Dirty Angels - Halle Karina (читать книги полностью без сокращений txt) 📗

“All right,” I said carefully. “I’ll be with you in a minute. Will you be having food?”

The man nodded and then went back to the table. I quickly waved Camila over while their backs were turned to me.

“Who are they?” I whispered, pulling her close.

“I don’t know. They just sat down and said they wanted you to serve them. I said they’d have to ask you.”

“He’s weird. He’s wearing shades inside. And it’s nighttime.”

“The other guy is too,” she said. “In fact, the other guy looks familiar and not in a good way.”

The skin at the back of my neck prickled. “Familiar like he comes in here sometimes?”

Camila looked me dead in the eyes. “Familiar like I’ve seen his face on the news. But with the glasses, it’s hard to tell.”

I straightened up and looked back at them. The man who had spoken to me was watching me with an impassive look on his face, his hands folded in front of him like he’d been waiting awhile. The other man, the one that Camila said looked familiar, was sitting there rigidly, but I still couldn’t see his face.

I grabbed the menus and Camila squeezed my hand for good luck. I walked carefully over to them, reminding myself that these men probably just wanted a hot waitress to attend to them, that they didn’t have to want anything else, and that I would be tipped for my efforts.

I stopped in front of the table and smiled. “Hello, my name is Luisa. I’ll be your server tonight.”

The other man looked up at me and my breath caught in my throat. Camila was right. He did look familiar. Though his wide aviator sunglasses covered up his eyes, there was no mistaking the overly thick mustache peppered with grey or the mullet-like swoop of hair on his head. His face was scarred in places, with both scratches and pockmarks, and had that slightly bloated look that middle-aged men got. Though his clothes were simple—faded blue jeans and a western shirt over his beer paunch—they didn’t hide the immense power and notoriety this man had.

He was none other than Salvador Reyes, one of the most feared and well-documented cartel leaders in the country. And he was sitting in my bar, asking me to serve him.

I kept the smile plastered on my face while invisible fingers trailed ice down my back. This could not be a good thing. This wasn’t even his area; he controlled most of Sinaloa. Aside from Tijuana, most of the Baja Peninsula was relatively untouched by the cartels and the impending drug violence.

Untouched until now.

I was vaguely aware that both men were staring at me through their sunglasses, their faces grave and unmoving. I quickly placed the menus down on the table like they were hot to touch and launched into my specials. “Nachos are half price as are the buckets of Tecate,” I said, nervously tripping over the words.

The man I thought was Salvador picked up the menu and glanced at it briefly. The other man didn’t even look.

Finally Salvador smiled. It was nothing if not creepy. “Top shelf tequila, two shots. And the nachos. Please, Luisa.”

I nodded and quickly trotted back to the kitchen to place my order with Dylan. I felt something at my back and whirled around to see Camila staring at me expectantly.

“Well? Do you know what I mean?”

I nodded, trying to stay calm. “He does look familiar. But I don’t know how. They seem harmless.”

The funny thing was that I felt like if I told Camila it was Salvador, the infamous drug lord, things would take a turn for the worse. Right now he was in the bar, with his friend, probably his right hand man—the one who lives with the jackal—and no one seemed to notice him or care. This was good. This man had the power to murder everyone in here if he wanted to and completely get away with it. To him and to many others, he had a right to rape me in the back room and I could never press charges, or he could rape me in front of everyone, and no one—not even Camila—would ever dare say anything. This man was above the law, as so many men in Mexico were, and the less attention that was brought to that fact, the better.

For my sake and the sake of everyone around me, I had to pretend that I didn’t know who this man was.

I went over to the bar and poured a special edition of Patron that we only had for high rollers, my hands shaking so badly that the tequila spilled over the edges and I had to mop it up with a washcloth, then took the shots over to the table. I thanked Jesus that I had worn my ballet flats to work today instead of the ridiculous heels that Bruno often made us wear.

The men were conversing with each other, voices low, and I stood back for a few moments to let them finish before I placed the shots in front of them.

“Here is a special edition of Patron.” For the patron, I finished in my head.

“You didn’t get one for yourself,” Salvador said, smiling again. He did have very white teeth, probably all fake. Even though I had seen his picture on the news and in the paper on occasion, I’d always imagined his teeth would be gold.

“I can’t drink at work,” I told him, forcing confidence into my voice and trying out that smile again.

“That is nonsense. What do you think this is, America? Of course you can drink at work,” he said. “I don’t see your boss anywhere and I promise I won’t tell.” There was a teasing quality to his voice, the kind that people used when they were flirting, but the concept of Salvador flirting was a hard thing to swallow. I was reminded about how wrong this situation was.

“I’ll go have a shot for you after work,” I said.

“And when is that?” he asked. He still hadn’t had the drink yet. “When do you get off work?”

Damn it.

“When the bar closes, at three a.m.” I tried to sound nonchalant, adding an extra hour.

“Then we shall wait here until you are done with your shift. And we will have the shot then. Isn’t that right, friend?” he said, looking across the table. The pale man nodded but didn’t say anything.

“I don’t think that sounds like a lot of fun,” I said, the words coming out of my mouth before I could stop them. Salvador stared at me, his thick greying brows knitted together but I still continued. “I mean, there are better bars here in Cabo. This one is pretty boring—I should know, I work here.” I attempted a smile again. I felt like I was slipping. “Are you two just here on business or…?”

Salvador stared at me for a few long moments—moments that had me cursing in my head—before running his stubby fingers over his mustache, his gold rings glinting. “We are not here on business. We are here to relax. Have a little fun. Enjoy the beach.” He picked up the glass of Patron. “And we’re here to get drunk. And I don’t think you have any right to tell us where we can do that. If we want to get drunk here, if we want to wait until three in the morning for you to get off your shift, we can do that. And we will do that.”

At that, both he and the other man slammed back their shots.

I gulped and squeaked out a “sorry” and then turned to leave.

“Oh, Luisa,” Salvador called, stopping me in mid-step. “Do come back here. We aren’t finished with you.”

I closed my eyes, trying to find my inner strength, willing myself to stay calm, before I went back to him.

“Yes?” I asked.

“I have a few questions for you. If you answer them truthfully, I will not wait for you until you are done with your shift. I will leave now and leave you a lovely tip for your cooperation. If you lie to me, I will not tip you. I will instead wait for you. And then hopefully you will learn to be honest with me—at three in the morning. You understand?”

“Yes,” I said, barely audible. My knees started to shake.

“Good,” he said. He rubbed again at his mustache, seemingly in thought, then asked, “Where do you live?”

“In San Jose del Cabo.”

Please, please, please don’t ask for my address, I thought.