It was far too early when we heard the familiar Spanish voice at our door followed by some quick raps. "You are still asleep?"
"Go the fuck away, El. What time is it?"
I'm squinting at the digital clock on his side of the bed. "I think it's already ten."
"My Christ, how can it be morning already? I shouldn't feel this bad unless I've had a lot more tequila. We stayed up obscenely late and we didn't even have fun. Well, maybe a little" He stroked my hair, further convincing me that getting out of bed was going to take more willpower than I might have.
"Arghh. Ok, I'll get up, but only if you let me get a huge thingy of coffee from room service."
"Sounds good to me" He smiled. He was already smoking and sitting up. His elbow rested on his bent knee and he gave the back of his scalp a quick scratch with the same hand which also held his cigarette.
Soon we were dressed and the three of us were sitting around the small tacky faux wood table drinking coffee and picking at a continental breakfast. For El's benefit, I summarized the revelations from the night before.
El appeared genuinely relieved. What had started as an obligation to a former employer had evolved into concern about friends whose lives were in danger. Sands had described El as a stand up guy with the morals of a boy scout and he wasn't far off. Of course, when had he ever been wrong about someone? Well, ok, you know, not counting the soulless cartel daughter and she-devil who was in a better place now. And by "better place" I mean it's better for us that she's gone.
Speaking of soulless she- devils, it was becoming disturbingly obvious that Ms Goldstein was not on the up and up. The details of her story did not mesh. She had tried to use El to bring us together and trap us. It worked in a way. Roger's fate was a testament to that. But the bitch was not going to have it all her way. His death was not going to be in vain. We were determined. And now we had a start. We had some evidence were following the trail; a trail that was still warm. And the glass was half full for the first time since the shootout at Patel's house.
The more we dug, the more complex the situation grew. And we heard nothing of Art Kowalczk. Nada. Nichts, rien. That is until we searched the obituaries. Sands almost choked on his own saliva when I read it to him. No friggin autopsy? Sure, it was a heart attack. A CIA official is investigating a cover up/frame up. He is only in his fifties. He doesn't smoke and is not overweight. And he keels over while eating food that was made by people he didn't know. It would have been funny if it weren't ...well, okay, it wasn't funny. It was pathetic. We had to find out who Megan was working with and expose them. ASAP.
Sands looked as if he were becoming ill.
"Are you ok?"
"Well, actually, no." Of course, he wasn't going to pass up a "snideness" opportunity.
"Do I have to wring it out of you?"
"Perhaps". He looked lost in thought..and slightly terrified. The terrified thing? That was a first. I had seen him in danger and in the dark. I had seen him betrayed, knowing that a CIA hit was on him. Never did he look so sickened and abjectly horrified. It was as he was seeing Beelzebub himself from behind the dark shades. He pronounced it slowly and almost gutturally. "Guinness.".
I tried to laugh and blow off his terror with some sort of joke. I couldn't do it. It was as if my vocal cords were refusing to cooperate. "Nope can't do it. Tell the brain that we won't be party to this pathetic false levity." I had no idea who or what Sands was talking about but my stomach was joining in "Yep, we in the GI tract are pretty sick, ha, over this as well. Here, have some overwhelming nausea. You'll thank us later."
So it was a bit of a surprise when it was Sands who quickly fumbled his way over to the bathroom before I heard retching.