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He was fine. “Money won’t be a problem.” He floated the fee schedule back across Peralta’s desk.
Peralta tapped his pen against the pad. He didn’t need a case. Sharon, his ex, had made sure he was set up with money for life and his only vices were guns and beer. I did. I was already digging into savings that had never been plentiful. Lindsey had a good job and her paycheck dropped into our joint checking account every two weeks. But I was reluctant to use her money. I had never thought of her money and my money during our marriage, but that was before the annus horribilis we had gone through. Money would be nice right now, but I wasn’t sure I wanted it from this particular case.
“Let me take down a little more information and we’ll make a preliminary investigation,” Peralta said. “After that, I’ll decide if we’re going to continue.”
“Fair enough,” Felix said.
The “little more information” took another forty-five minutes.
Afterward, Felix pushed across a thick envelope. “I hope ten thousand is enough for a retainer.”
My greedy heart leapt. My nervous leg didn’t celebrate by calming down.
Peralta studied the contents. I could see h
undred-dollar bills.
“I didn’t want to wait for a check to clear,” Felix said. “I’d appreciate it if you can start now.”
Maybe Peralta nodded, but the man stood. He handed each of us a card with his name and number. No address.
“What’s your line of work, Mister Smith?”
“Between jobs.”
Peralta didn’t push the question so I let it be.
Felix shook our hands. He gave me a long, vise-like shake. I gave it back as hard as I could and met his stare full on. If he was packing, my peripheral vision wasn’t good enough to pick it up.
“I hope you don’t mind if I also check you out.” Peralta’s voice snapped the moment.
“Not a bit.”
Felix pivoted and pulled out a platinum money clip. From this, he handed the big man a driver’s license. When Peralta had written down what he wanted, he gave it back and thanked him.
Felix let the money clip fall into his pocket. “You can’t be too careful.”
He turned and walked to the door. As he opened it, a hot gust from the outside caught his left cuff, raising it briefly. Above the pricey loafer on his foot, I saw something that looked like it was out of a Terminator movie. A lower-limb prosthetic, very high-tech, titanium and graphite. He definitely hadn’t received it through the average health-care plan. I had read about ones embedded with a microprocessor that were worn by wounded soldiers.
When I looked up again, I saw him watching me watching him. The yellow eyes hated me.
3
“Feeling guilty?”
I did a little. I walked to the front window and raised the blind. Felix the Cat was sitting in a Mercedes Benz CL, silver, new, insolently bouncing back the sun’s glare. The driver’s window was down. Who needs air conditioning when it’s only 108? He had a cell phone against his head and he was talking animatedly, very different from the stone-like expression he had mostly shown us. He didn’t look happy.
“A rig like he had on his leg would only be issued to a disabled veteran.” Peralta made more notes as he spoke, his large head and shoulders hunched over the desk.
I let the blind fall and turned back toward him. “The cartel could afford it.” I told him about the car, which was not issued by the V.A.
He looked up. “Mapstone, you see Zetas and Sinaloa in your sleep.” His tone softened subtly. “Which is understandable, after what you went through.”
Yes, I was jumpy. But I saw other things in my sleep.
“I can guarantee you that Chapo Guzman doesn’t even know who you are,” Peralta went on. Chapo was the boss of the Sinaloa federation. And maybe he didn’t. But his lieutenants did.
“Did you catch the tat?” I asked.
