Gone (Michael Bennett 6)

He squeezed her bare shoulder.

“Enough being with your old father. Go with your friends now,” he said. “Enjoy yourself. You are a young woman now. This is your day.”

Salinas watched his daughter walk away, then headed toward his ranch manager, standing at the edge of the dance floor. His name was Tomás, and, like all the staff on the ranch, he was a local Tarahumara Indian. Tomás and the entire staff, from the security to the waiters to the members of the three mariachi bands, were wearing bright-white linen uniforms purchased solely for the occasion. No expense had been spared today.

“Please inform my partners that they are to join me in the billiards room, won’t you, Tomás? Tell them to come alone. No security. This is my daughter’s day, and this meeting is to be as quick and discreet as possible.”

Tomás nodded and smiled, his crooked teeth very white in his dark-brown, lean face.

“Just as you say, sir,” Tomás said. It was what his loyal employee always said. “Would you like a drink first?”

“No, please,” Salinas said. “With all this ceremony, I’ve needed to take a piss for about an hour. But have some refreshments brought into the billiards room, if you would.”

“They’re already there, sir,” Tomás said with a nod.

Salinas patted his manager on the back.

“Of course they are, Tomás. How could I have doubted it for a moment?”

Salinas sighed as he went into the air-conditioned house. Glancing to his right, he spotted the reason he had built the house, at an enormous expense, up here in the middle of nowhere.

The view of the Copper Canyon through his immense bay window had to be one of the most spectacular sights in all of Mexico, if not the world. His favorite aspect of the majestic vista was just a little bit off center, the thin, silver sliver of an eight-hundred-foot waterfall spilling down the face of one of the sheer canyon walls. He loved this house, this view. It was like living in an airplane.

He ducked into the hall bathroom outside the billiards room to relieve himself. He smiled and winked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he worked his zipper. What a day!

He was just about to urinate when he heard the distinct click of a billard ball. He zipped back up and went out and poked his head inside the billiards room. Unbelievable. A man in white linen, a staff member fucking off, no doubt, was bent at the table, about to take another shot. On the large-screen TV above the bar, a soccer match was playing with the sound off.

“Hey, you there! Asshole!” Salinas barked.

The man remained bent, surveying the lay of the balls before him. Was he deaf!?

“Are you having fun? Who the fuck do you think you are? Get your ass back to work before I break your legs with that cue.”

Still, slowly and insolently, the man took his shot. The cue ball cracked into the eight, sinking it effortlessly. Then the man turned. Teodoro’s eyes went wide. It took everything he had to keep his full bladder under control.

Because it wasn’t a staff member.

It was Manuel Perrine.

“Oh, but, Teodoro. I am at work,” Perrine said, chalking his cue. “Isn’t that right, Tomás?”

Salinas felt something hard tap at the base of his head. It was the bore of a shotgun, pressed against his brain stem. Salinas suddenly felt like he was tumbling inside, a sudden free fall through the core of himself.

“Just as you say, sir,” Tomás said, pushing Salinas into the room and locking the door.

CHAPTER 7

THE MARIACHI BANDS WERE resting and a DJ was playing some American dance music when the loud thump came from the stage. The music stopped immediately as a microphone squawk echoed throughout the tent.

As the crowd in attendance looked up from their plates, they could see that the entire staff of white-linen-clad Indians was now holding automatic rifles. The Tarahumaras went amid the crowd, knocking over tables, slapping people, sticking guns in faces.

The security men of the multiple drug dealers in attendance were quickly disarmed and handcuffed. Tables were moved aside, and all the chairs were lined up, like at an assembly. The gunmen sat the people back down roughly, threatening to kill on the spot anyone and everyone dumb enough to make the slightest move.

A moment later, Manuel Perrine walked out onto the stage, holding a microphone.

“Hello, friends,” Perrine said in his most elegant Spanish, smiling hugely. “To those of you who know me, I can hardly articulate how pleasant it is to see you again. To those of you who are unfamiliar to me, let me say what a truly wonderful time this is for us to get acquainted.”

He put his hand to his ear as he stared out at the pale, scared faces.