and eyes. Unless we're feeling particularly
merciful, in which case we leave the eyes and take only the eyelids. And the
tongue, of course. The tongue always goes. Do you understand what I am saying,
Fred?"
Emilio hoped
the driver would not take this as an empty threat. He knew of no such tradition
in Mexico, but that didn't matter. He meant every word, and would personally do
the cutting. And enjoy it.
Fred gulped.
"Yeah. Loud and clear. No problem."
"Excellent.
Then you can look forward to being hired whenever Senator Crenshaw comes to
town."
Fred's
expression did not exactly reflect unbridled joy at the prospect. He said,
"You want to hit The Dog Collar now?"
Emilio folded
the stiletto blade and put it away. "Yes. Immediately."
As they drove
on in silence, Emilio hoped the senador had some plan for Charlie, some
solution for the threat he posed. For he was indeed a threat. In order to be
President, the senador first had to be nominated by his party. And in
order to secure that nomination, he had to run in primary elections in various
states. Emilio had studied all this in his civics lessons for his citizenship
test, and he'd heard the senador discuss it numerous times, but none of
it made much sense. However, one thing that did make sense was that many of
those primary states were in regions of the country where the right kind of
rumor could tilt a close race the wrong way. And if the primaries were going to
be as hotly contested as the experts were predicting, having a maricon son
might be the kiss of political death.
But there
seemed to be more to it than that. The senador seemed obsessed with
finding Charlie and keeping him under wraps. Emilio didn't understand.
What he did understand
was that whatever kept the senador from the White House also kept Emilio
from the White House.
The White
House. It had become Emilio's dream.
Not to become
President. That was to laugh. But for Emilio
Sanchez to accompany the senador to the world's center of power, that
was the ultimate spit in the eye to the many throughout his life who had said
he'd go nowhere, be nothing unless he changed his ways.
But I never changed, Emilio thought. And look at me now. I
am the most trusted aide of United States Senator Arthur Crenshaw. I am riding
in a stretch limo through New York City. I have my pick of the women in the
Senate Building in Washington. I own my own Coupe de Ville. And I'm still
moving up. Up!
Even now he
loved to drive his shiny Cadillac back to his native Tijuana and park in front
of the old haunts. Pay some street tonto to guard the car while he