Page 7 of Her Mercenary
I was early. I’m always early.
Laughter mingled with the five-piece mariachi band playing softly in the shadows. Candlelight danced off mirrored walls and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the real city that never sleeps.
Executives and politicians networked in suits and ties, posturing for the whores who patiently mingled around them, waiting for the perfect time to strike. Always after midnight, they moved in for the kill, when the line between fact and fiction became blurred and decisions became poor. When import beer was replaced with top-shelf liquor, and wedding rings were slipped into pockets.
And then there were the businessmen. Some were legitimate economic leaders. Most were not, however, and were drinking on behalf of high-ranking drug lords or cartel leadership, hoping to cut deals with aforementioned executives and politicians.
Whether friend or foe, all were packing heat.
Sugar Skull was the type of high-end establishment that required prior approval of entry, where bottles of three-thousand-dollar champagne were served with appetizers, gunshots were silenced, and bodies magically disappeared without a trace before the dessert was even served.
It was my playground, operating exactly as I’d intended when I bought the place five years earlier.
“Oh!” A bleached-blond hostess stepped in front of me with the eagerness of a goldendoodle, and probably an IQ to match. “Mr. Thieves, hi. Lovely to see you again.”
The young woman’s black dress was four inches too short, and her breasts five sizes too large for the bones she considered a healthy body. She was new to the establishment, and I made a mental note to take this up with the manager. I was to know every employee who came through the front doors. Although she knew who I was, having obviously been briefed on who I was ahead of time, I’d never seen her before.
I stepped around her, the foul mood I’d awoken with now simmering with annoyance.
“W—wait.” The tick of high heels pounded the marble floor behind me. “Mr. Thieves, may I escort you to your—”
“No. Thank you.”
Ignoring the glances from patrons, I wove my way through the dim, crowded room, deftly plucking a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle off a table of drunk politicians. Based on the men’s preoccupation with a foursome of women half their age, they’d never miss it, though the women might.
The bar was packed, bodies everywhere, loud chatter, drunken laughter, pops of light against shadows. Noise, noise, noise.
Loosening the tie around my neck, I slid into the back corner booth, flicking a pile of discarded napkins onto the floor. Facing the door, I pressed my back against the wall, resting my hand on the pistol under my suit jacket.
“Mr. Thieves, may I offer you an iced glass with that bottle you just swiped from the senator’s table?”
“Please.” I turned my gaze to the waitress advancing on the table. “And a plate of habanero chicken wings, with ranch—extra ranch.”
“I don’t need to tell you that the kitchen is closed—”
“Just like you don’t need to tell me you’ll have them out for me in under ten minutes.”
The waitress grinned, a pair of sharp bright blue eyes twinkling against a weathered face and long gray hair. Though waitress was her formal title, Francisca served as my eyes and ears in the bar while I wasn’t there.
Francisca Lopez, a sixty-four-year-old former corrections officer, had waitressed at Sugar Skull since the day I watched her body-slam a pickpocket outside of La Merced Market. She’d manhandled the kid—who was twice her weight—pinning him in place until the authorities arrived. I offered her a job right there on the bloody sidewalk.
At six-foot-one, Francisca was an intimidating presence, despite the long, traditional huipiles she wore every day. The tunic-like dresses were an effort to be feminine, I guessed. But what do I know about that?
She bent down, collecting the napkins I’d flicked away earlier and tossing them into a nearby trash can. “The chef prepared caviar and crème fraîche tartlets for your arrival this evening.”
“I’d rather have my balls slammed in a car door, Francisca.”
“I don’t need to hear about your extracurricular activities, Mr. Thieves.” She winked. “I’ll get those hillbilly chicken wings out immediately.” She set a fresh napkin on the table, and the sweating glass on top.
“Is that a new perfume?” I asked.
“Why yes, it is.” She cocked one gray brow. “And what do you want to know about it?”
“I want to know who got it for you.”
“So you can run him off like you did the last one?”
“You deserve better than a deadbeat father with two DWIs under his belt, Ms. Lopez.”