Chapter 15

            The door to the office opened moments later. A suit entered. Trotman stood, his mouth wide in a toothy grin. “There he is!” He circled around his desk to shake hands.

            Herbert stood and looked at the man. He was stone-faced with a shaved head and dark eyes, eyes as black as coal. Trotman introduced him as Rico Ruiz.

            “Hello,” Ruiz said, nodding slightly as he shook Herbert's hand. His voice was low and seemed to reverberate through the room. Herbert could not place where he had seen those eyes before even though they stood out in his memory, burning like two black suns.

            “Can I get you something to drink?” Trotman's voice brimmed with vigor, but his eyes darted nervously from one face to the next.

            Herbert studied Ruiz in silence. His face was hard and sharp with a pointed chin and a nose that could have been carved from granite. His skin was tan and smooth, save for crinkles around his eyes. When he spoke, Herbert caught glimpses of white pointed incisors.

            “No,” Ruiz said. He had the slightest trace of an accent. It was in the way his words glided off his tongue, as though his mouth had never grown accustomed to the new shapes and sounds. “I have my own, thank you.” He reached into his blazer and produced a silver flask. He opened it and took a quick swallow.

            “That's fine by me.” Trotman said and dropped himself back into his chair. He drank from his own cup and gave a satisfied swallow.

            Herbert sniffed and tried to ignore the dry tickle at the back of his throat. He coughed. “So what's the plan?”

            Ruiz tucked his flask away and looked at Herbert. “The plan is simple. We kill this...this...” He faltered and squinted.

            “Hathaway. Chase Hathaway,” said Trotman.

            Herbert rubbed his eyes.

            “Yes,” Ruiz grinned like a skull. “We kill Chase Hathaway.”

            “Okay, well, do you have any idea how we're going about that?”

            Ruiz looked from Herbert to Trotman with incredulity. He turned back to Herbert and spoke slowly. “When it gets dark, we go to his house and kill him.”

            “Don't talk to me like I'm a goddamn idiot.” Herbert snapped. “I want a plan. I'm trying to get in and out without any extra holes in me. How many guys are we taking? Do you know how many people are going to be home? What about this,” he motioned to Trotman, “bodyguard business?”

            Ruiz shrugged. “Details. We will work them out tonight.”

            It was Herbert's turn to look incredulous. He turned to Trotman and cocked a thumb at Ruiz. “This is your pro? He doesn't even have a plan straight.”

            “I don't need a plan.” Ruiz barked, his voice filling the room like a crack of a shot. His dark eyes were black were fury. The cords in his neck stood out as he spoke, the hoarse words flowing like poison over his pointed teeth. “Blanco and I, we have killed hundreds of men. We did not need to plan every detail. There are things that cannot be planned. Do you plan every single brush stroke in a masterpiece? Or do you merely apply the paint to the canvas, guided by something greater than yourself?”

            “Er...” Trotman cleared his throat. “Mr. Ruiz here takes his work very seriously, Mr. Winslow. He gets emotional about his process. It's best to leave the minutia to him. I can assure you, you're in good hands.”

            “Christ,” Herbert rubbed his eyes again. He wanted to protest, but the thought of Darius silenced him. “Fine. Whatever.”

            Ruiz took another drink from his flask. He exhaled hot breath on swallowing. Herbert caught a whiff of tequila. “Blanco and I, we killed that other pendejo no problem. Didn't need a big plan. Just poison.”

            “Of course.” Trotman said with a nod. “Mr. Ruiz, I promise you that Mr. Winslow meant no offense. He just wants to know the lay of the land so that he could plan for this endeavor accordingly.”

            Herbert wanted to speak but thought better of it. Ruiz's skin was glossy with flop sweat. He remembered those days. It was a dangerous kind of drunk, the kind that came from a day's worth of drinking. It crept up into his brain, tricking him into believing that he was lucid and functional when his logic center was drowning. That was when rash decisions were made, when violent anger flash-formed crystal hard, only to shatter into tears in the next moment when nothing could be taken back.

            “Right.” Ruiz looked at Herbert. “Well, we'll be leaving from the warehouse at sundown. We'll make our move then. Meet us there. Bring a gun.” He turned to Trotman. “Give him the address.” And with that Ruiz was gone, moving without sound out the office.

            Herbert stood dumbfounded in front of the lawyer's desk. “That's the guy I'm supposed to work with?”

            Trotman was writing on the back of a business card. He looked up and smiled. “Mr. Ruiz is a little eccentric, but his is a professional.”

            Herbert took the card from Trotman. “Hells bells. He was drunk as an airline pilot.”

            Trotman shrugged. “I did say he was eccentric.”

            “That’s one way of putting it.” He tucked the card into his pocket. “Well, I guess I'll be off.” He held out his hand.

            Trotman stood and grasped it. “It was a pleasure.”

            “Don't forget about our agreement. My son isn't going to jail for...all this.” Herbert gave the lawyer's hand a firm shake then turned to leave.

            “Of course.” Trotman said to Herbert's back.

            *

            Herbert sat in the van and breathed. The lawyer's office felt like a dream. He closed his eyes. The whole deal stank. Trotman was probably full of shit. And Ruiz...that drunk would probably get them both killed. He gripped the steering wheel. But there was Darius to be taken care of. He would push through it all. Ruiz's drunkenness. Trotman's attempt on his life. Everything.

            Herbert lingered on that last thought. Trotman was the one who had called in the hit. He recalled the night before, the feeling of the gun connecting with Blackjack's forehead. He winced at the memory. For several minutes, Herbert sat with his hands over his eyes. “Christ.” He started the engine and steered his van toward Missy's.