Chapter Eight
Delgado
El squinted against the bright daylight as the three of them moved into the outside corridor. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to get a much better idea of the estate. Lorenzo's share of twenty million pesos had allowed him to buy what was really just a very large house in a good district. This compound was truly an estate. Arch-lined outdoor corridors rimmed multiple interior courtyards, all with beautiful topiary, fountains, and gardens of all sizes and on many levels. Above the corridors, the courtyard walls bore beautiful murals - not good, patriotic, Rivera-influenced murals, but religious iconography in a distinctly Spanish style. Loving Madonnas cradled their babes, mournful pietas grieved, and Christ's bloody agony saved undeserving sinners, all with their eyes cast heavenward.
El found that his painful efforts to get himself mobile had had mixed results. Yes, he could walk, which was an improvement over last night, but he couldn't walk at a normal pace. One of the thugs shoved him forward, and the series of steps he had to take to keep from falling face down in the forsythia lanced agony through him. He gasped.
"I thought you could go faster," laughed the man.
Maria was at his side, then, beneath one arm, and supporting him more sturdily than he had thought she could. She was shaking, though.
"Don't be afraid," he murmured.
"Aren't you?" she asked.
"No."
A guard cuffed the back of El's head with a fist. "No talking."
Sands, that hopped-up bastard, strode ahead of them, navigating the brick and tile walkways with amazing confidence. Remembering his own blindfolded, almost panicky fumblings, El couldn't help but be impressed. The guards trailed El and Maria, apparently not concerned that they keep Sands under close watch, nor concerned that it was Sands who was leading their party into the interior of the main house. Sands seemed to know where they were going, and was content to go there. El could hear him humming to himself.
After what seemed to El a very long walk, Sands slowed as he approached a large pair of glass French doors. It was the first hint El had noticed on their walk, that Sands couldn't see. Sands knew the doors were coming up, but didn't know exactly where they were. He extended his right hand a little, at waist height, and slowed cautiously a few feet before the glass.
The doors were set in a larger expanse of glass walls enclosing what otherwise would have been a large open ballroom area. Sunlight, which would have made such a greenhouse unbearable, came gently filtered through the courtyard canopy of dwarf palm and eucalyptus trees. Inside, El could see rows of ceiling fans slowly turning, an expanse of exquisitely tiled floor, carved dark wood columns, at least one chandelier, and, at the far end of the room, the figures of people, in shadow.
The dappled sunlight fell upon Sands's face as he turned toward the approaching group, and El saw again a sheen of perspiration, though the morning was still temperate.
"Hey Martinez!" said Sands, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. "What brings the Señora here today? Has the first shipment arrived?"
"Ask the boss," grunted Martinez.
"Has it? Huh? Has it? You can tell me. Oh, come on."
One guard positioned his gun at the small of El's back, and a second moved forward to open the door.
"Oh, I hope it has. I hope, I hope, I hope," sang Sands, sounding like a child waiting to open a present.
"Oh, shut up," ordered Martinez, sounding like the weary parent of the child. El noticed that Sands didn't get his ears boxed, though.
The guard who opened the door led them inside.
"Shutting up," said Sands cheerfully. "Shutting up now."
They entered the glassed-in area, and El felt at once the reason for the enclosure. A cool man-made breeze drifted across him, making his clothes clammy. Central air-conditioning.
El took his arm from around Maria's shoulders and straightened. He would not approach his captors like a cripple. Somehow he managed to take strides large and quick enough to keep up as they walked, boots echoing, down the long hall. They passed wooden tables with velvet upholstered chairs, antique loveseats, divans, and brocaded ottomans. It felt like walking through a throne room.
That impression grew stronger as they neared the end of the room. Seated on an impressive high-backed chair was a white-haired matron decked in a rich green gown with a filmy overlay sporting peacock feather patterns. In the "eyes" of the peacock feathers, jewels winked in the dappled sunlight. Around her neck she wore a beautiful gold crucifix, also inlaid with jewels. She gripped in her right hand, a sturdy wooden cane, its golden handle in the shape of a peacock head. She lacked only a crown to be a dowager queen.
Beside the "throne" stood the man El presumed to be the drug-lord himself. His hair slate-gray where his mother's was white, Delgado was tall, looked strong, and was dressed in a loose green silk suit. His every finger bore a ring. His eyes were deep-set and cold.
Two other men were clearly of higher rank than the business-suit wearing muscle. Both were younger than Delgado, expensively dressed, and shared a resemblance to him. One of them, the older of the two, leaned over a table sumptuously laden with breakfast foods, picking his selection. Like a buffet, the table had no chairs and a modest stack of small china plates at one end.
This man watched the group warily as they approached, particularly sizing up El. The others, including a handful of armed thugs, looked less interested. The old woman was impossible to read.
The youngest man with a family resemblance already held a plate with food upon it, and he moved closer to the approaching entourage, as if to intercept them, but then stepped aside so they all had to pass very close to him. The smell of cooked ham reached El's senses, reminding him how very hungry he was.
As Sands passed this youngest man, the man put out his foot, tripping Sands and sending him sprawling forward. The leading guard dodged so Sands hit the floor instead of falling into him. The American's sunglasses slid along the stone floor, stopping at Delgado's feet. Everyone but Delgado and the Señora laughed. Maria gasped, and gripped El's arm.
Sands, still on the ground, rolled over and gave the man his eerie eyeless stare. "Hello, Pablo," he said.
Delgado, with an economical movement, kicked the plastic sunglasses back to Sands, who caught them and put them on. Sands got to his feet and faced the throne with everyone else.
El regarded the agent with mixed feelings. While Sands might be a willing worker, rewarded with cocaine, he was still a slave, manipulated by the very people whom he had played like chess pieces. It had a romantic irony to it, but El felt a little sorry for him.
"Good morning!" said Sands brightly, startling El a bit. Generally, he felt, prisoners were wisest to stay as quiet as possible and learn all they could about their situation. This wisdom did not seem to have occurred to Sands.
"Here's El Mariachi," Sands continued, as if he'd brought him as a gift.
"Thank you for the introduction," said Delgado, his dry voice confirming for El that he was the man El had first been brought before.
The man at the food table stepped closer to El and narrowed his eyes. "He doesn't look like so much," he said.
"Actually," Sands said, "there's a bonus I hadn't thought of when we went after him."
When we went after him!? El made a quick review of the English words and concluded that yes, it meant what he thought it did. Any sympathy El had for Sands evaporated.
"He really can play, you know," Sands said. "You guys could use a little entertainment around here besides Pablo's porn films."
Pablo turned a ruddy color, and, with a strangled sound, reached for Sands. This time, however, Sands anticipated him and evaded him neatly.
"Pablo!" Delgado said, stopping the young man.
Pablo turned and stalked to a chair, not looking at the old woman.
Delgado raised one eyebrow. "I have heard of the things he does with his guitar."
Sands snorted. "Well, obviously, you don't give him that guitar. You must have one around somewhere that's not, you know, loaded." Sands laughed, enjoying his own joke.
Delgado only smiled tightly. "We have a problem, Agente Sands, more serious than lack of entertainment."