retirement condo, that he never got to use, but of course he didn’t dare go there. But the other connections might be able to help. A mid-level drug runner named Hector was his best bet. But like everything in the mob: trusting another mobster was a crapshoot.
Sherry was happy to get off the road, and maybe Paul flattered himself, but she seemed happy to be with him too. There were times it had even felt like the old days when they were married. And at those times it had felt good, really good.
But Hector had to be the priority now. Paul left Sherry in the hotel room they rented with the .38 and instructions to guard the forty-five grand. It was a nice enough hotel but still, forty-five grand in cash was forty-five grand in cash. And they were going to need that money big-time.
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Hector Lopez, a vicious transplant from the Mara Salvatrucha street gang, lived south of Phoenix in the desert not far from the South Mountains. Being so far away from neighbors, Hector’s place made a great location for processing the heroin and marijuana that rolled in from across the border. It also made a great place for killing people.
Paul had to go there in person. To call ahead and announce himself made no sense. Word could get out and Mr. Cardi’s family would be waiting for him. He needed to talk to Hector and Hector only and fast. Hopefully, Hector could get them set up across the border.
Paul drove the van up the winding dirt road to Hector’s place. A steel gate and eight-foot wall barred entrance to the dusty compound, where two skinny but tall palm trees distinguished the property with the tan brick, flat-roofed building on it. Paul saw three or four guys through the gate. They were working on the engine of what looked to be a Range Rover. Paul tooted the horn, shut the ignition and walked up. Crunch time.
A scruffy Mexican-looking guy with several days growth of beard and a sweat-stained cowboy hat ambled to the gate. “Yeah?”
“Hector